We Write…

We write of summer meadows and of dewdrops,

Of circles caught in circles in our mind,

Of senses’ fantasies that beg releasing, in

Images that seep on page to find

Recognition in the land of journey

Of imagination played before our fluttered eyes,

Of colours bright or muted, freed from prism,

Of right or wrong, of truth, of evil lies.

 

We write of winter howling in bare treetops,

Of geometric tangents linked with space,

Of god and gifts and sad laments of knowing

Revealed inside the gifs behind our face,

Of politics and grace and favour owing,

Of how, by nature, owls seek out and track their prey

While, through the night, their silent wings stir currents,

Nocturnal voice, soft breathing held at bay.

 

We write at dawn and in night’s tiptoed torment

Of tales and thoughts, common to us all,

Of worlds within the world we all are sharing,

We write, in honesty, must be the greatest call

Of those drawn to the world of language,

In letter’d form, placed hesitantly, upon page,

Hit ‘publish’ while our hearts on white are crafted,

Daring reciprocity or rage.

 

Of ballerinas twirling in their jewel box,

When opened to reveal our trinkets there,

We write and dare our eyes to endless wonder,

We write, we risk our souls to honest bare.

We write because not doing is no option,

Words bedevil, haunt with no regret,

Spectral forms hover oe’r us, in cloud lexicon,

Begging exorcism on the net.

 

We write in music, pictures and prose poetry,

In art, in forms all risen from the pyre

Of ashen phoenix, from a long tradition

Of pigments mixed in charcoal from the fire.

In black and white, in colours that suffuse us,

Permeate the gases of our form,

Our nebula of knowing that what moves us,

Communication, as the human norm.

 

We write when tears are forming on our eyelids,

Smudging ink that proves our hearts still feel,

In anger, too, spilled blood from ancient consciousness,

We write to justify our thoughts are real.

We write because we see all souls are hurting,

As mine does too, from time to time, no less,

We write as union with the great unknowing,

One cell from shared communion that we bless

 

In knowing that no trouble that we carry

Need be borne alone no matter where we are,

Our words are missiles, more powerful than nuclear,

They are the love that nurtures near or far.

The word is flesh, the word is souls abiding

In light, its form, its earthless, weightless mass,

In silence and in photonic dark room,

One word may mean more than all the rest.

 

We write of dreams succumbed to when we’re sleeping,

Of daydreams caught in shower’s gentle sting,

Of justice, truth, of pain, of deep depression,

Of cloud release ascended on the wing.

Of tender-hearted moments that we’ve nourished,

Of visions seen in skies, on mountain peaks,

We write of all that’s conjured in our musings,

We write because some words are hard to speak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unplugged

Drawn from deepest recesses,

Risen from dead to haunt,

Levered occasions long buried,

Memories suppressed yet taunt.

A song, a whisper in spirit,

Voices exhumed from the past,

Post-mortem’d questions reflected,

Power unplugged with a blast.

May Music Day 1- Music Filled My Ears

Twindaddy at Stuphblog issued a challenge. From the first of May and for twenty-five days to select a piece of music arising from twenty-five questions posed by him.

1st – a song from your childhood – this one made me quite sad. And happy.

Music filled my ears,

from sweetest voice

I ever heard; my mum.

Songs of love, beautifully surrendered

to family chores

with hugs and tunes by turn.

 

In simple grace

her words flowed

like a fountain,

sparkling life into the hearts of all

who heard an angel echo every morning,

 called to us to rise, the day begun.

 

No one heard her voice

without succumbing

to the heart of one who raised all spirits high,

by grace and goodness woven into music

we listened and we learned

from ballads’ sigh.

 

My father smiled whenever mum was singing,

some chosen for their love,

given free,

others for all children

and god’s pleasure.

And one tune, especially, sung for me.

 

It followed me through life

when, as requested, I learned

to voice god’s talents handed on,

when dad would ask for my rendition

of the one

all family members called, ‘my song’.

 

I hear it still from time to time in passing,

I sing along and

memories flood my mind,

of childhood days and melodies imbibed then

from two, whose love

 knew how to warm and bind.

 

They’re gone now, from this world of lovers,

reunited

after many years apart.

I hear them still in music I hold dearest,

still, after all this time,

they fill my heart.

Cereals And Solitary Pleasures

Ok so, Pete made a comment on one of my posts  about the ‘fact’ that Mr. Kellogg had apparently invented corn flakes while trying to discover a cure for masturbation for the inmates in a sanatorium.

I just had to check the facts on that. Wikipedia might not always be up to scratch but it seemed to be true. What I read in the rest of the info has prompted this post. I wanted to entitle it ‘Wankers’ but felt sure that some people might be put off reading thinking it was another political rant!

So here goes nothing.

I did a post a wee while ago referring to the fact that I don’t find discussing sexuality easy. Especially in public. Blame my mum.

It doesn’t take away from the fact that I admire those who can. It doesn’t take away from the fact that I am a sexual being. A sensual woman, I like to think. Despite the fact that my own mum had issues discussing, overtly, anything of a sexual nature. Blame her mum.

In later years, my mum would discuss pretty much anything with the adult me. Sometimes embarrassingly so. But I always remember one of her ‘talks’ as she tried to explain a few facts to me.

It kind of went like this.

‘You know how some men like steak and some prefer chicken for dinner?’

‘Umm, yes.’ (Mama, have you lost your mind?)

‘Well some men like to lick the plate.’

Now this analogy took a few seconds to hit home with me. And then, wham!

WTF! My mum was attempting to discuss oral sex with me. I was in my late teens as I recollect. You can imagine the thoughts conjured up about my parents then. Yeuch! I guess she figured I was mature enough to realise that what two consenting adults did in their own time was not my business. I was. I still am.

In my early teens I had gone to confession and told the priest that I had investigated ‘down there’. Yup, I did. I was under the impression that if I died before I confessed God would ask me about my ‘sins’ in front of everyone in heaven. And what a red neck that would be. Better just get rid of it now. So to speak.

And the priest’s answer? ‘Were you on your own?’ Seriously. I was shocked. I thought I had discovered something that only I knew about and it turns out people did these things together and it had a name. He did commend me on such a frank confession which I was quite chuffed about!

There is a point to my embarrassing disclosure. You might not be embarrassed but I am. But I figure the truth is out there. And maybe it’s time we acknowledged a few home truths.

Like, for example, that girls do have that little hooded area of orgasmic pleasure that they are aware of and, if lucky, some man will one day be aware of too and act on a couple of instructions. It may be a penile stub in comparison to the ‘magnificence’ of the erect penis – all 12 inches worth, according to some men.

Both appendages are there. Belonging to the individual. To them. No other.

Reminds me of when my husband looked in the rear view mirror of our car a long many a year ago and commented to one of the kids for the umpteenth time, ‘Stop picking your nose.’

Her babyish answer of, ‘My nose’, soon shut him up. Touche.

Mr Kellogg (1852-1943) had some rather strange and worrying practices. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Harvey_Kellogg

Here’s an excerpt (from Mr Kellogg’s own book) in case you don’t follow links.

A remedy which is almost always successful in small boys is circumcision, especially when there is any degree of phimosis. The operation should be performed by a surgeon without administering an anesthetic, as the brief pain attending the operation will have a salutary effect upon the mind, especially if it be connected with the idea of punishment, as it may well be in some cases. The soreness which continues for several weeks interrupts the practice, and if it had not previously become too firmly fixed, it may be forgotten and not resumed.

further

a method of treatment [to prevent masturbation] … and we have employed it with entire satisfaction. It consists in the application of one or more silver sutures in such a way as to prevent erection. The prepuce, or foreskin, is drawn forward over the glans, and the needle to which the wire is attached is passed through from one side to the other. After drawing the wire through, the ends are twisted together, and cut off close. It is now impossible for an erection to occur, and the slight irritation thus produced acts as a most powerful means of overcoming the disposition to resort to the practice

and

In females, the author has found the application of pure carbolic acid (phenol) to the clitoris an excellent means of allaying the abnormal excitement.

He also recommended, to prevent children from this “solitary vice”, bandaging or tying their hands, covering their genitals with patented cages and electrical shock.[7]

In his Ladies’ Guide in Health and Disease, for nymphomania, he recommended

Cool sitz baths; the cool enema; a spare diet; the application of blisters and other irritants to the sensitive parts of the sexual organs, the removal of the clitoris and nymphae…

 

 

 

Some cultures still carry out female circumcision. And sew up the vaginal opening, allowing only for menstrual flow.

http://www.theguardian.com/society/2010/jul/25/female-circumcision-children-british-law

At what point in history did it become the case that our preoccupation with sex reduced it to something so abhorrent that remedial measures should be taken to ensure minimum pleasure? And control?

Excerpts from the article, in case you don’t link.

Cleanliness, neatness of appearance and the increased sexual pleasure for the man are all motivations for the practice. But the desire to conform to tradition is the most powerful motive. The rite of passage, condemned by many Islamic scholars, predates both the Koran and the Bible and possibly even Judaism, appearing in the 2nd century BC

“FGM is not confined to African countries. It has no basis in Christianity, it has no basis in Islam; none of Muhammad’s daughters had it done. For some parents it is enough to let them know that and they will drop it completely. Everyone needs to understand that every child, no matter what the background or creed, is protected by this law in this land.”

“FGM has a social function and until this is understood by social services and other bodies they will never stop it. It is a power negotiation mechanism, that women use to ensure respect from men. It prevents rape of daughters and is a social tool to allow women to regain some power in patriarchal societies….”

This has led me on to some research that I’m not going to include here because it does not answer the question of why we as a world deem it appropriate to interfere with another person’s body.

I could go on about rape; about sexual harassment of many kinds and of both sexes; about why we think it’s ok to judge others based on their sexuality; or ok to judge on so many counts from  colour, nationality  to creed; about why we, as a species, allow victimisation in all its myriad forms.

Where did we inherit the right to discriminate against another person? Period.

How far back must we go to ascertain the truth in when it became a god-given right of anyone?

In fact, aren’t we told, ‘‘judge not lest you be judged’?

At some point in history deities of both genders were worshipped for their attributes. At some point in history nature was embraced and recognised for its wonders and the processes of life.

At some point it changed.

We became preoccupied with what everyone else was doing in privacy with their own bodies. We became preoccupied with everyone else’s perceived flaws of nature or appearance or sexuality.

Is it because we live in a male-dominated, patriarchal world?

It would seem to be men predominantly who have proscribed the acceptable terms of a woman’s sexuality. Or indeed anyone who does not conform to a defined macho sense of maleness so you’re buggered if you’re gay. Pun actually unintended. But I thought, what the hell.

Let’s face it men, generally, are the biggest wankers of all time and I mean that it in its correct usage. Might it be that rather than women suffering from penis envy men suffer from clitoral and vaginal envy? Two surely is better than one. And think of how quickly we recover after climax. What’s not to envy? Ready to go again, darling? How emasculating.

Now before you go off on one yes, it does sound like I’m having a go at men. Even my own husband has just said so. ‘But I’ve not finished!’ I said to him. *rolls eyes*

Earlier my sixteen year old daughter read out to me something she received via email/text.

This is an excerpt from a poet at http://inkskinned.tumblr.com/

I’ve just followed. I can’t find a link to this piece of writing. It’s excellent. It’s strong. But I’m selecting this part to underline what so many women feel.

An open letter to the ‘nice guy’ who tried to hit me because I stopped him from taking home a drunk girl who was begging him to leave her alone (or: why you should never ask a poet if she’s really an ugly cocksucker or if that’s just her day job):

you wanna know why we don’t let nice men into our beds? Because we rarely find them.

They’re out there, I know it, but they’re not the ones wetting themselves when a woman asks ‘why do you think that?’ instead of sitting back and letting him laugh with his buddies about femi-nazis. They’re out there and they’re probably as pissed as we are that at least one third of their population has openly admitted there are times when they think it’s okay to force their significant other to have sex: they’re out there, and the sad thing is, if you’re a male, you’re statistically not one of them. As far as we know, you don’t exist. You are a white knight only you believe in.

The thing about oppression is that it can only last for so long. You are not making yourself dominant, you’re making yourself weak. I’ve seen men crumble because they feel uncomfortable when they get hit on by other men as if the stench of their own mistakes is strangling them. I’ve seen them get impassioned because a teacher preferred females and I’ve laughed because I had eight other classes where it was reversed and in all of those eight, it went uncontested.…I’ve seen boys growl about women’s history month and had to wonder if they’ve ever held a textbook where the only names of girls are tiny footnotes. I’ve seen fathers ask why the  curriculum I use for my six-year-olds is carefully gender neutral, why I let his son play at cooking or his daughter be a doctor.

I have never heard a mother complain except to beg me to get her little girl to talk more, to do more, to succeed – do you see? Do you see?

Now the last few weeks I’ve been involved in something of a private education programme thingy that might come back to bite me on the arse. But I’m doing it because education is the way forward. And it’s not the first time I’ve been bitten on the arse. Whole other story.

Speaking

Discussing.

Honesty.

And most of all love.

It’s hate that is at the root of everything I’ve read recently that has scandalised me.

And why?

We care so much about a woman’s tickly bits that we’ll mutilate.

We care so much about other people’s sexuality that we vilify.

We care so much about the colour of a person’s skin that we decry.

We care so much about the name of the religions that divide that we cannot unite.

We are a scared humanity, a humanity filled with petty differences. So petty that we cannot use the power of our own voices and select our own futures.

We inherit politicians who sometimes act wrongly under threat of disclosure about their sexual exploits. Name them, I dare you. Numerous.

Let’s lay off the sex, colour, religion and get down to the truth of this world. It is temporal. It is troubled. It is temporary.

I, for one, am taking the log out of my own eye before commenting on another’s splinter.

Except where truth and lies perpetuate cruelty.

Hatred and lies hurt. Truth will set us free.

In the words of Rabbie Burns – not rabbi Burns! –

O wad some Power the giftie gie us

To see oursels as ithers see us!

Reunite

In River Styx, life stories slow at last,

Pregnant with the words of all those passed.

But voices from the water linger still;

Breath of gentle murmurings without will.

On bridge there stands a maiden all too fair,

Reposed in form though heart beats such a dare;

To heed the whispers floating to her ears,

So plunge to depth, negate the wasted years.

To ponder life below the surface seen

And drift in currents never more to preen

For suitors; such a futile, thankless task

When one departed never more may ask

To share her life- if only once again

To recreate the timing – then no pain.

Give ear to river calling out one name,

Rejoin lost love, extinguish all past shame.

In dulcet tones, from once upon a dance,

One soulful voice requests one more and final chance;

To purge the crime, the ending of it all.

“Reunite , fair maiden, hear my call.”

I Am. We All Are.

Your human rights are less important than mine.

You’re gay.

 

I had Pankhurst.

I had Mandela.

I had Gandhi

And King.

Every voice

In history

Who cried

For justice.

Equality.

 

Royalty now.

But back then,

Merely

Perceptive,

Provocative,

Proactive.

Reaction

Causing

Change.

 

So take the beatings

And the vitriol

While we watch

And say little.

Do nothing.

View the games

With blackened eyes

And bruises.

 

This your legacy.

This our pride.

To stay silent.

Shh!

While waiting

For a regal voice.

 

I am black.

I am woman.

I am all nations.

I am gay.

We all are.

Serendipity, Synchronicity And All That Jazz

Bear With Me. I Do Get To The Point. I Think. Eventually.

Should I apologise now or later? Feck, let’s make it later.

OK, I know that on Friday I waxed a bit about Scotland and the beauties of its scenery and the quality of the land that makes me feel proud to call it home. Blame the whiskey and a hard week.

I feel its history and its trials and tribulations. But feelings aren’t always enough. Not always. There are thoughts and there is reason. There is right and there is wrong.

I’ve been pondering politics and independence.

Don’t switch off!

That’s not what I’m talking about here. It’s just that sometimes things come together in a magical way. And I do question, then just accept the synchronicity that exists in the universe. The hand of god touching. Poking finger into pond and causing ripples.

Where the feck to begin.

I could begin today with Shirley Maya posting an almost identical post to mine insofar as it touched on the voice of womankind within the world. A huge absence I think anyone with truth in their hearts would acknowledge. Politics has been for so long the realm of men. It’s been that way for many reasons. You know them all. I can’t be arsed listing them. If you want to, send me an email. And I’ll fill that page.

I just don’t have time or inclination to do it here.

Women have been, and continue to be, under represented in the voice of the world.

And, NO, I’m not talking of the burn-your-bra-men-are-bastards-sort-of women who portray womankind in such a distorted light.

I’m talking of your mother. And mine. Of all mothers. Of your wife. Your love. Your sister. Your daughter. Why are they not listened to in the way they should be by all men who claim to love them?

Why are they petted and cossetted as brainless princesses with doe eyes until they reach THAT age and then they are every man’s jail bait?

I will make generalisations here that I acknowledge may apply equally to men. I get that. Anyone with half a brain knows that there are good and bad men and women.

But men are still over represented in the political realm regardless of their goodness or badness. Or maybe because of it. 😉

I was thinking last night of some of the women who have featured in the political field for one reason or another and the names that sprang immediately to mind filled me with dismay. Maggie Thatcher. (God forgive me! I still have to ask that every time I think of her). Imelda Marcos. What a feckin’ eejit and betrayer of womankind. Then I thought Cleopatra! (Shit! I’ve just realised why I started thinking of Roman soldiers and then did the tortoise post! Gawd, my mind!)

Anyhoo, I’m already losing track of where I’m going with this. OK, you too.

To the chase.

Lots of stuff that I won’t go into ‘cos you’ll fall asleep or go, ‘Oh yeah?’ are coming together for me and making me believe that nothing really happens without cause. And effect.

Scotland. That’s where I started. I think.

Yeah, this guy, Magnus-MacFarlane Barrow. Scottish guy. From a place called Dalmally. I had been involved in his project ‘Mary’s Meals’ through schools. Knew I recognised the name. My mum had gone to a place called Medjugorje in Yugoslavia where she further realised the power of Jesus and His mother in her life. Yup. Knock on effect. Two of the people who had visited that place gave over their house as a retreat centre to anyone needing ‘time-out’ and rejuvenation. Calum and Mary-Anne MacFarlane Barrow. Parents of this other chappie.

Then tonight my brother posts on Facebook a message for me to listen to –Tommy Sheridan and Scottish Independence dealing with poverty and justice and then posts the one below.

.

All mothers (and fathers, I know!) must feel for the plight of these children.

My mother was involved with this family. I have been involved with this family. They’re Scottish. The cause is now a worldwide one. Can Scotland make it on its own? Do mothers have a voice? Should women be listened to in the global political arena? Who will make that happen? Or let that happen?

Am I making any feckin’ sense here? No wonder I write poetry.

There are times when right just feels right. And this feels right. It’s also good reasoning.

There is one species of humankind. There are two genders. We must listen to each other.

We really must listen to the voice of mothers. Because, with the odd exception, they love selflessly. And that’s what the world needs.

And I KNOW so do men. But the voices must be shared. How else do we achieve balance?

And now should I apologise? Nah. I don’t think so. 🙂 x

Politics Of The Tortoise

Phalanx- formed, tortoiseshell, they stride.

Enamoured by a greater cause. Roman virtue, pride.

 

Hidden by the shields, a clever measure.

Heads in the shells. No answers to deliver.

 

Sartorial senators in togas, edged by coloured code,

They voice in pillared rooms by rote; civic votes vetoed.

 

A charm offensive, if believed, oratory blest

With philosophy and philanthropy, supposed to do its best.

 

Then viper’s nest, despotic rule, heeding inbred flaws

Seek to serve the selfish first. Lost virtue, Roman cause.

 

Sweltered in the fiery flames, civilisation burning out.

Repetition, this our way. Results equal, have no doubt.

 

Where heads are buried, blinded by the bound.

Beware warrior who treads on toes. A weakness found. 

Woman’s Voice

It’s spreading out from pebble. Can you feel it?

Rippling through the waterways and seas,

Waving in the oceans. Can you hear it?

Communicated by the birds and bees.

There’s a lesson in the breeze of Mother Nature,

A stirring in the soil where life is found,

There’s a movement in the trees, in the rustling of the leaves,

A tumultuous rumbling underground.

Maternal blood is weeping for her children

And risking self to heal the open sores.

She’s crying out to corners of the universe,

Seeking now to even up the scores.

Listen to a mother when she’s bleeding

Her heart is sore but, tigress, she has teeth.

Woman’s voice. Hearken now, or perish.

United effort. Nature’s one belief.

Chair Of Dreams

There’s a chair he sits

To meditate

And speculate on life.

It’s a comfy one;

Soft, well-sprung,

Eases all day’s strife.

 

He rests his head

On cushioned pad

And closes sleepy eyes,

Lets cares of day

Melt swift away,

Thoughts turn to inner sighs.

 

A restful time,

No work in mind,

Merely moments rest,

A winsome wait, to

Imaginative state, where

Dreams replace life’s best.

 

Time passing for some seconds

Seems a lifetime

In this way.

Clock ticks the moments

Idly by,

Dreams consummate; life delay.

 

Close mind to voices,

External noises,

Let angel flutter near

With wings of portent,

Soul be sent,

Eliminate all fear.

 

There’s a chair he sits,

It looks quite plain, but

Surrealism enhances,

In quietest throes

Of deep repose,

New hope from all dreamt chances.

 

There’s a chair he sits,

And with eyes closed, so

Angel unobserved,

Blesses hopes and dreams

For him

With gestures but no word.