Storm Wind

Storm

Sybil Andrews (1935)

Wrenching wind and black rain
fracture my sleep.
I wait for silence,
afraid of the chaotic darkness.

Above the storm roar a bird sings
thin cascades, bright notes
piercing the wind wall.

How does a bird sing jubilant
into the ferocity?
What obedience brings forth
these fearless carols?

I am absorbed by the endless night
but the bird sings on,
impatient for dawn.

Alice Christie
23.xii.13

the leaves of the trees

The leaves of the trees in the park
have fallen. The green of them is gone.
All that joyful spring, exuberant summer,
glowing autumn, is blown in scurried eddies,
caught against railings, trodden underfoot.
Discarded, grey-yellow orange-brown drifts,
crushed remnants of remembered sunlight.
There is a new silence, unfamiliar absence,
and there is no knowing the end of it.

Alice Christie
7 xii 13

The Making of a Poem

First you must take the slovenly heap of words and throw them into a pile in the corner. Underneath you will find a structure which is supposed to support the words in some form of order. Do not be tempted to stop there - you will discover it wobbles as soon as you touch it. Dismantle the structure and put the pieces to one side. You will be left with a space and this is the true beginning. When you understand the size and shape of the space you can consider the options for filling it. There will only be one correct choice but it is likely that you will spend a great deal of time trying various unsatisfactory solutions before the correct choice becomes obvious. Gradually the structure will be built again, each strut levelled and every joint tested. When you are sure that the structure is solid you can begin laying the words within it. Each word must be of the finest quality, smoothed, polished and placed with precision. The words must fit easily within the structure and the sequence must be impeccable, flowing from one word to the next without interruption. When you are satisfied that the words have been carefully placed on a solid structure that is perfect for the space you can stand back and look at the whole. It is likely that you will see that the structure is ugly and have to dismantle everything but you may be fortunate and only have to remove unnecessary words which had seemed quite perfect, quite essential. It will hurt but you must do these things for peace of mind. Eventually the poem is there in front of you. And you think...why go through all that fuss for such a little thing...a poem which is imperfect and insignificant and only says a tiny part of what you want to say. And your heart aches. But you know that even if you manage only that fragment of what you want to say it is worth the effort.

benediction

The stone in my pocket is
white sun on snow,
the line where the trees are not,
thyme green air,
a dog barking, abruptly.

The stone in my pocket is
river water slipping over tree root,
under trail of almond blossom,
around grey fish fins,
through melted moonlight.

The stone in my pocket is
shudder of storm waves,
gulls bending against black rain,
sea detritus thrown high,
clattering crush of rock fall.

The stone in my pocket is
sea splash on wet sand,
fat buttons of pink thrift,
erratic cloud shadows,
coiled shells, breadcrumbs.

The stone in my hand is
white sun cold, river smooth
heavy as storm sea,
warm as laughter
lingering on a salt wind.

Alice Christie
29 xi 2013

memory of light

gold between glass and sky,
the ginkgo tree stands sentinel,
a hammered brightness,
spear-straight, leaves linked,
witness from an old world.

autumn marches irresistible.
full burnished armour falls
exposing the frail nakedness,
bravery of barbed branches
lacerating grey winter skies.

curls of green-spring leaf
will reward dark courage,
soft tendrils of a new world;
but now the ginkgo tree stands,
gold between heart and sky.

Alice Christie (17 xi 12)

a play of shine

My garden blazes shades of amber
in this autumn of light

west sun diamond bright
on the spider net

leaves pricked half-way
between sky and earth glow gold

a ruby red apple
burning russet flames.

These are my heart-stones,
held safe for winter,

a curation of light,
a play of shine.

Alice Christie
24 ix 13

a time of roses

When you ask about my hours, my days,
I shall say they were filled with roses,

that I was adrift in heady musk,
marshmallow petals melting sweet,

pearl white and shell pink light
clinging to my fingertips,

but of thorns that pierce, I shall not tell,
I do not think you want to know.

Alice Christie
1 vii 2013

A poetry reading in Acton

At the launch of 'Soil' by Tim Cresswell

Facing each other, the poets are embedded, sombre,
oblivious to crash and clatter of kitchen and bar.
The publisher, sole witness to the agonies of creation,
huddles behind a pile of books, leaking words.

The poets declaim in honour of the auspicious day,
earnest, incomprehensible, mischievous by turn,
while friends press against walls or lounge awkwardly,
uncertain about the rules on laughter. Or applause.

The poet they have come to hear opens his new book,
releasing from white pages the screech of parakeets,
red rowan berries, a cascade of pubs, old man Andy,
the glitter of an urban fox and a rabbit that swings.

After applause and congratulations, the friends leave,
meeting wet Acton streets for the first time,
but the poets remain, drinking shots at the bar,
a baptism of words that hang in the air, alive.

Alice Christie

*****

Many congratulations to Professor Tim Cresswell on the launch of his debut collection of poems, 'Soil' published by Penned in the Margins. It has been a  privilege to hear about the process of preparing the book over the past months and to be present at the launch. The collection has already had wonderful reviews from Jo Shapcott and Philip Gross who believe that Tim will be an important new voice in poetry.

It is a remarkable collection of poems, the urban landscape defined with compassion and affection. I love the wit, playful placement of words on the page, pitch perfect phrases and glimpses of wildness in the gaps between houses. My favourite poem - is such a thing permitted? - is 'On entering the home of the bourgeois intelligentsia for the first time'. Let's just say it sounded familiar and leave it at that.

Good luck to Tim and his family as they relocate to Boston this summer - the literary salons of Boston are in for a real treat.

[photo courtesy of Penned in the Margins]

Paseo de los Tristes, Granada

(1)
Look away from the wall
to blue sky above mountains
and the olive tree on the hillside
where a bird sings carelessly.

(2)
Look back at the wall
where the bullet holes remain,
spattered through plaster,
not higher than the head
of a kneeling man,
testament to war.

(3)
Look away from the wall
at the end of the road
to the tree on the hill.
And the bird still sings.

Alice Christie
13 ii 13

*****

The Cementerio de San José is situated on the hill above the Alhambra at the end of the Paseo de los Tristes. It is an impressive place full of monuments and statuary appropriate for a large and wealthy city.

Walk outside and follow the edge of the cemetery around to the right and you will come to a memorial which commemorates victims of the Franco regime who were shot by firing squads against the wall. 3,978 executions were recorded here between 1936 and 1956 and you can still see the bullet holes in the plaster. Places like this are to be found all over Spain but are only just being acknowledged.

If you visit the Alhambra I recommend that you find the time to walk up to the Cemetery and see this place of profound grief.

Onion Soup

Tonight we will have onion soup,

I will slip off the papery skin,
so neat and tight-clinging,
polished barrier against the wind
and discard the outer most
darkened shell, coarse-veined green.
Inside layer upon layer,
slippery levels held together
by the curve and shine of it.
Each revealed and sliced away,
oozing bright light pearls
as the knotted root-anchors are severed.
I am skilled at this dissection,
the fragments melt into each other
until there is no way of knowing
which is the bitter oil
springing tears from secret places
and which is the sweet note
from the innermost heart.

*****

Alice Christie (viii . 2012)

manuscript

When I write for myself
I write quickly with a very sharp pencil.
I love the faint scratching sound
and the feel of the graphite
sliding across the paper.

I write in cheap reporters notebooks
and poems are interleaved
with lists of chores and shopping.

This photograph was taken
immediately after I had finished writing
but it seemed too private, too personal, to post.

Perhaps that is because it records the moment
when words leap the gap
between my head and the world.

By the time they reach the screen
they belong to you, the reader,
but until then, as gray shapes on gray lines,
they still belong to me, the writer.

*****

This post is for Jackie
who suggested writing about writing

and for Bobby
whose first email arrived out of the blue a year ago.

Their friendship,and your friendship,
which has brought me so many smiles

and so much encouragement,
has been made possible
by the magic of the inkless internet.

I am profoundly grateful.

afterword

when the light switches on unexpectedly
there is a moment of shock
but if you have sat in the dark for a while
there is also relief

you know that nothing will ever look the same again
and you sit there trying to make sense of it

and then you reach out
to the new world

*****

Thank you for your patience this week and for all the encouraging emails. Normal service resumes tomorrow.

words_4

snow at Easter

bring me a breath of sea air
bring me a grain of desert sand

bring me stones from a mountain top
bring me moss from a valley floor

bring me volcanic dust
bring me river flow

he smiled at her
and turned to go

I have brought you Easter snow

words_3

the road chose me

lonely, the road that will set me free,
I am afraid but cannot turn back;
it was not my choice, the road chose me.

uncharted, the way not clear to see,
uphill and stony, a broken track,
lonely, the road that can set me free.

fluttering hands, pale heart, mind empty,
caught unprepared, scant time to pack
(it was not my choice, the road chose me)

a feather, a song, a green oak tree;
three things I need when the moon is black.
lonely, the road that must set me free.

incomprehensible destiny,
to seek a world glimpsed through a crack;
it was not my choice, the road chose me.

this, the first footfall of a journey
into shadowed light...no looking back.
lonely, the road that has set me free,
it was not my choice, the road chose me.

words_2

over the hills and far away

I thought that I would write novels
and the words would march in disciplined ranks:
first the right flank, and then the left,
now the grand set piece.
But I am no Wellington
and my words are too turbulent, too unruly.

I tried to tame them in small groups,
tempting them with elegant plots and plans,
but they turned their backs on me, mutinous.
The stories neglected, shrivelled,
and I lost heart.

Unbidden, the words escaped
into a disciplined world. I was strict and
to my surprise, the words snapped to attention
and offered their services.
They described their skills:
forward observation
covert surveillance
covering fire
sniper.

I tried to dissuade them:
"It is a hard choice that you have made...
there will be no glory, no drums, no medals.
You will go out into unexplored lands
and into the homes of the unknowing.
Sometimes it will be unbearably long
before you return. You will be misunderstood
and taken hostage. Sometimes you will fail.
There is no armour."

They laughed at me, those rebel words.

And still I fretted:
"You must be polished.
You need more training.
You must stand up straight.
You need a map.
You must show respect."

They could wait no longer.
Turning their faces,
they set off along the stony road
and took me with them.

words_1

My Existential Poem About Snow

I sat in silence,
sharpened my pencil
and wrote on the straight gray lines.
The words lay flat and lazy from their long sleep
but I made them sit up and breathe
and then I moved them around
until, disorientated, they began to obey me,
remembering the tricks that once they knew.
And when I felt sure that the words would behave
I sent them, crocodile fashion,
to a man who knows about such things.
As I pressed the button
my heart flipped with anxious love
because they were only little, these words,
and they might forget how to tumble and turn
before this man from the world of artistes.
And I wished that I had left them bumping against each other
among the gray lines of the white page
where their laughter would not disturb anyone.
But the words danced and sang
with obedient, innocent clumsiness
and he wrote back with a smile.

And for that brief moment I thought myself
a choreographer, a conductor,
a poet.

foreword

The next four posts were written over the Easter weekend.
They are intended to be read as a sequence
and so I have turned the comments off
for the individual posts.

I hope that you don't mind...
I know that part of the fun of reading blogs
is the opportunity to respond immediately
but in this case it takes four posts
to tell the story.

There will be a postscript on Friday if you wish to comment or you can email me if you can't wait that long.