In the narrow space
between the burning heat of the depths and the cold fires of space
laughter is the bravest way to be.
Tag: poetry
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Laughter fits in-between
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Archetypes
Fireworks over the lake –
fairytale magic at bargain prices,
illusion underlying reality.
They make skies darker and waters – deeper.
They raise archetypes from the depth, to loom in the dark.
Do they frighten or comfort?
Or both?
You see with your mind,
you hear with your mind,
you feel with your mind.
What is more real – the ephemeral lights or the everlasting fears,
passed from generation to generation in blood and stories?
There is no way to tell,
but there is a choice. -
The girl and the sea
The world you know is inside your head.
By definition.
Snug and warm inside.
Your room, your toys, your books, your lamp –
as always lit with dim and cozy light,
the outside reflected and repeated,
a melody with no discordant notes
to irritate or frighten.
Rhythm of life.
And then, there is the sea.
It’s just as rhythmic,
but outside.
Emphatically foreign,
indifferent, ineffable, intruding –
intriguing and frightening.
It’s here.
Its presence undeniable,
its noise –
persistent, if not loud.
It is here.
You have a choice:
retreat or take a dive? -
Monsters under-lit
One of the main tasks of childhood is to learn how to deal with monsters.
This is why dinosaurs are so fascinating for children –
they are monsters, concrete and palpable.
There is nothing human about them,
they kill with teeth and claws, not words, greed and cowardice.
They are easy, training monsters,
a menace you can understand, a threat without ambivalence.
What do you do if you meet a monster?
Do you run?
Do you fight?
Do you train to be stronger than them?
Do you learn to be smarter?
After going to the Museum of Natural History
and learning about T-Rex
you couldn’t stop laughing:
running around with your arms pressed into your sides,
waving your hands feebly at chest-level,
saying, ‘itty-bitty hands!’
I think you chose the best option.
I think you will be all right. -
An observation
White feathers litter the ground
under the castle wall,
torn out by doves
fighting for nesting sites. -
Walls
Walls are designed to divide space.
Here from there.
Inside from out.
Safe and familiar
from dangerous and unpredictable.
Me from you.
I am walking up the winding staircase
in an old castle.
Castle walls are solid.
Really solid.
There is nothing metaphorical about them.
They are rocks and bricks and mortar,
built up over the centuries,
fortified.
These walls are very definite
about keeping things out.
They make me feel contained:
warm, wooly-headed and slightly dizzy;
like a sick bed –
I am not at my best, but there is no need to be.
The space of illness is small and manageable:
eat, drink, sleep, stay alive…
There is a light at the top of the staircase,
it leads out onto the battlements.
I am tired of climbing.
The light at the top is too bright,
the space – too large,
the height – too vertiginous
and I am already dizzy…
I think I will sit here,
rest
and consider my options,
half way between the dungeon and the battlements,
well within the walls.
