Writing Sanctuary | Day Nine

 

Responses to Beth Kempton’s prompts for OPENING

I am remembering today from tomorrow. Out and about, I missed the sanctuary of the old workshed and snatched moments where i could, reading poems on the train but not aloud because that would just draw attention to myself . . .

. . .

~ DAILY SPARKS ~

Alternate Universe

My sister dreams

In wild unfurling narratives

Recalled in vivid detail

So far as I’m aware,

I rarely dream at all.

The story goes between us 

It’s because I left my dreams behind when I was born

Hand-me-down worlds for her to play with

As she floated, waiting, growing

(Also, she got her birth mark

When I coloured a round brown dot on our mother’s swollen tummy

With a felt tip pen)

. . .

The Giant’s Daughter

[Nikita Gill’s poem sparked memory of something i wrote about invisibility in an old notebook from 2013, taken down from the dusty cardboard box on top of the wardrobe and rediscovered]

every time

you do not listen

to what i say

every time

you do not act

on what i ask

every time

you carry on regardless

with what you want to do

it is as if 

you rub me out

a little more

until i

am 

invisible

But just remember

Harry Potter

And other heroes

Use their cloaks of invisibility

To conquer evil

And save the world.

Perhaps it is not in your interest

After all

That you do not see

Me.

Responding to the invitation to consider “I may be wrong”

:

I feel wrong pretty much all of the time.

This invitation to open has closed me.

. . .

Today’s Person from Porlock : GCSE results

navigating our stupid education system

thinking about how the hell to access support for my bright, brilliant, neurodivergent daughter who is struggling to find her place in the world

. . .

This morning was beautiful. The sweet, loud release of rain. Walking almost-barefoot on puddle-drenched streets, the singular light sound smell that comes with rainfall after long times of dry. The beauty of the lido, a million raindrops bouncing on the surface. Sea-green, the colour of wave-softened fragments of glass. Mermaid’s tears. Walking home afterwards, the eye-popping orange of leaves curled on shining black pavement, the improbable loveliness of gutter-lakes. The joy of being wet and it not mattering. The gentle cool of it.

In the BFI bar on the Southbank, a tall young barman gives his colleague a hand massage. They are standing by the optics. The space is modern, empty, calm.

The soft carpet, smooth bannisters, gentle stairs of the Festival Hall. On the landing, a couple sit turned towards each other on the deep leather sofa: he is holding her hands, tapping one by one light as light across her knuckles with his fingertips, a keyboard of connection. They film it. A dance piece?

The cool haven of the Poetry Library. The first time I’ve had the courage to explore.

Today is complicated, and full of inspiration.