The Fire Dancer (2005)

An old poem inspired by someone I knew who danced with fire.

The Fire Dancer

I imagine on still nights, very late
when the air is dark and sweet
he wanders from home
only half awake

Unwittingly drawn by the
crescent moon, or the hypnotic
circling of bats or the strong
assault of eucalypt scent

Enveloped by the night
he spins burning stars of fire
with his hands
communing with the smooth
wooden staff and the fragile light it supports

He is insubstantial
caught flickering between
reality and dream 
his expressive dance
witnessed by the trees alone

What does he dream in this moment?
does his essence slip
deep into the earth
an ancient pulse
a yearning sensed, not unlike his own?

In time, his dance wavers 
like a falling autumn leaf 
and he rambles home 
to wait, to dream again

Six Seconds (2006)

An old poem about a nightmare, and the unconscious connection you share with the person you love, sleeping next to you.

Six Seconds

She awoke
Stiffly from a dream
She was being followed
By a threatening presence
She found she was encased
Awkwardly in his arms
Burrowing deep into him
Trying to hide
He rhythmically touched her
Every six seconds
Rubbed her arms down
As if she were cold
She was half aware
Of his unconscious protection
She felt his teeth grind
Felt his ragged hot breath
It was a strange hour to wake
The night felt numb
The possums growled and
Barked
Sounding like demons
She closed her eyes
And was greedily pulled
Back in
To the nightmarish realm
Into the library lift
Under the dull flickering light
The door closing softly behind her
Not before
Something else slipped
Silently in

The Third Heart (2005)

I've stumbled across some old poems recently. I wrote this one about my best friend, soon after she learned she was pregnant. Among the first of my friends. It marks the beginning of an inevitable and subtle shift in our friendship, as she moves into a different phase of her life. She has two beautiful kids now. I secretly miss our late-night, meandering bike rides. 

The Third Heart

We glide down dark
Hackett streets on our bikes
In and out of shadows
Cast by Majura Mountain
And lemon coloured kitchen lights

At each turn gaining 
Mischievous momentum
Daytime thoughts lost to
Determined winds
And shifting autumn hues

Our musings weave randomly
With the paths of our bikes
We feel isolated and free
But tonight a third beating heart 
Shares our confidence

Watched

I watched from three places
on his wall
through the golden eyes
of three feline women
three painted portraits

I watched them, and she
especially she
would look back at me
surveying my surreal features
amid a fantasy landscape
and the bird that hovers near my lips

I watched their dancing bodies
understand each other
I heard their whispered words of love
rolling out across the night

Their contrasting skin
an echo
of their divided minds
laid temporarily to rest

A Realisation

Tonight I had a realisation, definitely not the first one to reveal itself during a a yoga class. It was towards the end, after a physically challenging hour of yoga. Where the ever-enthralling life and times of oneself, the tumbling ever-present thoughts, were pushed firmly into the background, mere white noise to the palpable reality of aligning my body in difficult yoga poses, and consciously circling breath throughout my body.

This is the magic of yoga, dragging the meandering mind into the present reality, but clearly my subconscious was doing its own thing, as a realisation popped into my mind perfectly formed. A perfectly new thought, as I lay there quietly, on my back, hugging my knees to my chest.

I realised that I had been in love a number of times, I had thrown myself completely into the experience, and this was a beautiful thing.

I don't mean I was perfect or perfectly selfless. And there were dramas at times, many times. Fighting and confusion, hot tears. Sometimes I lost a clear sense of my own self. Some relationships lasted much longer then they should have. But I gave my heart freely away...sharing flaws and scars, kisses, secrets and life stories. Lives became intertwined, accountable, complicated. And each break up was devastating, for a time.

I have had, I guess, four long-term boyfriends. I have probably even loved a few more then that. There are many kinds of love. I have thought of myself, disparagingly, as a 'serial monogamist'. After researching the term online I have even less clarity as to what it means and if I am one!

Somewhere along the way I embraced the beguilingly cool mantra of 'forget and move on'. It was easier to believe that loving this person, who probably knew me better then anyone, was some sort of shameful mistake. A black comedy of bad choices. Reason enough to push them out into the cold, and behind an impenetrable wall. Countless moments rewound from memory. Anger was the prevailing emotion. A simple and primal way of containing the hurt.

I have learned that letting go is different to forgetting. That acceptance is more revealing then denial.

I think I have come to this realisation because I am in a good place. I can forgive myself, forgive those I loved. I can reclaim my entire life. Every piece. I thank each and every one for the experience we shared.

Walk

I have always needed to walk. I'm not trying to get anywhere. I am already there. I wander around a new place to understand how it fits together. I wander around an old place to tease it apart. I lose myself for hours. Sometimes I really get lost.

I love to explore. Whether it is the dark suburban streets of the Inner North, where drawn curtains, glowing at the edges, hint at a life behind. Or at dusk on one of Canberra's mountains, where I am as still as the magpies and kangaroos. Pausing as one in the dusty peach glow.

I don't feel afraid at night. This is my place.

Walking calms me. I think it is the rhythm. It takes me out of my head and into my body. In to place.

I walk fast. Stroking cool leaves as I pass. I collect tiny flowers. I smell damp soil, heady blossoms and cooking dinners. I smell the seasons changing.

I hear droning televisions. Muffled discontent. Humming street signs.

Possums turn to stone as I pass.

The dim street lights collect halos of bats and moths. Under one lonely spotlight my pale hands look like they are not my own.

When winter winds succumb to spring, I am intoxicated. When mild autumn evenings turn bitter and wild, I am exhilarated.

I wonder about the invisibility of the wind, moodily tossing hair about my face. Filling my ears. I love it all. If there is a full moon then I am done. I am undone. The blacks of my eyes are swollen with her secrets. I will not sleep.

Walking inspires me. I find myself somehow home writing about fallen magpies, falling leaves and hidden lives. It is past midnight and I am wide awake.

If I could write a letter

Dear Leah

This is not an easy letter to write. I am more than twice your age but am I so different to you? I don’t know any 16 year olds. But I knew you once.

I have discovered many things in my life, about family, love and death. About myself. The journey is so rich. But I don’t have all the answers.

I know you are under a dense shadow. The blackness is pervasive. It blocks everything else out. Your mum and sister are faded, peripheral to you. Your grief is self-centred. I know your desperation, your emptiness. Your anger. I know.

I know how much you can love. How you put a dozen photos of your dad on your wall.  A reflection of your documentary zeal. A loving memorial. Only to take them all down a week later. The first of many…putting away. Putting away the past, putting away your dad. Hiding your tears. I know it was easier to pretend he never existed then accept he was gone. The shock of your beautiful family of four, becoming three. Without your permission.

Your beautiful dad. I knew him too. He loved you, all of you.

I so want to help you. If I was there I would hug you. But I know you might not let me. I’d scream and cry with you, we could throw things, throw cartwheels, dance like crazy, and laugh at ourselves. I know how creative you are. How many poems and stories you write. How you ask, why? I would write with you. We could try to find answers together.  

I know you never got to say goodbye. Whisper it to him now. Say goodbye a hundred times. Tell him everything you are feeling and how much you miss him. Never stop talking to him.

I am so grateful you met your boyfriend, how he holds you, while you cry and cry. He is young, but he knows to do this instinctively. He never pushes you, but I know there is so much you want to tell him, and your mum and your sister, but your throat is constricted. You can’t breathe. I know you dream of silent screams. What can I say to release you?

I am so proud of you, how you front up to school each day, where he used to teach. How you look towards the science department, how you can’t bring yourself to go there. How you look towards the teachers car park, where you would meet and drive home together. You were so happy in his company.

They have built a memorial garden for him. You pass it each day. People seem a little wary of you, they don’t know what to say. You are barely aware. You are empty. You have put walls all around you.

I worry about you, you see, how you are burying it all inside. Deep in your belly. Creating a hard place there. All your fears will grow from such a place.

If I was there I would lead you to your mum, and make you hold her hand. You feel so alone, but she is there. Your mum and your sister know. They feel it too. I need you to open your eyes and see them. How can I convince you that you are not alone?

I want to say to you, that however you’re feeling, it’s ok, you fight through this any way you can. There is no template. No right way. All I can promise you is that it will get better.

One day you will remember your dad with a smile, instead of angry tears. You will think how very lucky you were to know someone like him. How knowing him has helped you to live a beautiful life. You have adventures ahead of you. You will be so loved, and you will deserve to be loved. I promise.

I know you loved your dad with every cell in your body. It was the most natural thing in the world. You had something very special. No-one can ever take that away.

Your dad is part of you, just like he is part of your beautiful mum and sister. You have his sensitivity, you have a little of his skepticism. You are drawn to science and nature and documenting the world, just like him. You are with him every day just by being you. He would be so proud of you.

You are beautiful and you are loved and you are not doing anything wrong. Keep feeling every moment with vivid clarity. Let it wash all over you. This is life. This is why we are here.

I love you. And I am thinking of you always.

LC