Summer and winter

Winter feels coldest
When everyone else is
Enjoying summer.

They bask, relaxed on
life’s green lawns, full of summer.
Joy warming their bones.

Blanketed, I shrink.
Sipping comforting hot tea
Waiting for the sun.

This is partly a reflection on what it’s like to keep being prompted to write poems about summer in the southern hemisphere’s winter. It’s also partly a reflection on how other people’s happiness looks when we’re going through more difficult times. Each verse is a senryu/haiku, and while they work together I’ve written them so they can also stand alone.

(I wrote another set of haiku contrasting summer and winter quite some time ago – in rather a different mood!)

Vision

You stare with visionary wonder at a sudden flash of insight
>>And a new light of knowledge starts to glitter in your eyes
>>Doorway to the quest that beckons you towards a mystic prize.
Your eyes are newly gifted with a special, higher sight,
>>Which can never be deceived by humans’ incessant lies.
From you their masks cannot conceal their weaknesses or fright
For in their auras their stories are written in patterns of rainbow light,
>YAnd you are gifted to cure the world with the truth you realise!

But humility and healthy doubt were banished by your insight
>>And obsessive is the light that glitters in your eyes.
>>To be a healer, not to heal, is what you truly prize. 
The brightness of the vision has overwhelmed your sight,
>>With radiant temptation to believe these flattering lies.
Leaving you so cruelly trapped between pride, hope and fright,
That you lash out at any attempt to question the vision’s light.
> Oh, how much more hurt will you do, before you realise?

 

This poem responds to a prompt at sundayscribblings - to write a poem about vision. For me one of the interesting things about a really powerful vision is what you don’t see – the brighter the light you stare at, the less you can see anything else. (There’s an interesting discussion about the links between egotism and mysticism at Cafe Philos.) 

Those who know my blog well will already be familiar with the experiences that are behind my response to this prompt – I used to go out with someone who believed his energy reading gave him special insight into me. But what he saw was utterly dominated by his fear and projection… and so his “vision” was deeply destructive. 

I am not denying outright that people can have powerful and meaningful personal insights… that would be to commit the reverse error myself. But I think there is a very real danger that insights that are taken too seriously can blind us to other people’s insights, causing us to close off from the questioning that opens the mind. And so, even if the original vision had an element of truth, its effect, in the end, is to block our minds to the truth.

(Photo by jhhwild at flickr.)

Here is today’s news

Thank god for animal stories. While a
Kangaroo faces a competition enquiry, a
Giraffe leads a dash for freedom in Amsterdam,
And tigers select a new coach.
In politics, a TV chef loses the chicken vote,
Which inspires a turkey’s slow motion coup.
Closer to home, a kind crocodile birdman is to raise funds
To ensure a new partner is found by a golden eagle 
And that the whale meet ends with peace agenda.
Surprisingly, biometrics picks up the penguins.

This is a found text poem in response to a prompt at readwritepoem, based on newspaper headlines that I came across today that either genuinely or apparently have a connection to animals.

Words

Words burn inside me – words of anger
Bitter, twisted words of rage
I don’t want to utter them
For there’s enough hurt in the world
So they scatter

Words reach out from my heart – words of love
Sweet and tender and wry
I want to speak them strong and clear
But there’s no one to hear me
So they scatter

Words tempt me with art – words of beauty
Proud with elegantly flowing passion
But as I reach for their beauty
It seems to fade like the rainbow’s gold
So they scatter

Words weep in my eyes – words of grief
Poignant and mournful and weary
But why share my grief with a world
That already knows it too well
So they scatter.

Words beat at my lips and fingers – words that speak
Words that tell the human story
Yet somehow today is not their day
I hope one day to find a way to share them
So they scatter.

Coming back to life…

The good bit about bad times is that moment as you start to come out the other side. When you know that the efforts you made in the middle of the darkness have not been as futile as they seemed at the time. When energy returns and things start to become easier.

That feeling I described in a recent poem as “buoyant on dawn-blushed waves, at the end of the kraken night.”

Blog life-raft

Sometimes I really feel the strain of being alone in a foreign country, doing a difficult and unpopular job…. Right now it’s making me really tired and demoralised. There comes a time when you’re just too tired to do the things – like going out to tango classes – that cheer you up and bring you into contact with friendly human beings. I’m having one of those evenings now, and it’s not fun. One of the most difficult things is that there are long periods when I’ve done all I can and just need to wait for other people to do the things I’m waiting for – so I’m not only stressed but bored a lot of the time!

I know it won’t last – the weekend is nearly here, we’re making progress on the difficult issues that are wearing me down, so next week should be better, and in 10 days I’m going to be travelling to a neighbouring country – a change of scene and a bit of tourism will do me the world of good, I think!

In the meantime it feels like blogging, and reading other blogs, is the only thing that’s keeping me sane. I’m slightly worried I’m churning out too many posts and overwhelming my poor patient readers, but there’s always the delete button if it gets too much!

It does help hugely to be able to express what I’m going through, and, at the same time feel that I’m doing something productive and creative through writing poetry. And the friendly, supportive comments that people have been leaving are manna for a tired soul.

Tomorrow will be a better day…

Heartbreak tapas – prose version

When I write free verse, I often wonder how it would work as prose. Sometimes it’s interesting to experiment, so I took my poem “heartbreak tapas” and turned it into a story instead. It gains some things, but loses others – I’d be interested to know which people prefer:

Between us a blank expanse of table stretches out like a winter beach. A space where hands do not reach out to each other, but fidget alone.

The restaurant is loud and bright with other people’s chatter, but we are silent at first. Until a few weeks ago we could talk effortlessly for hours. Now when conversation begins it is hesitant. And without either of us seeming to want it that way, our discussion turns sour. He tells me I am being dishonest – I tell him he is putting me in an impossible double bind. We hurt each other as only lovers can – deliberately, vicariously and without intending to – all in a jumble of pain.

It’s almost a relief to be interrupted by the arrival of the staff, so politely neutral. (Later, he said how terrible he was feeling, believing that the waiters and maitre d’ were judging him, thinking of him as a bad person because I was crying. They didn’t realise that he wasn’t a bad person, that I was crying so dramatically because I was trying to embarrass and manipulate him.)

The waiters set out an embarassment of food which had somehow lost its ability to tempt us – our appetites were numbed by misery. We had ordered happily and hungrily – but now found our eyes had been bigger than our stomachs. Or rather, more than our hearts could bear. (He didn’t seem to see that I was trying not to make a public drama of our distress. Between distress and hormonal chaos I couldn’t stop myself crying, but when the waiters came I looked down and away, trying to hide my swollen eyes, appear normal and happy.)

Our mood drains the food of all its flavour. The patatas bravas aren’t particularly fiery. And as we argue, we neglect the dishes and they grow cold. A forgotten salad melts under the weight of its dressing, growing limp and grey. His fingers attack a prawn, ripping the fragile carapace from its tender flesh – then he winces and licks his fingers as the salt, chilli and lemon coating stung. As if the prawn was to blame for hurting him.

Conversation going nowhere. Words left unspoken. I try to reach out with my words, find a way to heal our differences, but he keeps throwing all the fault onto me, telling me my problems are unreal and caused only by my fears. No wonder the tears just keep streaming from my eyes. I just can’t find words that reach him.

We leave uneaten the feast which is laid before us in the present, as well as the feast of pleasures that we once hoped to enjoy in the future. Finally they realise that we will not be eating any more, and come to clear the table. Between us the tablecloth is stained and rumpled, scattered with the fragments of our argument. And salted with the tears that I had not been able to stop crying.

Did we want a dessert? God, no. By that time there was no more reason to wait – nothing left to say that could heal the chasm between us. Both of us were keen to leave the place where we had been locked so publically into a bitter, unwanted fight. He pays (as he always liked to). And we leave together, but a thousand miles apart.

Later in the car, my tears flow more freely, unconstrained by spectators. I think we are both appalled at what had become of our relationship, not knowing how to regain our earlier happiness or, indeed, if we would ever be able to. The fear that we will never be able to recover from this suddenly washes over me and I can’t help sobbing in a wild storm of tears. Outside my flat, I turn to him, with one quick hug – and a kiss on the cheek whose brevity has nothing to do with the passion and pain that inspired it.

“Be well, my love, until we can bear to meet again.” I say, and flee to the refuge of my bedroom.

There in private, in the weeks and months to come, I will cry and sob and howl and curl into balls as I come to terms with the agonizing truth that we will not meet again. Far more dramatic, in private, than the weeping in the restaurant which he described as “major drama”. Which he claimed had traumatised him to an extent that justified refusing to speak to me.

I wonder if he will ever find himself wondering why he reacted so strongly. Why my crying in public was so much more of a betrayal than his previous girlfriend’s unfaithfulness that he could be friends with her, but not bear to speak to me. I think I’ve finally worked out why…. but I’m not sure he ever will.

Truth and fear

(A wordle cloud based on the top 100 words in this post)

I realise that I’ve been writing a lot of posts that in some way relate to the truth – to the struggle to see what is true rather than what we wish to be true, and to be honest with ourselves and with others. I thought it might be a good idea to explore what I feel about truth.

I am in the slightly odd position of being deeply committed to an end goal of personal and spiritual growth (tolerance, honesty, compassion, freedom from fear etc) that is similar in some ways to that which is praised by religions. But at the same time I find the supernaturalism of religious and new-age beliefs fundamentally alien, and their approach to key issues like truth and fear unhelpful at best. Which doesn’t leave me much in the way of reliable guidance for the personal growth that I am seeking. Or indeed any help with defining what exactly I aspire to.

But let me try anyway. One of the things I am seeking is a resilience in the face of the problems that life throws at me – not a permanent happiness, but an emotional buoyancy. A state of mind that deals with problems and obstacles with the minimum of pain and misery. (This ideal owes quite a bit to the non-supernatural elements of buddhism)

Part of that process is about overcoming fear, which is often both unnecessary and counterproductive, and replacing it with a confidence and acceptance. And another part of it is about truth – seeing things the way they are. Because I’m curious to know the truth, and because I feel that honesty, integrity and openness are all valuable characteristics of the person I aspire to be. And because if our beliefs lead us to make false predictions about the world, we’re in danger of being unnecessarily prepared for the problems that arise, or of dealing with them inappropriately.

I also value truthfulness as a great tool for identifying and overcoming fear. From my experience, it’s almost always fear that makes me reluctant to see or speak the truth, so working to overcome that reluctance, or at least defy it, can help me to overcome that fear.

For me the work of moving away from fear and towards truth is a vital part of my life at present.

When I feel I am tempted to lie, I try to ask myself, what am I afraid of? When I feel afraid, I ask myself, why am I afraid, and what is the worst that can happen? And I try to decide whether the fear is of something real, or something imaginary. If, as mostly happens, it’s imaginary, I try to do exactly that thing that I’m afraid of. I don’t always manage it – it’s amazing how easily the mind dreams up excuses why it’s not necessary on this occasion! But step by step I am working on my fears.

And similarly I am trying to eradicate the prejudices, biases and fears that are the biggest obstacles to seeing what is real. I keep trying to remember that, although I believe that every one of my beliefs is correct, is is, in practice, certain that I believe something that is not true. Which doesn’t help me to identify which one it is, but it’s a useful principle. (It would be great to be able to swill out my brain with some sort of epistemological plaque detector, which would stain the areas of false belief so that they could be removed with energetic brushing). But it’s a useful way to counter the pride of having to be right about everything all the time.

It’s also helpful to remember all the different ways in which we can be wrong about things, and how difficult it is to really get at the truth. I’ve recently watched several youtube clips of Derren Brown (e.g. this one) which demonstrate very neatly how easy we can be to fool, and how misleading our own experiences can be. (I recently tried dowsing with a pendulum, and it’s quite shocking how strongly it appears that an invisible external force is involved, even when you know intellectually that it’s nothing of the kind!) It seems that humans work in such a way that we arrive at beliefs easily and quickly, and change our minds reluctantly and slowly – I can’t help feeling the reverse would be more useful!

One of the most inspiring websites I know is The World Question Center, which includes a collection of short accounts from 165 people about issues on which they changed their minds. Some of the changes are really significant, others smaller. But what I find inspiring is the courage with which they have been prepared to put their beliefs to the test and say “I was wrong”. And in reading their accounts, I don’t think the less of them for being wrong – I think more of them for admitting it. Which encourages me to try to feel the same about the scary idea of being wrong.

One of the most important ways in which I’ve changed my mind over recent years is this: what people believe really does matter, because it affects their behaviour, and a “live and let live” relativistic attitude to the beliefs of others is dangerous. It also cuts us off from putting our own views to the test – indeed, as I argued in a previous post, I think one of the attractions of relativism is that we don’t have to put our own views on the line and accept that we might be wrong.

For me discussion is a crucial way of putting our beliefs to the test and learning more about ourselves and others. But for a discussion to be real, all parties have to be willing to discover that they’re wrong. And that is a rare attitude for people to have, particularly on issues that matter to them. Pride and fear all come into play and bias our view of the evidence despite our best efforts. Which, yes, brings me back to fear – indeed it seems hard to separate them!

Moving towards truth and away from fear is a daily challenge, and some days I feel I’ve made no progress at all. It’s a hard slog. But it seems to me that it’s a fascinating and important journey.

Though, I could be wrong, I’m afraid….

Heartbreak tapas

Between us like a winter beach
lies a blank expanse of table
where hands do not reach out
to each other, but fidget alone.
The restaurant is full and bright
with the loudness
of other people’s chatter.

Unintended, our conversation turns sour
and we hurt each other as only lovers can
until interrupted by the politely neutral staff.
(He feels them judging him harshly, as if
he is responsible for my tears – for they
do not know
that I am only crying to make him feel bad.)

They set out an embarassment of food
to tempt appetites numbed by misery
Eyes bigger than our hearts.
(He does not see how I look down,
trying to stop my tears, and hide
my swollen eyes
from the waiters’ curious stares.)

Patatas bravas have lost their fire.
Salad, unnoticed, melts into limpness.
His fingers rip the carapace
from the tender flesh of a prawn
and lemon and chilli and salt
conspire cruelly
to sting his tearing fingers.

The feast is left uneaten
and words are left unspoken.
Now the rumpled cloth between us
is scattered and stained
with the fragments of our argument,
salted
with my hopeless tears.

No more reason to wait,
for there’s nothing left to say.
We leave together already separate.
Half a hug, a brief, one-sided kiss.
“Be well, my love,
until (if ever)
we can bear to meet again.”

 

My attitudes have changed strangely over recent months. I used to write poetry about my break-up because I needed to express the painful emotions. Now I find myself deliberately going back to those difficult times because I see what a rich and fertile vein of inspiration they are for writing poetry, and I want to make good use of these emotions and experiences while I still remember them. Quite a change! 

This poem is a pretty accurate description of the last evening I spent with my ex. Obviously it’s mostly viewed from my side, though the views in the first parenthesis are, according to later e-mail and IM exchanges, an accurate description of what my ex was thinking.

The photo is by Mistereff at flickr.

 

cool water

A small offer of refreshment for those of you enduring very hot weather…