Happy New Year!

Hello 2011,

What bundle of gifts does the year hold in its arms? Well let's wait and see...

Meanwhile, a little reflection from 2010. Below is a poem that I wrote whilst trying to write Tamasine, Little Green and the Garden. Or maybe sometimes a poem writes us? Either way, the conclusion is that your gaze, your presence as reader/listener/collaborator is very important. I do like the fact that, as readers or audience, we are all part of the creative process and bring our own special light to each moment.

So, thank you.

This story (December 2010)

This story was made in a stolen moment.

Stolen swiftly, with crossings out re-hatching scratchings thoughts stuck stickily

eked out and spun into something.

A moment.

Allow me, please, a moment.

Fires need stoking, words need poking.

Kindling

a beginning

no matter how clumsy

how sloppy

soupy start

wet words take form

clay in a kiln

rising up to

greet your hands your

eyes ears

your heart.

Flames lick

and dance

red rabbits haring around.

In amongst ashes,

Gods of old

rage and fight

blue flicker green

burn white.

And so, stage set,

some words.

A fire.

And you.

Into your hands a box is delivered

red upon brown

red haring

red herring

EXCUSE ME

I AM TRYING TO write a story

your expectations are non-existent

in this moment

so they must be mine

that weigh heavy on my shoulders

A stole.

Dead fox or

rabbit hides sewn together

with

coarse string…

This was meant to look far more beautiful than dead words squished onto a page.

This story is tired.

It does not want to stand up and

tell you what

it HAS TO SAY

A grumpy gift

what of this?

In this moment.

This story

peels back a page

naked

reinvents itself

fresh face

expressionless

looking

again

at you.

You.

Story smiles.

You are hard to write for, you know.

Story perseveres

as it has a need beyond ink-existence

only on your lips, in your shells, your vision, only in your

heart yours

you

can it be born

and reborn

tumble out

in the sun

legs wobble

lick lick

fawn

story

born and reborn

in your

hearth.

Thank you

says Story

feeling more formed

in your particular heat

consumed

exhumed

dismantled in its entirety

words chopped back to

chips

saw dust

you saw us

words and wordsmith

now yours

in this moment

image

clay pot

frozen hot

in time.

Please allow me a moment.

A moment

stolen away.

....