(2017 – Apologies to my wonderful followers for the huge gap in updating this archive. To say I have had a lot going on would be an understatement! Under going a bit of a personal evolution! Some of you may have found my other blog? Rolling Om?
I often very slightly tweak my poems, as written in my notebooks, to pull them together to share here. But this time I thought it would be interesting to share the process, exactly as it is written, especially as this one was never really resolved. I often write poems, almost perfectly, straight out and then get lost in trying to better the original. This is one of those.)
Morning sun cast crystal shadow
Frosty stars fallen down from the night
The crisp crunch and stamp, stamp
Steamy purr, horse- lip whistle, damp
in the dry air.
Side on to the cresting sun
Shadowing the glinting grass
Haloed proud and tossing mane
Whose prize is he, proud beast, to train?
But he does not run as the jeep
All roar and oily snarl appears
He swings his head, pricks up his ears
And watches as the folks get out, come near,
He does not run, but insists that they
Should catch him first if they want to play!
Old Logan leaned upon the gate
Appraised his fine aquaintance
A tension electric sparked in the morning air,
And the proud beasts nostrils closed and flared.
Old Logan’s son stood by and smiled
as Thomas climbed the gate and
stumbled eager up the rise…
He throws his arms around the beast
Who leans into his young beating heart
And snorts his greeting into his palm.
Pleased to see his fine young friend…
Until Thomas wants to bring him down into the shadow
Down from his sunny, shining hill.
Thomas persisted, he resisted,
Showing all his will.
It’s an old, old game
To go out and tame
Clip clop, the same as what
the father’s father’s father did.
Father to son, to son, to son, to hold the rein,
Like blood in vein,
In sun and rain.
It’s an old, old game.
When lifestyles change, the purpose gone,
The relationship still lingers on
A love of horse.
Taking the reins.
Old wisdoms passed on
Pride in knowledge of the beast.
Horse-beats. Hoove prints.
Mystic and mundane.
Whispers. Horse power.
Gallop. Canter. Trot.
Feeling the true strength of friendship
Taming the wild, Seeking its calm.
Father to son.
A rightful pride is learned.
Wet breath and dusty mane.
Stamp and crunch.
Soft mutterings of velvet lips.
Coarse hair and thick matt coat.
Huge hooves. Thick horney pads.
The sky etched figure of power and natural freedom
The surge of muscle and sinew
Such grace and urgency.
The cantering image of power and natural freedom.
The shiver shake shudder and impatient toss,
Daring and challenging.
Ride me. Ride me. Teach me. Use me.
The promising image of power and natural freedom.
Teach me and I will teach you.
The patience and karma
Of true power and natural freedom.
There are always ways to talk to a horse.
Say them with your soul.
Manouver with suggestion
Draw then into the game
Otherwose they’ll never let you tame
Their mighty spirit.
There are always ways to talk to a horse.
Their teaching is sublime.
Reach in and find your ancient calm
And your respect is mine.
“Recently I’ve had huge waves of realization as to why I am still up here, in Argyll. It’s as if here, in the cottage with my boyfriend, I’m beginning to be able to trust and really relax into myself. Enjoy the possibilities within me, visualize creative futures and see that they are all possible from here. Often I feel tense and nervous still, but then realize I do not have to!
There is no ettiquette to abid to, no questions of dependance, no gratefulness to show, no pressure to ‘display’, ‘behave’ or ‘be ‘normal”….I do not even have to employ the kind of defense system necessary while on the road or in the city.
Through this I am learning a humility, allowing myself to become smaller, softer. It feels good, a balance being born. The only danger is completely forgetting how to protect myslef, or recognizing what shit that is in the first place and keeping myself in the ‘outback’, in ease and a relaxed mental space, with no challenge, until I die!
Its amasing how things work out. His landlady has contacted him suggesting that he rent out her room. I cannot imagine a more nourishing place than this to be and he has suggested that I move in with him. I’d be paying rent and have my own space. We both need/feel good for a bit of genuine company and support. It is almost too good to be true!
I can cycle about here and get fit. I can complete the jobs at the farm by arranging days to come over and work therefore not appearing ungrateful.
I’d like to get a camera to take some natural shots…the light on a tree, the mists in the early morning. I’d also like to begin collecting natural materials to sell at a market stall in the city. I can easily get a van down south and bring it up here to do up….for further adventures.
Although I miss India and my friends down south I am essentially happy here and believe it is too good an opurtunity to miss. I hope that folk will come up and visit sometimes. In reality also there is nothing stopping me making the effort, on this tiny island!, of going down to visit them also.
This is the most stable, non-pressured, open space that has ‘happened’ for me….provided that he and I continue to get on!
If feelings of loosing touch become too strong, I only have to go…..Relax.”
(2017– short sections, copied from a longer piece, regarding a family journey to my great aunt’s funeral in Bamburgh, Northumberland)
“Eight hours in the back of the family wagon today….to remember my dear great aunt…who died last week, naturally and not before her time.
We are a bizarre bunch. I feel so disconnected somehow.
Greeted in Bamburgh by the searing, bitter wind and big skies of Northumberland.
…awkard in high heels and billowing skirt, ‘going to seed’ body and hair, make-up less, due to my natural beliefs, and my nose ring removed as a concession to the occasion. Suddenly dirty nails and peeling nail varnish….
….our family, en masse, has an embarressing habit of taking over, entire, public spaces. We seem to roar our appreciation, or distaste, at immeidiate surroundings, explore them, arrange ourselves over a vast area and relax as if they are our front room. The old guy, trying to have a quiet pint, in the corner, will definately have something to say when he gets home!….
..I swallowed my giant yorkshire pudding, peas and chips, along with any misconceptions, I’d ever had, that I’d ever fit in, comfortably, in their eccentric world. In some ways I compliment it beautifully….but the secure fantasy of it all unsettles me.
Back into the bitter air. Better.
The church stood, solid and square between blackened bent trees…
She had chosen three, intriquing and obscure hymns that no-one sung very well. I did cry, but more for the fragility of human lives and the lack of any true, spiritual meaning, than out of greif.
She had represented freedom to me…a blunt directness in speech….a filthy sense of humour….a terrific courage….and revelry in spinsterdom.
The skies outside the church windows turned moody and wild, threatening snow. This was the Northumberland she loved. I longed to go. To escape to the dunes, perhaps with a miniture malt and some tabacco, and remember her there instead. Although she had been a devout Christian and her faith was a big part of her strength, my great aunt was most herself on those desolate beaches.
I took communion and felt like a sinner. I suffered and felt guilty under the eyes of the Lord and left the church, back into the suffocating back of the car and on to the grave, grave yard.
Wondering about people. How far beyond our grasp the understanding really is of these worlds within worlds, the living and dying. How pathetic our attempts to rationalize it all….
…collected the dog who smelt of biscuits and someone elses house, then back to ‘home’, Braevallich, with all of it’s histories.
I dreamt of a new life with D. while that little voice , in the back of my brain, kept repeating, “Nah, fuck it all.” to romance.”
(2017 – I owned a pack of Medicine Cards for years and used them regularly before they were shed, mysteriously, in travelling.
I have often considered creating/producing my own version, using the Celtic traditions and Scotland’s wildlife, more recently.
It has been quite a powerful experience transcribing this diary entry from 1996 as it could not describe more perfectly where I feel I am NOW! Seven year cycles perhaps!!
It has been a long, hard, slog of serious self-transformation this last decade for me. From depression through to, what I can only describe as, some form of contentment/enlightenment! I look back on this reading wishing I had, really, understood the truth/power in these words back then….so many mistakes could have been avoided.
There is one notable sychronicity here too…in that my current work is very involved in all things ‘antelope’/’deer’, ( I was actually challenged by a real roe deer in the woods recently, sustaining a reasonable scar!) which I had forgotten represents ‘knowing oneself’. Encouraging. Another strong realization was that none of my ‘healing’ and ‘coming to self’, my growing confidence as an artist, would have been possible without the internet. I was ready back then. It just hadn’t been invented.
The footnote made me smile. The seeing of cycles, but still being, youthfully, obsessed with appearance! )
Spiritual nature and abilities.
The dance of the medicine that solves the riddle of duality. Love charms. Joining people and instinctive ability to seek beauty. Helping others to ‘taste’ life. Dies quickly if caged or imprisoned. The magik of living.
New growth. New beginnings in relation to environment. True feelings.
Respect. ‘Walk your talk’ ‘Respect yourself’. Attraction. Learning to handle energy flows. Body language. Walk tall. Be proud.
Dream within the dream. Purpose in life. Life mission.
‘Tell the world’ with joy and pride. Enjoyment of sharing. Balance between getting things done and doing it yourself. Teacher of children, including warnings. Feel good about your journey. You should. Encouragment.
Inner wisdom. Use this to locate it – possibly inthe subconscious. Breaking of self deception.
Astute observation of self-transformation. Listen to the life around and heed your inner self.
Power sheild of the self. The Knowing of oneself.
To do. Doing. Sacrifice. Love of Life. Honour the gifts of nature. Strength of mind and heart. Ability for quick decisive action. ‘The time is now. The power is you.’
(scribbled at the bottom of the page)
mmmm….I am getting fatter again. How can it be? The cyclic motion of matter over the years!?
My big fear is that through this, gnostic, self-isolation I will loose the freinds I love so much.
As my attitude changes.
Fear that they will find me boring, ‘unattractive’ when I see them next….or that they will simply forget me.
Fear of becoming my mother…..in that she stands alone telling the rest of the world they are mad.
Fear of loosing the strength to keep moving on….in order to maintain my unique learned stability.
‘….cliff-hanging village, like Eredine? Wooden, roofless houses. A strange hotel. Rows of wooden, cell-style rooms. Rickety van, full of children. Horrific time on forestry track juction, forestry trucks at high speed. No brakes. Rolling backwards downhill. Survived just. ‘Pakistan’ mixed with Scotland.
‘….wake up in art college. Choosing to stay outside normal accomodation. Buildings were mad. Beautiful benders made out of junk. Old freind was there, joining me on the ‘outside’. He had a beautiful carpet and an incredible crystal sculpture in his bag. Anxiety over him. More extraordinary rooms…’
‘…two enormously fat women battling in a swimming pool…..’
‘…..blood red gallery. Pictures of models stabbed and wounded. Huge prints. Very , very high roof. A spooky artist, elderly, in a suit, sitting on the floor in knee length socks while he introduced the work….’
‘…wedding seen through windows. Rugby shirts and no.1 haircuts. Greek style line dancing. Bride and groom at a huge wooden table. Some strange ritual (rather like a Japanese business presentation!) but the exchange of, partaking of, cornflakes!!! Couteous sort of meeting. “Come and see the balcony!” Bizarre make-up is normal.Older people all…..’
The inspiration crawled away and hid.
I found it for a while today,
In a small snuff box, when I lifted the lid.
I don’t know where it’s flown to now.
It’s done it again, just disappeared!
No point in believing that’s the end that I feared.
For some other day, as long as there are blank pages in my book,
I’ll find it again
When I am having a look.