The little box

In response to 'The Little Box', a poem by Vasko Popa

the little box was so small, that I could not see it. I even put my glasses on, and I could have sworn that it wasn’t there. That there was no box at all. However, if I put my finger on it, I could, only just, feel it. the little box had been there for many years, and with the family - it was a known, a given. the little box is really too small to be called little. I’d have tiny at least, really tiny tiny weeny, tiddly widdly and the invisible box, would have covered it; but who knows if it was actually invisible, it was just too small to see. I wonder what colour it was, I think red. I wonder if there were any more, any where. and what might be inside them. something smaller I guess if they weren’t full of box, solid or indeed empty. the little box, of course, because everybody knows this, had a friend the little fox and the little fox, also was not little. but this not little was enormous one paw was in France another in Romania, and its tail swept over North Africa because the little fox was so big, and the sun was blotted out almost completely - a few rays would creep in, in the morning as the sun rose and a few rays would sneek in as as the sun set I wasn’t sure what colour it was either I think it was vermillion well, between the little box and the little fox was a big friendship a friendship so large it spanned the ocean a bond so deep it had lasted centuries and their care and regard for each other knew no boundaries why do I talk of this now, I hear you ask well, simply because it is time. it is time to talk of the big and time to talk of the small indeed time to talk of the all. because if we don’t talk now, it will be too late. and nobody wants that, do they? Did I mention the tree? Are you sure? The tree is very important. Would you like to know what colour it is? Where it lives? And guess what? Guess what size it is!!! I’ll give you three guess… Yes. yes. yessity yes and now its time to sleep, isn’t it?

Thinking of the Little Matchstick Girl, the book we had of this story. The image of the little girl on the outside looking in at the window, looking in to the family, the home. Window frame box, delineating what is inside and what is outside. Transparent. Easily smashed. What I remember most of the image is the huge fire inside, the glow, the orange, yellow, red burning the page in my hand, with inspiration. We were told to see the little girl as pitiable, as impoverished, hungering. Yet now I see her with the matches in her hand. The power to create that glow time and time again. To set her match , her hand, to the debris around her. To set the world alight and bask in the warmth, but not only that. Rubbing cold fingers around a fire is necessary sometimes, bring the life back in sharply. But beware the zone of comfort, easy to be mesmerised, seduced by the dancing flames. There is more than keeping warm. The thrill of ignition is just the start of it. On the outside, the periphery, I can set new fires to burn, create new focal points for gathering. I can stick dense torches deep into the flames and hoist them aloft and lead – come follow me, let’s take this light into the darkness, let’s see something new, something no-one has ever seen before. Let’s leave the boxes behind, the crates, the pallets of Belfast sectarian bonfires. Let’s gather new material. Let’s find the most beautiful, the most interesting branches – see how this one twists and turns, let’s listen to its story, release its spark as it sends its burning seeds out into the night air. What flesh will it sear, what ripe wound will it open up. What inner world will we peer into, the first glimpse – not of cosy comfort and picture book happiness – but the ooze and gore of life, the magnificence, the incomprehensibility. We will dance as flames before the magnificence of flesh, alive and decomposing. We are what we are. Alive and becoming. Dying and evolving. Dancing and igniting. It all starts with a little match, a hand, a strike, a spark, a leap, a flare, a flame. Who knows what it goes on to illuminate. Steady your hand. Steady the wind. A firm bold stroke. Easy does it. Now. Do it now. There see, it was easy, so easy. The warmth spreads within, gathering speed, pace, now, eating up all that is dry and discarded, the neglected springs to life for one last glorious dance before – I am writing – before what – J’s scattering seed, I’ve been there earlier, now what, when – S’s question – where, when. Who knows?

Box, clocks, clippety clops Horses, tops, handsome locks. I need you like a clock needs hands To tell me where the sun goes at dawn. How many lawns have you visited In your magic carriage which leaves me wanting? Over the hills she travelled Needlessly leaving when all she cared for was you Her box chimed in the afterlife With the foxy boxes of your future. Her box Gave you all your boxes, now and forever. Sweet, sweet little box, fox glove, You were a girl once, needlessly squashed Not squashy, having all your tones shaded by the past. Elements of your goodness remained stained by powerless trees And substance illuminated in peace time. Peaceful box, home and harbour, clear and clarified - Always, always safe.

A previous Writing Group focussed on the poem, 'I Will Put In The Box' by Kit Wright. Invited to put into our own boxes, into our own lives, we compiled a list of meaningful objects and thoughts of our ambitions and desires. From this heap, this jumble sale, it became possible to select and prioritise the memories of persons and experiences that must be retained. The box will have to be closed and stowed away until later, when others will reopen it to examine and evaluate its contents in a way so different from that of the original depositor.