House Poem

St John's Vicarage, Bransholme, Hull, Summer 2008

Innocence

House of new beginnings

Of hoped for harmony

Of connection and grace.

House of the flying tardis

Of new worlds waiting to be found

Of new colours waiting to dazzle.

House of the land and soil

Of digging and planting

Of unhindered growth.

House of freedom

Of reckless joy

Of cover and refuge.

House of promise

Of warmth and rest

Of provision and peace.

House of riches

Of feasts and frivolity

Of parties and play.

House poised to kiss sleeping beauty.

House ready for redemption.

Experience

House of the broken windows

Of smashed ceilings and break-ins

Of possessions stolen and strewn.

House of tears and troubles

Of broadband battles

Of clashing generations.

House of the flowing whisky

Of late night witterings

And telescope twittering.

House of the big brothers

Of thwacked thighs and pointing fingers

Of mobile phone fascination

And rubbish bin preoccupation

Of grumpy kindness

And soaring silliness.

House of the sisterhood

Of singing and sighing

Of laughing and crying

Of hair and fashioning

Of washing liquid rationing.

House of the gravely garden

Of the hidden tennis court

Pushing up the daisies.

House of the packed kitchen

Of the peopled lounge

Of stories, feasting and fun.

House of the back-stage

Of unseen work and wisdom

Of making and marking

Of waiting and writing.

House with a heart-beat.

House coming to life.

Imagination

House of wonders

House of healing

House that hosts the angels.

House of hopes

House of dreams

House that holds the nations.

House of beauty

House of light

House that shines and shocks.

House of love

House of truth

House that won’t be stopped.

House of joy

House of peace

House of celebrations.

House of faith

House of fight

House of resurrections.

House of love

House of hope

House of heaven-come-down.

Writing On The Move

 Post round the world travels, May 2008

Writing, I’ve discovered, is quite hard when you’re on the move. Although the constant scene changing provides immediate and ongoing inspiration, energy that would go into pinning these thoughts down goes instead into making unending plans and decisions. Once the survival mentality kicks in, of  wondering where to sleep, what to eat, where to go, there’s little creativity left just to sit and write.

In fact there was only one time when I felt settled and rested enough to write. It was when I was staying in a house in New Zealand run by a Catholic Worker community. There I could hang out with people I got on with and who did most of the cooking. And with my basic and psychological needs met, I found I could sit back a bit, let my mind unfurl and actually write. The need for home is a powerful thing.

I guess this isn’t everyone’s story but I found it to be mine. So I’ve returned with books of notes, jottings, thoughts and quotes waiting to be pinned down and assembled in some sort of lucid order. Although it’s been a pain to have been holding on to them for so long, I’ve enjoyed making connections and comparisons with different places and cultures and hope what I write now will shed a clear and poignant light on things.

Friends on the way

 Dec 07 – March 08

“There aren’t just tigers and snakes in the jungle of Calcutta”, mused Hasan Pal, “You also meet lambs and doves there...”  from The City of Joy by Dominique Lapierre.

People I met as I backpacked around the world:

Political activists, lawyers, film-makers, psychologists, actors, farmers, artists, missionaries, business people, entrepreneurs, teachers, journalists, students, monks, bus drivers, an artificial limb specialist, priests, nurses, ex-prisoners, volunteers, secretaries, musicians, writers, scientists, chefs, a coffin maker, taxi drivers, rickshaw and tuk-tuk drivers, OTs, a fitness instructor, morris dancers, a village chief, homeless guys, singers, backpackers.

Healing

Sava’ai, Samoa, March 2008

There comes a point in healing where you just have to step out and believe for the fullness of it. It’s easy to get stuck and keep waiting for that fullness, looking at the wounds still sore and too afraid to step out. With the focus still on our frailty we will become frozen. In accepting these frailties but still believing for completion, we are free to step out. To walk in the freedom of healing received and healing yet to come. Our walk is a walk of faith and each one of us has been wounded to a greater or lesser extent. We are called to walk forward with one another and often we will find that in that solidarity, our healing will come.

Residual Sadness

by Lake Tekapo, South Island, New Zealand, 16/03/08

I carry around a residue of sadness

Left over from some past sorrow

That I can never pin down.

This film around my heart

Has remained. And remained.

And I’m past prodding or poking it,

For still, it remains.

And now, in this post supper state,

This beer and brooding moment,

I breathe deep.

I breathe in the turquoise beauty of the water,

The playful swirls of the clouds,

The grey-green thereness of the mountains

And breathe in the now

That will never come again,

And revel in its respite.

Doing battle in the bath

Spring Bank, Hull, Jan 2006

There, beneath the bubbles,

Lying in the womb-like warmth

By the flicker of candlelight,

I fight.

Girding up my best thoughts,

I fire out threats

And put dark whispers

To flight.

In the solitary struggle,

The gentle lift of hope,

The reassuring wink:

It’s alright.

And the bubbles dance,

Though the warmth wanes,

And the candlelight

Shines bright.

Early Morning Stroll

Hull, 2005
Pearson Park, 6 o’clock in the morning

A young couple walk silently

Pushing a red pram.

Inside a baby whimpers

Then yawns, drops his head

And, finally, falls asleep.

 “Thank God!” she says.

“Humdililah!” he says.

He’s older than her, about 5 years.

They met in a nightclub,

A bit worse for wear.

Her on a hen night.

Him just up from Dover.

They’d danced, laughed, kissed,

Swapped numbers.

And a few texts later,

Were going out.

Her family wasn’t happy.

Her being with one of them Kosovans

(He was Kurdish)

One of them thick shits

(He was a lawyer)

Taking all our jobs

(He washed pots to get by).

He looks at her in the early morning light.

She’s so pretty, he still can’t believe it.

How she’s still with him

How he can feel this happy.

A bird skims across the pond and he jumps.

Suddenly his mind is full of bullets

And screams and children running.

His mother bleeding, his father pleading

And soldiers laughing, laughing, laughing….

“Best get back”, she whispers, squeezing his arm.

“I can’t go back”, tears running down his face.

He pulls her to him and starts to cry.
And she holds him.

As the sun peeks over the yellow trees

She holds him.

Still in her pyjamas

She holds him.

With her scuffed black trainers and tangled hair,

She holds him.

Nearby a man out walking his dog coughs.

And a jogger flits by with heavy beats pinned to his ears.

“Best get back,” she says again.

 “Best get back” he sighs

And slowly, they peel apart

And head towards the gate.

I remember writing this thinking of a Kurdish man I knew who was a massive inspiration to me at the time. His story was one of incredible resilience. And incredible pain. Back then I was struggling with depression and a feeling of stuckness. Often feeling overwhelmed and not knowing how to move on from some things. It helped going out for walks though. And one day whilst walking past the duckpond in Pearson Park, I got the idea to write this piece. The first thing in ages that was about someone else and not about me! So in that sense it was a healing thing. Getting me out of myself and trying to imagine life in someone else’s shoes. The depression still lingered for a while afterwards but at least I’d begun to get some perspective. And feel connected to the world around me again.