Today has been a good day. I have managed to appreciate the sacred shimmering underworld that is happiness, hidden beneath eye-surfaces. The green warble of leaves radiating in air currents filled with my voice, singing of old fashioned waltzes as my dogs dig for buried treasure in riverbed waters. The feeling of my body, hot and heavy and alive under blind Cathedral tracery of mother’s branch and seed. I feel so many worlds all at once.
I know it is impossible for this to all stay fresh like this, but I’ll remember it.
I think this satisfaction came because Virginia has been speaking out to me from between two purple covers more flimsy with age than myself. Explaining why it is so important to enjoy the world in order to have knowledge. Shakespeare’s sister breathed a sonnet she wasn’t allowed to sow whilst her brother’s mind took centre stage (quite literally). I am so thankful for all the work and blood and tears and fucking sweat my sisters (and some pretty rad men) have done so I have the chance to dance in language; so I can choose between Villanelle or Sestina.
This world is still so fucked up and we have so much still to do for each other, but I enjoy the hope I’ve had the freedom to let spawn inside me like butterflies hive in pale sunned grasses. Delicate hefts. “Who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet’s heart when caught and tangled in a woman’s body?” I’m gonna live with a soul of compassionate defiance towards those who want to tear life asunder.
Today’s poem was an ekphrasis piece I wrote responding to a Monet painting (the name of the poem). The painting isn’t of the same fields where I tread, but they both make me feel sparkly and whole xoxoxoxoxoxoxox
Late June is her haven.
Lone and satisfied, un and
Moth flight on bare skin as colour
billows treacle down spine.
Distant stars lilt and hum, undulating
swathes of earth’s hot soil
musk. Ballet of touch-poetry.
Petal myriads flute and warble
unknown blue of sky, perhaps God’s
eyes? A Hushed fluttering bonnet.
She dreams of hands in hers amongst
red-mirrors of poppy faces.
Stems and pollen flow
nectar-strokes onto long skirts.
My trees, dark green in their brink
ache to break convention. Please, stop
dragging shadows like a child’s blanket
whilst cow parsley mews.