Two swallows on a wire

SwallowsFollowing the success of our one-day writing workshop with Pamela Nichols, eight of us set out to do a five-day writing retreat on the farm Lowestoffe in the shadow of the Elandsberg in Hogsback. We talked and thought academic work (and I did get a massive start on a new paper for publication) but my brain kept on running off into poetry:

A pillowbook exercise: things I will miss when I die

Hadeda screech
Weaver argumentation
Pintailed wydah tails in spring
Manikin clusters on the bird feeder

The velvet of a dog ear
An inquiring cold nose sniffing the back of my knee
The press of a firm backside looking for a lean
Dopey sleepy eyes in the hot morning sun

Sunday morning in bed with the doors open to the sky
A book that takes a whole day to read
The light of the day infusing and shifting the colour on the walls
The weighted dance of the overblown bottlebrush

The on and off conversation that’s been going on for decades
The constant companion who never corrals

My daughter the arrow straight and true

Fast clouds scudding
Purple clouds scorning
Feathered clouds hanging
A slice of pendant moon

The eternity of twilight

Exercise from Creating Ethnographies by Tessa Muncey: Who am I?

I am the knock on the door asking to be let in
I am a half asking for a whole
I am a question looking for a conversation
I am a little person inside a big machine
I am a hungry mind
I am a boredom threshold
I am a junkie of the new
I am a flouter of the old and satisfactory
I am a scorner of the orthodox
I am a pilgrim in search of a ritual
I am a hoarse voice in want of a chant
I am a nervous hand feeling for a rosary
I am a witch without a charm living by her wits
I am the stuck out sore thumb begging a ride
I am an engineer always asking how
I am a journalist always asking why
I am a teller in search of the really fully true and amazing
I am the swimmer afraid of the depths
I am the talker who goes to great lengths
I am the raised eyebrow who looks you in the eye
I am the shopkeeper counting the cost
I am a shepherd of precious things
I am a hoarder of moments
I am a loss of memory

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s