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I have hung my lute on the wall
And tied it with a green ribbon
I don’t sing my songs any more;
my heart is so full that I can’t find the words.
Once my longing and loneliness poured out in song
But now my joy is so great that no sound can contain it.

Now rest here, my lute
And when the wind stirs your strings
I wonder, Is it the final echo of my songs
Or the prelude of more songs to come?

A paraphrase of a beautiful song from Schubert’s Die Schone Mullerin. And a rather appropriate description of why there have been so few posts over the last month or so…



The path to intimacy
Is not through caressing
But through the mind

Overcoming hesitancy
Through confessing,
Letting stories unwind

Daring to abandon secrecy
Optimistically guessing
The hearer will be kind

Will you love what you see
in the candid undressing
of the curves of my mind?

A tribute

For your willingness to open a window into your lives
The clumsy humour of your personal descriptions
Recieve my thanks

For the places you led me I had never seen before
The jokes and stories you shared with me
Receive my thanks

For the courage of your honest wanting
The chivalrous generosity of your gifts
Receive my thanks

For the open tribute of your intent desire
The sweetness of your vulnerability
Receive my thanks

For your valiant navigation of what it is to be men
For your sincere approach to what is female in me
Receive, again and again, my thanks

meaning is optional


Below a synaesthete’s numeric rainbow
Daffodils thunder along the roads
Petulant stoats skittle sharply
Past a tigress, smoothing on suncream
And drooling lackadaisically into the dust
I jettison my heart and its whimpering satellite
And my forgotten core hollers with the joy
of metamorphosis


I really find it difficult to write poems that don’t make sense. Indeed I do tend to make my points a bit too explicitly, rather than gracefully (poetically?) allusive. So I found this week’s readwritepoem prompt to experiment with nonsense verse quite challenging.

I also drew on their wordle cloud prompt, and tried to jam together some surreal images… at every step trying to resist my mind’s tendency to try and make some sense out of it all.  It was surprisingly hard!

I wouldn’t claim the result has any particular artistic merit, but I’ve posted it as evidence of my struggle…  and because in the process I’ve learnt that a lot of my satisfaction in poeming comes from finding a pattern and making things fit together!

Mad grin

click to see uncropped image

click to see uncropped image

I’m feeling a bit under pressure at work at present. I start a new job next week. Well, technically I start next week but over the last two days I’ve begun to be hit by some of the new challenges – all complex and requiring to be dealt with urgently from a point of very little knowledge. My predecessor is out of the country, my new boss is on leave, and her boss has only been in the job a fortnight. I have a good team but they’re under lots of pressure and I haven’t quite got straight what each of them does, so it makes it a bit tricky to work out who to ask. At least one of the challenges I’m dealing with happens less frequently than once in a blue moon in my organisation… and yet it comes along in my first week!

But the funny thing is that each time I come across a new problem to deal with, I find the crazy grin on my face has intensified by another degree. I find myself enjoying the absurdity of having to deal with all of this at once. Plus there’s a feeling that if I manage to do anything at all constructive in this situation, it’s surplus to reasonable expectations!

So the photo above taken a few months ago in a wildlife sanctuary, seems to capture the way I’m feeling just now – and possibly my facial expression too! I may wince a bit… but actually I do enjoy a challenge!

Spring in the air?

I’ve just signed up to contribute to the Spring Haiku 2009 blog, and have a haiku up there… do check out the site as something interesting seems to be stirring in the garden!

cold flame, dry potion

This is a follow-up to alchemy of flame:

coals of the firewalk red with paint
glass empty as the dry pool below the diving board 
labyrinth that’s just a paper set, for a play with no audience

all that remains, is an aching heart, its bravery wasted,
empty of the dreams that blazed
in its heartfelt fever