NAPoWriMo #7 - Sea

The river finds a path to the sea
Regardless of the turn of clouds
or the distance of the shore.

NaPoWriMo #5: In Search of the Cartographer

We attempt to locate the cartographer,
he holds the map to his own
co-ordinates, leave no trace
through the lake.

Bethan says she saw him at a call of crows,
community can not decide how to write this
and so he remains lost.

I heard the sound of him
running past a stream
that wasn't there when the maps were drawn,
and so he remains lost.

We arrange to meet him by the oldest house
but he cut her down to count he rings,
and so he remains lost.

The cartographer hold the map to his own co-ordinates
ripped from the beat of the sun on the pavement,
the horizon line folded into his satchel,
and so we remain lost.

NaPoWriMo #3: Pray, come.

Woman, come by the river to pray.
Pull Damp rag
Crimson tide
from your teething jaw/raw
and bathe.

Feel the water
raise/rise
it is purer after you pray.

Hand to knee
feel the rip of earth
clot/clod at the roots
of weeds and push/pull.

The river will erode/corrode
the limitations of its banks
and return to the sea.

The illusion/stability of land will cease
built upon chalk/drawn
against dark cavern face
illuminated only by lamplight/moonnight.

The River cuts down the façade of rock
to view its self-portrait
.
The Rock as a lover
breaks the confines of its frame to accommodate
harmony with the breeze.

Women, come by the river to pray.
See the true reflection of sisters in the time/sand
loosen the noose tension/lead weight beneath your chin
and pray.

NaPoWriMo: Extract from 'Small Hands'

(...) In the back bedroom is a box

China cracked and glued back together,

Where my milk teeth sour.

I held them in small hands,

quickly too big

and replaced the weight of them

with Fairytales.

I’d never tell you

Just pull on loose teeth

And find magic in the copper of blood

The barbed wire edge 

We found you

In the back bedroom

Plaiting the hair of Barbie dolls

When mine was knot and hairspray backcomb

Tucking the whisper of

Childhood into bed at tea time

As the door slammed behind me 

Guilt rose in a heartburn chest

Where the dance floor turned back to kitchen tiles

You said that ironing

Was a way of remembering

And smile when you found opals in my mouth that I’d mistaken for teeth.

~ Natasha Borton

Her Eyes...

Do you know how to fall in love with the soul of her?

It

I have recently discovered a lot of old writing from High School, I'm actually a bit impressed with 12 

year old me. 

The first 'real' poem I wrote, from 2004

                     It

It walked through  the door,

It walked on the grass.

It looked to the floor,

It looked through glass.

But through the glass what did it see,

A girl of pure simplicity.

For, in the chair,

Dressed in pure white.

She seemed only dead,

An angel of the night.

With her red cherry lips,

She seemed to live to excite.

And as it focused on the girl,

And as it eyes streamed.

The girl soon awoke,

The girl of its dreams.

As she looked out the window,

What did she see.

A painting of mist,

Stretching from you to me.

From the window came cold of ice and of snow,

But from the house came her angel like glow.

2004

Review: The Cartographer Tries to Map a Way to Zion by Kei Miller

This was another random pick up from Wrexham Library (a wonderful place in a town that really needs it - I can't speak highly enough of this place).  The title struck me first, The Cartographer Tries to Map a Way to Zion, initially we are stuck with this battle between the physical and the mythical and so we go into no mans land to watch each sides interaction. In my work at the moment I'm trying to map both a people and a place that no longer exist in the same forms; whilst tying their Welsh language and it's clash with the development of the English language around them. So this collection is speaking to me on many levels at the moment. 

       The poems jump of the page with their use of language, the layout of the poems coupled with the rhythm of the language opens the voice within your mind; allowing you to hear the battle between them. Interestingly, Miller has a wealth of experience in Slam Poetry, I wonder if the combat between the two speakers is a natural rhythm for him to write in.

    The blend of language is beautiful. On the one side we have the Cartographer who is trying to anchor himself and his location, pin his own language onto this land,  he says 'my job / is not to loose myself... My job / is to untangle the tangled', a wrench apart of physical place. If we think about our own placement in the world and how tangled that is to our emotional response, our memories, this is a very sad image indeed.  This is combated with the rastaman's mixture of Rastaradianism and patois, drawing the reader into his colloquialisms as he responds 'draw me a map of what you see / then I will draw...  Guess me whose map will tell the larger truth?'. 

    The battle between what is physically there, and what a place actually represents is outlined clearly in the series of poems that begin Place Name. particularly Flog Man where 'Blood did sprinkle the ground like anointing' - as a poet I find it difficult to allow myself to admit that there are many things, places, paths even people that can not be described accurately by any use of language, things that 'are' cease to be graspable, and that is their beauty. Possibly by describing the world around them we can outline their shadow; but they will never flesh out. This is the debate that the Cartographer and Rastaman find themselves entwined in. 

      Miller's use of his heritage is captivating. Knowing nothing of Jamaican literature or much of its culture I was hesitant, but Miller guides us through. At the beginning I felt myself clutching to the Cartographers poems, finding within them debates that I contemplate daily. Within the Rastaman's narrative however, is a lilting acceptance of things that come and go, an acceptance of not knowing and not having to show others evidence of its existence. 

      The rastaman leaves us gently,  he 'Bids you, Trod Holy / To I-ly I-ly I-ly'

     

Review: Mandeville by Matthew Francis

After having picked this collection up on a whim at my local library my first port of call was to research a bit on Mandeville; in order to understand the poets source material, the linguistic differences, the subtle nuances of change between Mandeville's original and Francis' reincarnation.
    What i found fascinating was the aura of mystery that surrounds John Mandeville and his travels, an excellent jumping board for any creative to explore. Did John Mandeville really travel to these exotic and completely unfamiliar destinations? Are his accounts anywhere near accurate? Questions that have no necessary answer but that leave space for both the poet and the reader to jump into.

In Francis' collection there are lots of avenues. The imagery is often luxurious, at time's sufocatingly rich such as in Of Circumnavigation where the reader is traded between lands along with 'wool for spices, grey sea for blue, our brass for gold', to the point where the reader becomes almost travel blind with description.
    There is very little subtly about each poem, the over arching journey is at best unessential. Instead I would look towards each poem as a case study, the arch being held in John Mandeville's own writing, this taking one fantastic element of each stage of his journey and unfolding it until it becomes something other than what it was, baring a tenuous likeness.
  The collection is an intoxicating synaesthesic blend of 'cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg..culminating in a virgin sulphur.'. I've read many poetry collection that take the reader on a physical tour, but this is another experience that is tangibly liked to the earth in a way that conjurs the fantastical from familiarity. Francis' description of the dead sea uses familiar images and locations but uses anthropamorphism to conjur the spirit of the sea, as it has ' swallowed its tears and become parched by the salt'.  - so beautiful!
    The relationship between Francis and these objects is one of almost ownership, a claiming of their relation to other things, there is little delicacy, little right to their existence without his observing them. There is something harsh about the poem that is 'now tarnished ' by five hundred years of sandstorms' - of poets that alter colour.