In the moment – a favourite place

When we are ‘in the moment’, we do not worry about what happened in the past, nor dream about what we would like to happen in the future. Instead, we allow ourselves to cherish the experience as it happens. Being in the open air in a beautiful place can help. This poem describes sitting on Dartmoor in summer. Do you have a favourite place?

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The sun is hot on my hair and bare arms.

The granite on which I sit is cool,

Hard, rough and smooth, round and edged.

The turf smells of tea, stewed in the pot.

The sheep smell sharp.

They tear noisily at the grass,

While the song of the skylark is ever fainter and sweeter

As it climbs beyond hearing.

 

 

Turquoise World

Frederic is a talented poet in both French and English. ‘Turquoise World’ is one of my favourite poems of his. He’s posted the poem first in French, and then, below it, in English. If your French is good, read the French version first and enjoy the way it sounds. Otherwise, just read the English version, which is very good in its own right.

This moment is perfect

I wrote this poem when I was reminded by fellow blogger Aayush that a moment, once experienced, cannot be changed. It is in that sense, timeless. We can, if we choose, see it as giving some purpose and significance to our own experience. It made a good starting point for a poem about the love I have been privileged to share in my life.

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As we cling to each other in the darkness

I feel with your body and you with mine.

This moment is perfect.

There are no regrets, no hopes, no strivings.

We have accomplished a small part

Of the purpose of the cosmos.

 

We planned a route; we hoped;

And yet we stumbled here by chance.

The stars will splinter and part us,

Confining this perfection we have wrought

To this one instant.

I feel with your body, and you with mine.

This moment is perfect.

 

 

 

 

Mother

This poem really moved me. It has some wonderful imagery. I hope you enjoy it too!

Melody Chen

Mother,
Stepped afoot a plane for the first time,
Lost count of the number of miles it took
To reach the land that seemed so much nearer on the map.
Had a daughter whose birth rooted a lineage in foreign soil.

Mother,
Packed an entire culture into her suitcase,
Lugged it across the ocean,
Only to have it opened by a daughter who lost her way
In a myriad of alien traditions and customs
That tangled like Christmas lights.
Wondered how she would teach her daughter
Tens of thousands of characters,
When her school teachers had told her everything could be expressed
With twenty six letters.
Gifted her daughter an intricate name worth an essay, and watched it be abandoned
For one that was lighter on the Western tongue.

Mother,
Mined iron to construct her daughter’s bones,
Her own arms only strong after having to lift up an entire family.
Taught…

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In the moment – Three worlds

wp_20160127_11_48_12_richI wrote this poem late one August afternoon, sitting in the sunshine beside my fishpond. I thought about living in the moment – but which moment in which world? Sometimes, if we wish to be in the moment, we have to look beneath our surface feelings into a place that may look dark; but may, too, be a home of beauty.

Three worlds

The koi, red, black, white, metallic gold, slip through the water,

Their paths traced by slow ripples that roll across the pond

To make a panelled lattice of silver, through which the fish

Slide, now visible, now unseen,

Hide, by light, by movement.

A vine’s reflection, leaves hard-edged against

The black and silver water, seems more solid than the plant itself

As it strives sunwards from the same root in the bank.

The moment of reality shimmers.

Red, black, white, metallic gold, appear – and vanish.

When did the wind change?

This is a poem by my friend Patricia Rogers. She is a writer I greatly admire, because, as well as writing beautiful poetry, she writes with courage and unflinching honesty. In another poem you can find on her blog, she writes of ‘living a little life’. But a little life described honestly and courageously can also be a significant life.

Patricia Rogers' Weblog

When did the wind change?
The first brittle leaves
stumbled down from the trees
in the heat of summer.
They lay on the ground
in plain sight
while the children ran
barefoot over the warm grass.
Nobody noticed.

When did the dark nights begin?
The sunset crept forward
so gently that darkness
came as a surprise.
The children were called home,
scampering into their lighted houses
one by one..
Heads were laid to rest.
Night fell.

When did the world change?
How long has it belonged
to someone else?
Summer slipped through my fingers
while I looked away.
Skeletons of bare trees
stretch upwards through fallen beauty,
reaching for home.
I keep walking.

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On coming late to womanhood

lavender

Would you like a bunch of lavender,
Purple flowers, sage green stems, and fragrant?

Once you might have had daisies
Gathered in your gingham skirt
While you made chains and counted petals
– loves me – loves me not.

But would you like a bunch of lavender,
Homely in style and straggling in habit
And fragrant with summer?

Once you might have had roses red,
A white dress,
(Would you have been romantic?
Would you have gone a virgin to your marriage bed?).

Come, have some lavender.
Blessed by bees, age-old remedy,
Bringer of forgetful sleep.

Once, your hands might have held posies from your children,
Orchids from your husband,
Tokens of their love, your worth
– loves me – loves me not.

Yes, I will have lavender
But not for sleep, not to forget.
I will have lavender and laugh with the bees,
My own habit straggling, but joyful.
I will have lavender and rejoice.

And one day I shall have lilies
White in my arms as I lie still
A small smile on my face
For my body – my old body – is perfect.

That day

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This is a poem by a friend of mine, Alison Simmons, and the photograph that inspired it, taken by kenaz24photography. I enjoyed words and image, so I thought I’d share them. Thank you to both Alison and Dylan!

“That Day”

Where did the sun go on that day, the cloud hung deep and low
Your lone figure on the hill, I watched you walk away.
Where did the joy go on that day, the trees and air were still
My heart screamed loud, my tears fell hushed, I could not speak or pray.

The birds flew south and winter came, you left me, now I know
I asked your friends, I said I’m fine, I saw them nod to say,
I held my breath and stopped the time, I felt the clock go slow,
Your friends they gently smiled and moved, the shadows came to play

But now the spring is coming, the winter’s rest has slipped,
The day the birds return is near, the sun will burn the mist.
My strength to look, to calm my heart, another day renewed,
The shadow of you on that path an autumn memory,
But still I wont forget my love,
That hill, that cloud that day..