January

‘Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’

 

– Dylan Thomas (1947)

December

‘How we spend our days, is of course, how we spend our lives.’

– Annie Dillard

 

‘I’ll tell you right now, the doors to the world of the wild self are few but precious.

If you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much you almost cannot bear it, that is a door.

If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.’

– Clarissa Pinkola Estés

 

Sita

‘Do not be afraid to suffer,

give the heaviness back to the weight of the Earth.’

– Rilke

 

There was once a time, when the sky turned black

and Kali rose to her feet.

Shrieking and laughing, she spat:

‘Who do you think you are, to try and follow me here?’

From the darkness Sita answered:

‘All I am, is strength and love.’

She’d broken the curse and walking on, carried this answer with her always.

 

She grew to be the holding quality of love, the womb.

And so, for many millennia, gave men refuge inside her.

Cold, they drew warmth from her skin,

Rough, they healed through her softness.

 

She gave all she had, no less

they received,

and so she was.

 

Until, one day when for no reason at all, Durga chose to shift the winds.

From no where, they blew to Sita a gentle:

  Enough.’

 

There was a pause and tremble,  as somewhere, a gift was rescinded,

a tether severed.

And so, the ground rose to meet her.

Back into the earth,

her heart sank down,

finally becoming

my own.

 

 

Artwork!

Enough

Today I split myself in half

– then pieced myself back together

 

No –

I handed over my heart and body

– then accepted them straight back again

 

The richest man would have nothing but a map

of where the fuck he was headed

 

but the rest of us will walk straight into walls

No –

self immolate, with a smile

– perhaps recognising what we’ve done, at around the half-way points.

 

There’s something in that, even if it doesn’t have a name, nor usually any fans.

I can feel fire, I can touch colours, I can see love, I can look down

and there’s nothing left –

but my Self

A story about fish

I hear fireworks.

No really,

I hear fireworks.

I can hear some white noise, but I think there’s something else too –

a heartbeat beside my own,

or is it? There’s not a lot I’m certain of,

other than my longing for certainty. 

When I was younger I had a pond I’d clean out every so often

I’d transport my fish friends to temporary bucket homes

by sticking my bare hands out and feeling around in the cold unknown

It’d happen so fast, you never knew when

there’d be a split second defying space, time and the laws of fish (which at age seven, are really all one knows).

For a second I’d expand beyond the possible,

and my heart would stop with theirs.

There’s not a lot I’m certain of, 

but I knew that was love

and I know you are too.