Woven Sea

Before sunrise a line of dark clouds thick with intent angle across the bay as if reaching across from the point  to the rocky islet further away ,diagonal to the day, the sea laced with foam and tiny ripples, a weave opening and closing, ancient and ever new like the silvery shapes that firm as shadows in the thinnest wisp of sea and shore. 

Figures, numbers, hints of the day?

 All is movement, even in the stillest moment  

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Song Washing

It’s sunny here today. Still cool to cold but I’ve hand washed my clothes and have them on the line in the sun and breeze.

I like the squelch of water, suds and clothes as I wash them. Rinsing. Straightening them as I peg them on the washing line. Another squeeze or two. Let them drip on the grass, the dog watching from behind the screen door.

I can’t just let her out in case she goes to the front and gets out on to the road. She’s still a puppy. And there are no gates here, only those in the mind.

I am reminded of a line from Orpingalik in a book on Inuit poetry titled Songs are Thoughts, when he says: when the words we want to use shoot up of themselves – we get a new song.

Perhaps a poem will emerge, perhaps not. I am still soothed by the squish of water, the sun angling in, the week rinsed, held up to dry, be worn again.

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WInter Solstice

How quick the light closing off for the night. Winter solstice. As if wrapped in a dream, I want to stretch and yet settle into quiet reading, staying close to the wood stove, brewing up yet more green tea.

And yet in the garden out the back here, summer crops are still producing: chillies, capsicums, the occasional aubergine, zucchinis; even the nectarine tree looks to have buds, as if what should be, isn’t.

Climate change? Our current Federal Government denies the reality of climate change, yet here it is, in the garden, already stirring for spring.

Our smartphones, tablets, laptops, apps, keep us connected at all times – if we so wish. And yet, there is a yet-ness at work in the natural world, an about-to-be which is already in advance.IMG_0988 Perhaps, in that, a swirl, remixing, just like our bodies, always ready to surprise even at that point of daily, dutiful, even annoyed recognition.

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Memories on the edge of Tongue




It’s been a year since I’ve written here.

So much has happened and yet also so little, that paradox of daily life, the struggle with constant fatigue, those dips over the edge into depression, nameless anxieties crowding the mind. And yet beauty too, sometimes in glimpses, others, more often, longer in duration, euphoric. The ordinary lies in the extraordinary, the extraordinary in the ordinary, a dance of the two, at once a choreography, chaotic and beautiful, ugly too. The weave, weaving us.

I’ve been extraordinarily grateful to attend Kim Rosen’s workshop in Mulrany last year and this year her Poetry Depths Mystery School, also in Ireland. The camaraderie there, exploration of poetry as something heart-felt and soulful, has been deeply transformative. And, fun.

See Kim Rosen, http://www.kimrosen.net

I wrote this last year after spending some time in Connemara.




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Some days the black tide seeps in (depression). Often for reasons I can’t tell or discover. It’s just suddenly there, black, often shiny, with no end of it, no beginning, no land to step back onto, no beach, no edge.

Only I am the edge, my feet in a water I cannot feel.

Some days I am immobilised by anxiety, this black tide, amorphous apprehension.

On other days, and sometimes even on the same day, I get myself moving, drive to the beach, walk with the dog, one step at a time, let the sound of the sea, the gulls, let the sounds in, the fresh air, the cool breeze, the shape of the rocks, height of the swell, choreography of the clouds, let them in.

Sometimes, like today, I’ll find a small pool of water left by the retreating morning tide. It’s right near Commodore Point at the end of Horseshoe Bay. The pool’s bordered by large granite slabs of rock that stretch out across the beach.

It’s the ripples that attract me, concentric rings, edgings carried by the wind and some more sea water from another, last wave. There are one or two pieces of seaweed, slippery strands that ebb ever so gently,

I tihnk: if those strands weren’t there the pool would be clearer, as if untainted. Then I realise it was the seaweed that first drew my attention, the different colours, some green, others a dull reddish, the usual browns, that faint tremor of a movement, a way of locating a moment, the ripples of a pool that wouldn’t be there in ten or so minutes.

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Tidal Days

Tidal days, sea-foam days that curl and shapeshift, carry the heart on the wind, out and back, out and back.

Horseshoe Bay, Port Elliot.

Days when I see energy lines, stones that bounce and tell of tides and schools of fish, the murmurings of the sea.



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Landscapes of the Heart

I’ve come across love letters, old ones, written me many many years ago. Those times when you’d have to wait days and even weeks for a letter to arrive.

I’d be poised, held in and up by moments that stretched over  long, unyielding days, taut and bruised, hopeful and nervous, excited for those first words, the slant of your writing, a fine pitch across the envelope with my name and address on it. How even then, I’d hold back, even as my fingers opened the envelope, my eyes searching your words, that line you wrote, “I love you a million times”, your name written with a curve and flourish, as gracious and sensuous as you, your body, mine, ours, the way you’d tilt your head as you spoke, eyes looking at mine, the sudden turn away, pain you never explained.

Even now, well beyond reason, your words trail through me, at once light and buoyant, a winding path that wanders back on itself, twists somewhere else, comes to an edge, slips into that stream where melancholy pools, and only the bough of that single tree remains, its reflection quivering in the shifting breeze over the water, our paths never again the same except now, in these brief moments when I remember us on the Pilgrim’s Way, making love out of the rain.

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