Saturday, August 18, 2007

The Occasional Poet

Seascape by David Eppstein. You can find more of his beautiful images here.

The Chief asked me last night at dinner (can that man ever cook) if it was possible to rename the Daily.

"No," I answered automatically, "Once you name them, that's it. Why? What did you think I should change it to?"

I was thinking he had imagined some new, exotic spiritual or literary title for the blog.

"Oh," he mused with a small smile, "I was thinking maybe The Occasional? Or the When I Feel Like It?"

Point taken.

Time spent with the Chief is always an enormous amount of fun, with conversation ambling from the spiritual to the anecdotal, whilst consuming slightly inadvisable amounts of his wine cellar. Last night was no exception to this rule, but with one additional and amazing addition - an eclectic tour through the Chief's music collection. He has thousands of songs - and movie clips, I mean, how do these things work? Obviously, pixies are involved somewhere in the electronic ether - from almost every genre. It was a great evening, from which I stumbled home in the early hours of this morning, slightly worse for wear and stinking of port.

What more can a girl ask for? Well, apart from the ability to post every day without exception, obviously.

Here's a little something I prepared earlier. Feedback welcome - enjoy.


Away from you,
I saw you everywhere
more clearly than before -
and, being always with me,
it was unnecessary,
it was impossible,
to miss you.

This is new.

Away from you

I find you in the wind,
in the songs of whispering flags,
you rest against the moon, proclaiming the sky.
You are the dance, the pulse, the drumbeats,
the cool of crystal in my hand,
you are the tears of rain as skin steams dry.

But to see you now
against that distance –

Your soft eyes more gentle
than I remember,
(in silence your soft eyes stir the sleeping storms) -

I had forgotten

the flood, the overwhelming
waves of yearning
on a mindful tide.

Copyright Sarah Cheverton, 2007. Please do not reproduce without permission of the author.

Monday, August 13, 2007

To let it go, to let it go

“To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go”

Mary Oliver

She is lying on the grass. 

She could not say how long, but she has been here for quite some time, since the birds opened their mouths to the morning and began their reveille.

She is lying on the grass and there is a stillness settling around her, resting lightly against her skin. The sun is falling in the sky, dropping gentle rays upon her closed eyes, filling her mind with soft, still amber.

She is still, the only movement the rise and fall of her chest as she inhales and exhales against the breath of the breeze.

Behind her closed eyes, she is remembering: the soft bubbles of the water as she washed the dishes before leaving the house. She is remembering the shine of clean glass as it dried in the sun. She is remembering prayer flags outside the window, stirring like treetops in a summer forest.

Remembering, she smiles. Remembering, she is lost to the blushing sun, she is lost to the velvet breath of the breeze.

Behind her closed eyes, she is thinking. I am no more the scar tissue of my past. I am no more the pain, the tears, the furies of my loves, the tempests. I am no more the sum of my mind, my heart, my soul. Greater than all these things, this now, this moment, this sudden realisation. Greater than this, to be here, now.

The sun is falling. There is a chill sweeping across the horizon towards her as it slides into the approaching evening.

She is opening her eyes. She is beginning to awaken.

She is rising from the grass, taking in the stars as they reveal themselves to the sky. And standing, she tilts back her head, inhales and drinks the approaching night, before heading towards the darkness, home.