King of the forest

“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.” —

Oak tree image taken on a recent walk

Touches my heart

I came across this poem this morning.  Searching for a quote to send to someone, I have  a folder with poems and quotes and I found the  E. E. Cummings poem that always touches me quite profoundly when I read it.

Recently for a storytelling session I was asked to write a story,  it wasnt until I read the poem again this morning I realised the story and the poem had great similarities.

Thought I would share this with you this morning.

 

SOMEWHERE I HAVE NEVER TRAVELLED

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience, your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

 

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

 

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

 

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

 

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

 

E E Cummings

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Frog by Hillaire Belloc

A priceless ode to Billy Bandyknees – especially for my dear friend Seanpaul whos frogs appear in the image and were my inspiration for this blog

Selected verses from
The Bad Child’s Book of Beasts

    Be kind and tender to the Frog,
    And do not call him names,
    As “Slimy skin,” or “Polly-wog,”
    Or likewise “Ugly James,”
    Or “Gap-a-grin,” or “Toad-gone-wrong,”
    Or “Bill Bandy-knees”:
    The Frog is justly sensitive
    To epithets like these.
    No animal will more repay
    A treatment kind and fair;
    At least so lonely people say
    Who keep a frog (and, by the way,
    They are extremely rare).

by Hillaire Belloc

Rose d’amour – paper shoe no.6

Shoe no.6 toile DSC_1343

Red preserved petals, toile, intamacy, unfurling, sensitivity, fragile, vulnerable.  All handmade in paper, shoe lining taken from 18th century erotic etchings to make my own toile, preserved flower petals. Gold dresdon paper edging

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience, your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

Shoe no.6 signature 2 DSC_1353or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;

only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

ee cummings

shoe no.6 signature detail2 IMG_2741

Shoe no6. orange marble paperDSC_1356

Shoe no.6 toile DSC_1343

Shoe no.6 signature 2 DSC_1353

When A Good Mother Sails From This World


Mending the Sails by Joaquín Sorolla y BastidaAlthough Mothers Day here in the UK bas been and gone, my mother, as always, is ever present in my mind.  

This year for the first time I was able visit her grave with my daughter and feel that I had at last come to terms with her death, felt that just like the libretto below, that I too had managed to weave together the threads of  her light into a  beautiful set of sails.  This beautiful boat with its magnificent rigging is majestically riding the waves and atop is the beautiful red flag of my mother. 

when I read this piece it took my breath away, it spoke to me in so many ways and confirmed  just what I have been feeling.  My mother will always be with me, wherever I travel, her spirit and love lives deep within my soul.  

WHEN A GOOD MOTHER SAILS FROM THIS WORLD

The following piece is actually an excerpt from women.life.song a libretto written by Dr Clarissa Pinkola Estes, commissioned and performed by Jessaye Norman in 2000 at Carnegie Hall.  

When I say, ‘My mother has died’,
I mean my ‘most beloved’.
Leave me to myself now,
for I am a ship who’s
lost her riggings;
suddenly
come unmoored.

My mother has died;
She has earned her rest now,
waiting only, and proudly so,
for her sails
to be taken down.

I, the daughter,
see to the mending of my mother’s sails;
I seek her
worn and broken
threads of light,
reweaving her dazzling linen.

And though there be broken threads
not able to be rewoven,
I will gently pull the edges together
and stitch one side to the other…
and if not able to be mended,
then I will patch with parts
from my own most earnest life
over the places where my mother’s life
was worn through,
. . . or never was.

Over time, the sails of the mothership
will be fitted to the daughtership;
raised up on the mainsail,
and the final touch –
the red ragged flag – hers –
will be flying topmast of my ship.

I’ll be let down into the waters then,
I, the daughter, will glide again…
but this time, under the best sails
inherited from my mother…
and all the mothers of the motherlines
before her.

Ay, Mother, let me tell you
my treasured dearie-dear,
one last thing I have learned
from your spirit passing through me
as sparkling shadow passes
through darkening shadow,
on this open night-sea journey…

I am learning to navigate
by the mysteries of the farthest stars –
the ones that the great wake of your passing
has revealed to me
for the very first time.



 

Dr Clarissa Pinkola Estes

I will not die an unlived life

In the summer of 2008 I spent a magical weekend with friends at Glastonbury, Isle of Avalon.

During the weekend I was read this poem, it really touched me,  at that time I had drawn a whole series of sketches, one seemed to illustrate these words perfectly………….   what do you think?  The poem is by Dawna markova, a lady who has single handedly changed the live of so many.  see her blog at http://dawnamarkova.blogspot.com/

morphing-27-small-file-72dpi1I will not die an unlived life.

I will not live in fear of  falling or catching fire.

I choose to inhabit my days,

to allow my living to open me,

to make me less afraid,

more accessible;

to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing,

a torch, a promise.

I choose to risk my significance,

to live so that which came to me as seed

goes to the next as blossom,

and that which came to me as blossom,

goes on as fruit.

 

by Dawna Markova