Secret waters

(in response to Birds, a poem by Robinson Jeffers)

Quick, sharp and short.

Not for long

did the mind

dwell

not for long

did he stay

or

even notice

the flash of

an eye

a glimmer

flicking through

the pages

of a

magazine

riding

the remote

through the

TV guide

quick. stop. think.

dismiss

what would be

suitable

right

now

what would be

just

right

how can I stay

and swim amongst the fishes

how can I sway

and chat

to circulate

to breathe

and play that

all is well

How are you?

How are you?

Are you having a good day?

It’s good to see you.

What’s new

- in your life?

Are the children well?

Looking forward to Christmas?

looking forward

looking back

the slap of expectation

making good memories

looking seeking

hoping working

exhausted

all ready

all ready

for the next round.

all ready

for the roundabout

all ready

not ready at all

and still. still

it comes

still

and ever

there is

a moment

and ever

there is a

time

a time

to set things aside

a time

to slow

it

all

down

and a time

to

rest.

Underneath the hat, next to the ashtray, were the keys. Now it was a shame they were under the hat, because nobody thought to look there.

You could go on forever here, couldn’t you? You and your secrets, bobbing away along the surface, dictating this mood and that mood and these thoughts and those. But is any of it a secret anymore? It’s all old laundry hung out to dry in the bloody wind. And time passes, and the sun discolored every little last fiber of your being and your past. Pages left outside in the sun. Blue becomes pale green. Red becomes pink and white yellow. Is it even the same secret anymore? But it’s not true! There is more. There’s more underneath the surface, more than the eyes can see. I am not naked. The old washing is not all there is. Just let me air it all for a while longer, then I’ll get the next load out there, press it down with pegs so it can’t fly away. Secrets. Secret waters. Secret liquid poured down my throat in the dark because there’s nothing else to do. Boring. Boring life, but not boring enough. The moments when the secrets are formed, never to be spoken. “Take them with us in our grave.” You and I and our little secrets. Not today, not ready to write about it yet. Maybe next time. Honestly by all means, but only when you are ready. Isn’t it enough that these prompts make you think about the unthinkable? Let me crawl back under the floorboards, where there’s no time, no ticking, no light, no days, no sound, no secrets. Only the incessant scratching of those flesh-eating bloody thoughts.

keep writing she said

keep writing

well actually

I’m going

to

rest

Bathing. An intimate relationship with a manageable amount of water; contained, sedate, soothing; no threat of being dragged under by a current or submerged unexpectedly by a looming wave. Sometimes I like to add seaweed to my bath; the slipperiness adds an extra tactility to the water, a sensuality, along with the gentle brush of fronds against my warm skin. Sometimes I imagine what it might be like to wear a burka and to have that unveiling, that revealing of one’s own body to oneself; to have that full ----- can’t think of the word, something to do with visual picture/glare – I don’t know, my head hurts – of myself. It is so very different from removing other articles of clothing? It’s the swathes of fabric, the voluminosity that interests me for some reason. As if I would feel lost in the multitudes of folds and sway, and then re-find myself anew, my compactness and solidity, my softness and fluidity, my own being, with every unvealing. Like the undoing of neatly pinned hair into a cascade of flux and frivolity. Where am I now? Am I lost in my writing or finding a less familiar part of myself, seeing myself differently, a new aspect, a de-robed self? Hmm! I’m not sure how I feel about being naked in this clinical room, the cold comfort of white. Yet I have my blanket, my soft sheepskin with me, itself a dark cloth, with some weight. Yet so soft, so light to the stroking hand. I’m not sure how I feel about it. A remnant salvaged from my dad’s old overcoat; taken off my mother’s hands as she didn’t know what to do with it. Lying in the corner, glanced at awkwardly, with ambivalence. The difficult relationship with my father stopping me from dismantling it, taking what I wanted, a piece of something comforting for me – tinged with the creepiness of his touch, his glance. How can I embrace something that feels so disturbing? Yet I have dismantled it and reclaimed a piece that works for me, lines my chair, my knee, albeit somewhat uneasily.

The rock pool on Greenaway beach where my sister used to swim. How could a rock pool hold all of us? They called it the Fairy Pool. Crabs lived in it, crabs, shrimp, dog fish and in its shadows a longer eel. Tempting out the conger eel from its lair with bacon on string became our game. Too often the crab would come first but eventually the nose of the eel, its rounded snout, would protrude, blind, lumbering, carnal. Lethal. Screaming we clambered out, slipping on barnacles, OUCH. It would sometimes emerge fully, its mesmerising length circling the pool, its slow swim a lap of honour, the crabs shrink now. The dog fish hover, waiting. The langour of the eel. Its pace unhurried, its control and command of the pool. And then it disappears. And the world slackens for a second, loses its hold, is bright, opens up. Bright flash! Then slowly the sand buckets are filled, shoes found, the chattering clamour begins again, clothes are reassembled. The mesmerising length of the eel.

Waters are secret. Secrets are watery, slippery they lose their brightness when told. A torchlight in my memory how secret the eel and its partners under the asphalt dripping wet I worship its enormous length. Mesmerised I undress in the lamplight. Hold my heart. I will try to hold yours. Never in a million years would I expect anyone to keep me safe. Can you? Could you try? Why would you want to? Do I meet you in the afterlife? The afterlife is where it all happens. This is the ground work. Keep writing, keep writing and I don’t know what to write. I want to write about the birds and their swelling mass and the crowd funding of their brave projects elevated to the mountain tops by bird song. All of their connected flight makes sense.