by tashmcgill | Jan 27, 2015 | Poems
Occasionally there is an idea that can only be expressed in sentences and phrases that run on and over each other in extraordinary syntax.
They leap out as fragments, then couplets until finally you have a stanza and a verse. This poem, in three parts, is about being alone and not alone.
i.
Some people will tell you to listen
Listen and learn from your own body.
It’s good advice, to master your body, learn it.
But no one says also, here is a warning –
And a notebook to write it down because –
if you listen
to your body
You will hear everything in
one voice but a thousand sounds, plucks, scrapes, clicks and thunders.
The body makes a dozen slow, deep, thundering sounds.
Then the bzzt of a hair standing on end
The stubborn grip of the womb
moaning in protest before letting go
each month. The delicate, tiny sounds that only you can know.
The pop of hidden bones
in the ankle you rolled
Age 14, before you knew what it was like to listen.
ii.
Now you hear the wind brushing your skin;
the ice crack of goose bumps rising in response
– you think ‘I might survive on the wind’s caress’.
So now you believe you are at one with the night air silence,
and Light touches you from the moon, distant and cold.
You are bathed in mist coming off the sea
into the valley of peat and stone,
A dozen hands come close but cannot hold
– you think ‘I might remained unanchored here.’
You and your body, in a long communion.
Listening and talking together.
Sighing, your body does not sigh but a kind of hum dimishes
Slowly, like the sky sinking to earth.
iii.
Then the wind turns and grows warm,
after a long silence; in a moment I am not alone.
I feel my body’s voice rise again.
The whoosh of hidden skin pulling tight,
Calling my senses to attention.
There is the beat and throb of my pulse
Rising to match another,
Blood pushing blood.
Coming into tune for a cadence
pores humming in trumpet song,
A thousand tiny pressure valves released.
I make no noise but hear
my fingertips sigh gently as they land on
other skin, burning, singing.
Laughing aloud, saying,
‘No, no, I cannot be alone.’
I have learned my body sings
and I will let it.
by tashmcgill | Jan 2, 2015 | Poems, Prose & Poetry
I’m trying to enter this year full of positivity, good intentions and motivation to achieve some big goals. I’ve been working hard on this posture since December. So, it was challenging to come home on New Years Day to discover my second-most valuable writing tools had been stolen.
My Macbook Pro, which I use to write, edit and publish – not to mention many other day-to-day tasks. Hundreds of documents, ideas, InDesign files and otherwise. Thankfully 95% of that work is backed up in the cloud. But replacing the tools will be expensive and frustrating. It won’t happen right away.
The second, my iPad, is one of the main resources I use daily to feed my brain. I use it primarily to read and digest news articles, online magazines and books. I’m feeling teary about the bookmarks I’ve likely lost. Ugh. Still – they are only words and the good ones stick, right?
The most important writing tools – my hands, pens, journals and my mind, they are all fine. Really. I am safe, so are my housemates. Nothing else was taken, we believe they were interrupted. I know they are unlikely to return in the short-term, but there is still a moment of uncertainty. There will be new bolts on the doors and windows. I have no desire to repeat previous self-defence endeavours, regardless of my courage or capability. I will be fine, but something has been stolen from me. I can only hope that some good comes of this moment.
I am grateful for what was left untouched – my precious journals and poetry books, a ring, my guitars. So – what else is there to do but write? What was really stolen? Words. About 13,500 of them by my count – the article ideas and about a chapter of the novel I’ve been working on for such a long time. Just what wasn’t caught in the latest backup.
So here’s some words about the words that were taken.
Stolen.
It takes such a long time to drag them out,
the good ones, carefully sculpted sentences.
As if I carried them in womb, once born cord must be cut –
my ideas become their own, independent creatures.
So the labour is hard, to wrestle these thoughts from my body
and give them up into the world.
Now harder still, the wrestling is done but no life comes.
Just a space where words once were but won’t be seen, not as they intended to be born.
I’ll do the birthing, call it a born-again, always now wondering
what if, what could have been?
What sentence that on which the story once hung so sweet?
Which words of love and truth now miss their true intent?
That turn of phrase so perfect, flickers at the edge of memory –
so I must give you up, stolen moment, stolen thought.
To do it all again makes my muscles ache, my mind grows heavy.
I will whisper, only the good ones stick.
by tashmcgill | Dec 29, 2014 | Culture & Ideas, Monologue
I was standing at the kitchen bench, knife in hand and a slab of ham in front of me.
‘This is what you do,’ I thought to myself. Maybe it was the coffee, maybe it was the Mimosa. It seemed like a thought that came from nowhere, yet was profound in the moment it appeared to me.
It was a thought as visual as it was constructed of nouns and verbs.
‘You slice away at the meat of life until you hit the bone.’
Sometimes holding a pen, metaphorical or otherwise) feels like holding a knife at the throat of someone you love.
Perhaps that’s why writers drink: we need the courage that comes with loosening the inhibitions, the fear, the risk.
The virtues of public and private decency compete like never before in this digital age. When anyone can publish, there is no subtle observational art in how writers write. We can publish at a moment’s notice and therefore it is as easy to assume that all observations are those of our closest acquaintance. And often it is.
There’s the truth of it – sometimes I do not write about you, but sometimes I do. Sometimes I cut away at the flesh of our very real, everyday lives until I hit the bone. Then, even then, sometimes I am tempted not to stop but to continue carving until I hit the marrow.
Then , once I have hit the bone and passed through to the marrow – I hope that I have struck the core of it.
I want my words to cut to the core of who we are, to the very deepest and sacred parts of us. I want us to be challenged. I am challenged when I think it and even more so to write these thoughts in ways sharp enough to penetrate but thoughtful enough that my good intentions are clear.
Sometimes when I feel my words are like the knife at your throat, I think about stopping, holding back. But these words ring in my ear ..
“The role of a writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say.” – Anaïs Nin
I do not write to hurt you, rather to peel you back. To give you permission to live more exposed, more real, more true. To accept you as you are and as I am, all flaws exposed and not hidden. I write to carve you out, to tease you out until you have no choice but to show yourself unbound to the world.
Whatever those ideas of identity, belief, value, truth, sex, sensuality, spirituality and ambition are – I hope to use my words to bring them to life in you, willing you to come into the light. I want to know you. I want to experience you in the same fullness I offer myself to you.
As much as I am trying to carve you out, to really see you – I am exposing my own marrow and hoping you see me.
by tashmcgill | Aug 11, 2014 | Culture & Ideas, Monologue, Prose & Poetry
I am fascinated by how relationships transform as people move in and out of one anothers lives. I came across an old photograph and was struck by this idea: the story of a woman contemplating the changes in her life and how she will live always anticipating the death of someone who was once close to her but is now far removed. The digital age often means that though we are protracted from one another, we are never fully removed from the circles of relationship that connect us.
Sometimes I see your photograph and wonder how Death will come to you. Once, when we lived around each other I worried about what you ate and how you drank. I fussed over your posture and lack of concern for fibres. Fibres to keep you warm, woven to cover your skin from the elements. You never wore enough clothes in winter.
You had that one navy fishermans sweater, with look-a-like suede patches on your elbows. You wore it with those black jeans that swooped over your non-existent backside. It’s a trade-off, I suppose, for those long legs. Your toes, long and sparsely covered with hair, poking through the sandals you profusely expounded upon. You have always chosen the strangest idioms to be passionate about. You are still a curiosity in that way, I suspect. Ranting about finding the perfect fit, as if it was some revelation.
Oh, yes, that’s it. You have a gift for making the mundane into a revelation. That’s why I always enjoyed you, being around you even on the fringes of a conversation you were orchestrating.
It makes sense to think of you as a conductor, commanding the music by script and form with your movement and sheer presence; a force of will on the earth. I wonder about your body now as it ages, your shoulders that must fall even further forward. You always curved yourself in to type, or cut or do anything with your hands. You have always had this way of wrapping yourself entirely around an activity; until it lost your attention. I wonder if you have slowly suffocated your hips and lungs from fully functioning.
I see your face through other people’s eyes now. They capture you in fleeting splashes of light; in cities I once traveled before I knew you. They frame you walking those streets as if they are your own, but you don’t really care for possessions. I think even now, you probably care mostly for the objects you’ve made symbols of this new man you’ve become. A notebook and a beard are like weapons of war for you.
But I see you truly; the proud tilt of your hips tipping your belly forward. Sometimes I wonder if you are eating anything to sustain your endless body. It is long and lanky but when you stand still you make remarkable curves. There is nothing soft about you but you curl around the atmosphere and air you breathe. You are rebellious in your being; for the sake of it. Or, I should say – you were. I remember that you were.
I shouldn’t presume to know such things now. That body and those eyes I have stared at, fought with and known for a dozen years; I wonder how it will decay? I no longer observe you daily so each glimpse is like the passing of an age between, you change so much. You age before me and my reflection ages too, but the sight of myself does not shock or rattle me. I wonder now if our character can change as quickly as our exterior? We change so much when we are young and it leaves no mark upon us and then we collapse into middle age. Do our bodies simply begin to catch up with the people we have become?
How will Death come to you? I wonder what it will be like to walk past your coffin. Or will there be a plaque that signals where your ashes are spilled into the ocean or air? Air, I think although you professed to love the ocean so. If there is a funeral, I wonder where I will sit and how far back before I drift into the shadows.
Your wife, as beautiful then as now, will probably say carefully chosen words in her soft voice. Her tears will be fresh and new. Mine will be decades old and dry, they may not even fall. I’ve been wondering for such a long time how Death will find us, my grief already feels ages old. Oh, how I grieve you, bright light. You are a wonder to me still. I miss the smell of you in the room; leather and musk and determination.
I hope it’s quick. I don’t want to hear of your decay coming slowly by protracted illness. It’s all so ungraceful at our age, to go slowly from infection. No, I prefer to think of that hardened fat from late night burgers laden with bacon and extra cheese snapping at your arteries and taking you quickly. I always worried about how you ate. I hope that it comes to some good and spares you the indignity of hospitals and 16 pill-a-day regimens.
I couldn’t bear to hear of you slowly fading from the earth. You should at least, in this one thing, be definitive. It always took you so long to commit to anything, you can do this for us, at least. Go quickly and follow through, don’t leave us wondering. Death may at last, be the one thing that unveils you and forces you to be true.
Yes, I wonder how Death will come to you, and then to Us. I have been waiting so patiently to say goodbye. You’re barely over the cusp of 40 years. The scales are about to tip, you know. By this time next year, you’ll have been gone from my side longer than you stayed. What a curious and puzzling thing. I do not think about your dying or your pain or your absence, but I wonder how, how will it come to be? Perhaps it is because we are a story; a book. Someone has crept in and torn out Chapter 19.
Chapter 20 is some lesson, some goodness or inheritance you leave behind. The meaning for those that will know you at the end, but I have known you up til now. I have not found the meaning yet. In death you’ll be revealed at last, but people are always too kind then. Still I want to know how it goes and what they say, when they know at last what I know.
Yet, sometimes I feel you curled around me – shoulders slumped forward, legs tilted into my hips and your hands close to my face, as if I am a thing that requires your entire attention. When I see your photograph, there is a moment of claustrophobia before I remember that you have unwrapped yourself. The bonds are cut so I breathe and regain myself. I remember what it was like to be the centre of all that chaos and energy in the world and what it is like to watch from a distance.
Your photograph sometimes changes, the streets a different version of the city you are in. Your countenance is the same. Your eyes still sharp, watching and anticipating. I see you hungry for what you will wrap yourself around next. I remember that look; I wonder how Death will come to you and if you will look Death in the eye before you wrap yourself around it, the sole focus of your attention; counting how you could make dying an achievement too.
by tashmcgill | Jun 20, 2014 | Community, Culture & Ideas
“Criticism, you are
a helping
hand,
bubble in the level, mark on the steel,
notable pulsation.
With a single life
I will not learn enough.”
Pablo Neruda remains one of my favourite poets. Beyond the schoolgirl days of Sylvia Plath and Shakespearian sonnets – Neruda was writing so politically, so astutely of his time and space that it’s nearly impossible to call him anything but a political writer.
His prowess is equal only to his capacity for immense failure at times – epic screeds of verse that would never make publication in today’s world, but in the reading and comparison of such, create the wonder of the times he landed his composition so eloquently right.
As a writer, criticism is often captured with red pen edits in my life. As a speaker, the crowd goes quiet. As a member of communities and a family – it comes in loud voices, arguments, discussions, silences and facial expressions that do not bear dissecting. Where do you face criticism? Your boss, your colleagues, your lover or your children? (more…)
