poetrydiary

Coastal sand, strangely, bearing seeds
and brought by those who came to power,
years ago, this town, from here
(I’m sure they knew exactly why.)

Coastal sand remains, today;
the only sign, except a board,
behind Tesco, ‘on the site of a former power station,
its seed bank creating a unique habitat,’
by the river and far from the sea,
‘for solitary wasps,’ it says (and poets).

I bet they did not plan for that.

Tasting stone, again, as I chase
your white light tempting, teasing
my waves. I yearn against my mass
for air; long for release even
as I swell and fill each crevasse,
moisten each cave, stir life into fish,
drive cracks into rocks, catch crabs, toss
each bone and moment, fight against
my fate and task and life here on
this earth, without you my moon, my
love, my emptiness, my wholeness;
my loss and my joy. Stolen.
I destroy, and give life, and destroy
again, to return, return, return
beaten and condemned, to tasting
stone, shaping stone, making stone smooth
like you, and round, and white, my moon,
my moon – I swoon, make moons, not you.
Not you. My creatures call: ‘not you’.
Listen!
Break me, break into me, break me
come down, at last,
and swim.

—————–

Stimulated by We write poems‘ prompt this week (The other side of nature) – not something I’ve done for a while. I’m thinking of the way tides are the seas’ response to the moon’s gravity, and a vague idea of the moon having originally been formed by somehow being broken out of the earth, with the holes left behind filled, now, by the ocean – wanting a return to the time before they parted.

Focused fur. Always moving, looking
for something new, nervously curious
dark eyes sparkling, while your nose seeks.

Taking love graciously, soft to our touch
but never owned, always moving, looking
for something beyond. Sunflowers?

Or poetry? You have no time for
speaking (or listening, or yearning)
solitary creature, so warm to our touch.

Loving for beginners, you don’t ask
for much. Some water and dry straw,
a peanut a day, space to run.

In return, focused fur, warm and
responsive, just more than a toy: loving
for beginners, my daughter and I.

————–

This is a poem for my daughter’s hamster, Isa. Isa is our fourth hamster and by far the most intelligent and lively and easiest to relate to. I’m not sure how I know this, or how hamsters have characters, but if they could speak and I had to choose one to take out for a drink, it would be Isa (although she’s getting on now, like me).