Dream Poem 43: Boat to Bruges; Travelling by Swimming Pool

It’s a college trip to Bruges, I’m taking some students
our boat floats in a swimming pool which floats in the North Sea.
Buoyant and large and full of blue, blue water
surrounded  by grey-green water,
two different kinds of water.
One salinated full of sea life and vegetation
one sterile and chemical, bleached life less.

We walked on the beach, it was full of clam shells,
we had travelled by swimming pool across the North sea with an Algerian Captain.
The boat had sunk with all our stuff on it –
to the bottom of the swimming pool and we had all got out. 
But now there was no boat
and it was time to go home.
I stood on the beach looking and wondering but knowing it would be ok.

The boat was sunk
Yet I stood on the beach
Wondering

“Everything has gone to shit” I thought
“The worst that could happen has happened”
Yet I have head space
To contemplate
To analyse
To come to a logical conclusion
Despite the seemingly gloomy outlook
I am unperturbed
Unshaken
Solid as a rock
I just know it is going to be ok.
I have become strong
I have gained inner strength
I stand, I’m calm
I know
I trust
I believe, I’m unshakable.

The water is beautiful and I’m ok
The boat has sunk
It is going to be ok
I know it is going to be alright.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Collect Art Publication July 2023

Image
 First published in Collect Arts Summer 2023 edition Stone all the flowers   The year of the art school tutorials. The difficult woman you are to me, and the difficulty I present to you. The year of my recovery and your husband’s death.   Your husband fails and worsens through the days of our trimesters together. As he weakens and declines, I grow incrementally stronger. As if terrible fatalistic scales of balance, set and reset.   Do not cheat her. Give her a full measure of time and experiences with him. Pressed down, shaken together and overflowing. She, in the face of all this decay   Chooses to destroy flowers with stones. Until their purple hearts stained the cartridge with their elemental pigments.   She cuts the flowers only to waste them in the parching sun. It is the cycle of being and unbeing, the grass withers and the flower fades (Isiah 40:8). She decides to press her flowers till their lungs burst on fine co...
Read more
Image
Blackbird Egg Time slows down in the Victorian mirror. She is haunted by every face that checked themselves in the glass. She is on the cusp. A life about to begin in earnest, on the tipping point of adulthood. On the apex of future relationships, sexuality and desire. “Yes” she says, “that’s me in the mirror”, long brown hair, grey-blue eyes. She is just an ordinary brown bird. But common or garden blackbirds create sky eggs, objects of beauty and desire. Each one speckled slightly differently in the genus. If only she can create of herself such an object of yearning, her small brownness will be worth the transformation. On the Hall-stand crafted in a grand antique style, are a collection of blackbird’s eggs. Saved in small glass containers with their lids tight shut. Through the glass she sees pale blue specked eggs, broken with raggedy edges. The armoire ominously overshadows her slight fourteen year old self. Whom she sees reflected back in multiple mirrors, framed in the warm glea...
Read more

Chap Book #3 Gone With The Wind

Image
  Delighted to be published in:-  https://www.cistaarts.com/product-page/chapbook-series-3-gone-with-the-wind Learning craft from the wind   There was once a woman. Who learned craft from wind, art from the sea and design from the earth. She sewed intricate organic patterns in labyrinthine repeats. Her creativity was celebrated through the land. She was known as La Corachine, beautiful shell of the sea. Her daughter Powys was as natural as the elements, precious as comfort and radiant with gold-nature. One day an old woman coloured like an autumn day came to their door. “I want what is yours.” She said, and stuck a pin into the girl, who transformed into a brown-bird and flew off. “Old woman”, cried the mother, please cook a meat and potato pie for us. “Of course”, she sang, catching the brown-bird-daughter. And made her into a pie with potato skins. The leftover bones she threw into a corner of the garden. In three days, a beautiful tree g...
Read more