Thursday 30 December 2010

The shoes




the tired unrelenting yes
quietens mind
brings its own worn out truths

we were freshly dressed
as neatly packed oranges
ready to be pressed


Sunday 26 December 2010

fruit





the untitled series of ones life
as it flows
west ward bound

jumping through grasses 
greener then youth
freshly laid out dreams
bearing fruit

Monday 13 December 2010

forgiveness



forgiveness beckons
for there would be no point
 in laying out each occasion
spreading its legs 
bare and flayed
for us to savagely purge

forgive these worn out hands
of mine
that ripped you at the seams
that siezed words
as vice
weapons sliced

Forgive my humble shame
it was born of fear
of losing
that in which 
i hold so dear
any residue of spite
is left in yesterday
today is pure joy
and there is no more time to waste
on hate


forgive the memories 
they are stepping stones
which led us to this place























Sunday 12 December 2010

this clumsy heart

clumsy heart 
i have always known
sits high upon
its clumsy throne

for the dismal heave
and drums of time
ravage hearts
less worn than mine

i say this with a smile
and yet
have grown accustomed
to its great threat

of annihilation's
and goodbyes
untimely death
not one dry eye

they would say here lies her heart
beating
gnawing
right from the start

she knew the veil was as thin
as a shimmer
as ghostly pale 
as a dream

what could all of this mean
what tepid watchman waits
standing lonesome
at the gate

a deep root
grows
from our mothers soul

we are caught 
in its wonder
and surprise

in your eyes
i grow colder 

butt me with a nudge
remind me i 
was never that good
at holding a grudge

forgive this clumsy 
foolish want
this needy 
self fulfilling
little cunt

the hollow space





perforations
explorations
subdued beauty held dimly to the light

all at once we become
all at once we begin

timely un-settlement
when we hold one another
so ill equipped 
and lacking 

running through the barricades of time
the white ribbon flows through us 
destined for nowhere
sought only by now

time elopes
breezes in unannounced
unashamedly delirious
for not a soul knows its name by I
and i am sworn to silent knowing

save here
where we might meet our reflection

where we might know another trace
here in this hollow space









"Every human being is a collection of selves, we never stay just one person as we go on our journey through life, history is of little consequence as we pass through it, life is the combination of good luck and bad luck, every life is both ordinary and extraordinary" - Logan Mountstuart - Any Human Heart

Friday 3 December 2010


“I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness, sad as an eagle without wings, sad as a violin with only one string and one that is broken, sad as a woman who is growing old.”

Jean Rhys


If I didn't care for fun and such, I'd probably amount to much. But I shall stay the way I am, because I do not give a damn." 

Dorothy Parker

The belonging of Bridget Malrooney



My name is Bridget Malrooney
and i was born of emerald green horses
and frozen men

come to me memory
for it grows pale here within this dimly lit room

the quakers stole my shoes and brought me to silence
brought me to the sweet nothingness of god and tis there god spoke his first words to me
god is not grand nor wiser than i
god is not as tall as the sky
god is merely cut and dry

my blushing pride gave way the day
the day i gave away my dew
the day the men stuck into my back
and mommy brought me cider sticks

those faces loom, disolve again into blue sky
this tender tear falls silent from my eye

my mother was shewd with an unflinching grip
my father was a wisp, a phantom blip
barely visible to the human eye
my father rolled tobacco and drank port wine
with a pot bellied smile

we had shoe string souls
with liquid money burning holes
in my fathers worn out clothes

we drank weak tea and ate potatoe soup
my sister stole the show
and wore pink ribbons
and smiled away the rivers of death

my brothers shushed the silent child in me to another room
and kept me there for an eternity
pushing and pulling segments of my skin
in order for them to show the world what big customers they were

my grandmother was small
delicately placed upon a bed
as frail as a nightingale, her voice was lost 50 years before
when her young love was fighting the invisible war

friendships come and go
delicious girls and cherub boys
we ran the wind in two
and chased dreams so brightly
in was inevitable we would run out sun
which, of course we did

My name is Bridget Malrooney
and i am the light in your eyes

Moons passed by
soldiers came and went in the blink of an eye
lovers wept for the outstretched beauty of my hand
but i never wept for them
i was pure white marble against their molten hands

A man of land brought me flowers for my sill
and i chose him above all others to walk in my shadow
i am asleep
even as the seed within me grows into a beautious child

i am asleep with silent yearnings
ushered away into the rooms of my ancestors
never shall they see the light of day
whilst i am smiling in motherhood

children are the great gift
born out of this hollowed out shell
born into the great expanse of life
with little more than our lacklustre lust
as their starting block

children of such perfect joy
children of light

the one tiny prick in the membrane
i wake up to smell their hair
feel their perfect smiles upon my face
tis almost true
i am almost here

suddenly a jolt
a horse bolts through the horizon
i am catipulted onto earths crust

i can feel
i can see
i can taste
i can hear
i can touch
and above all i can know

I am Bridget Malrooney
here i am

chewed up love
matted hair
wanten wild and free

i am awake
and no man shall ever find the sum of me
and i answer only to the wind

Like a cat



tenderness
where have you gone
the bloom has withered
without your sun

the soles of feet
are cracked and torn
without your love
to keep them warm

bereft, indifferent
little me
smiling aimless
casually

pretending this
forgetting that
curled up snugly
like a cat

The Road



travel with me there are miles to share
the dusty road holds charms to bare

hold my hand
travel far
know the route of my strange strange heart

seasoned friend where shall we steal
mountain, river or stream
tread lightly where my heart roams free
it tears slightly at the seam

i am not your concubine
i am not your friend
i am not your misery
or where your life should end

i am the road, the path that leads
the endless question why
i am the route of all of time
the deep and primal cry

Roots


beneath the trees
the giant oak
the wild sycamore
i am taken

taken down
under moss
below the ground

sinking deeper into knowing
falling deeper into love

dark womb
whose roots wrap me in longing
dark lover
of the sap

chrysalis vines
bloodline of earth
i am yours

faithful arms
i cut out my heart
it is yours


Siren


i dismantle my heart
piece by piece
i have given it away
to the highest bidder

pull away
tug the strings
of this wounded heart
and watch me unravel
at your feet

you have loved me to death
when i wasnt looking
your multiplicity
dealt the heavy blow

now i have been given a new name
i have become the siren of the sea
yet it is me that has drowned
whilst you walk free
Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?
Frida Kahlo

The End by Janet Frame


At the end
I have to move my sight up or down.
The path stops here.
Up is heaven, down is ocean
or, more simply, sky and sea rivalling
in welcome, crying Fly (or Drown) in me.
I have always found it hard to resist an invitation
especially when I have come to a dead end
a
dead
end.

The trees that grow along cliff-faces,
having suffered much from weather, put out thorns
taste of salt
ignore leaf-perm and polish:
hags under matted white hair
parcels of salt with the string tangled;
underneath
thumping the earth with their rebellious root-foot
trying to knock up
peace
out of her deep sleep.

I suppose, here, at the end, if I put out a path upon the air
I could walk on it, continue my life;
a plastic carpet, tight-rope style
but I’ve nothing beyond the end to hitch it to,
I can’t see into the mist around the ocean;
I shall have to change to a bird or a fish.

I can’t camp here at the end.
I wouldn’t survive
unless returning to a mythical time
I became a tree
toothless with my eyes full of salt spray;
rooted, protesting on the edge of this cliff
– Let me stay!

Thursday 2 December 2010

Pollen

 

drip drop honey
inside out
sloshes around
here and about

my naked flesh
hums

swarm
covers me whole
warms my soul
for winter time has fled
now that you are here
in my head
in my bed

you wrap your arms
arounds my skin
drinking longing 
from within

honey honey bee
my love
languish long
on my flower bud




Winter - the healing season



When we think of winter, we often think of a tnime for hibernation, for putting plans and dreams aside ready for the forthcoming spring.  Yet winter time can often be the most beneficial healing time in our lives, a time for contemplation, recuperation and for families and communities to share quality time together.

The 25th of December is associated with the birth of Christ and the celebration of the nativity, but it is also an amalgamation of pagan festivals and traditions dating back before the birth of Christ.  It was known to our germanic pagan ancestors as Yule the festival of re-birth (21st December).  At Yule (from the Norse word for “wheel”), the sun is reborn. According to Wiccan lore, the Goddess gives birth to the "Child of Promise" and the time of the Holly King ends as the time of the Oak King begins. This is a time of introspection, as everything in nature sleeps through the cold winter. But it is also a time of hope.

While pagan tribes celebrated this special time with feasts and nature rituals, some Native American tribes saw this unique celestial event in a different light. Among the Iroquois, it was a time of dreaming. Rather than staying up all night to celebrate the dawn, the People of the Longhouse turned in early, to sleep, to dream. As Mother Night reigned supreme, in dreaming they walked between the worlds of light and darkness, gathering great meaning from what The Great Mystery illuminated for them.  

In Mayan culture the winter solstice is connected with the healing spirits of plants or the lunar cycles, and we find ourselves ready to harness earth energies towards personal healing and growth and the healing and positive evolution of the planet.  It is in darkness that we have the greatest opportunity to shine our light forth , in our lives and on the planet and to celebrate the return of the Sun in each day.  

It is a time when we enter a spirit of stillness.  Culturally we like our lives to  be full and active and inactivity can cause fear and guilt, but when we take the time to stop and assess our lives, this emptiness fills our lives with infinate possibilities and thus our dreams take wisdom and form ready for their emergence in spring.
It is at this time that we too must enter into the spirit of stillness. Culturally, we like to be full
and active. We fear the void’s indeterminate state, but emptiness is the place of infinite possibility.
It is at this time that we too must enter into the spirit of stillness. Culturally, we like to be full
and active. We fear the void’s indeterminate state, but emptiness is the place of infinite possibility.


Winter t is at this time that we too must enter into the spirit of stillness. Culturally, we like to be full
and active. We fear the void’s indeterminate state, but emptiness is the place of infinite possibility.
It is at this time that we too must enter into the spirit of stillness. Culturally, we like to be full
and active. We fear the void’s indeterminate state, but emptiness is the place of infinite possibility.
It is at this time that we too must enter into the spirit of stillness. Culturally, we like to be full
and active. We fear the void’s indeterminate state, but emptiness is the place of infinite possi

Snowed in



the snow came 
through us as
sheets of glass
splintered on either side
from loving fiercely

from jumping the sky
you and i

held in these arms of holy ice
we shake the brightness from love
we make bargains with the wind
with redeeming hearts