Pretty Kite
injured,
trampled into salt battered stone;
lone, unloved
today’s sweepings
left for trash.
I’ll detangle your tail,
unknot your ribbons,
your strangled cord,
lay you
smiling faced neon
over sun hotted weed.
Lurch shake kite,
cloud billow fill,
wind bound loop over and above;
sun streamered dragon,
slink over sand,
euphoria blissful, revitalize.
The caption on my fridge.
All things considered, it’s been a rough few months. I haven’t felt connected to anyone or anything. Been writing madly, as if trying to write myself out of a hole. Which I think I am, maybe: miserable weather, endless doubt and confusion about what I’m meant to be doing or if I’ll ever be good enough, crippled back, stomach bug that won’t go away, things ending, choppy relationships.
In the midst of my bad back crisis, I blagged a lift from Mr. F and staggered up the steps to City Hall to see Mr. Wainwright.
It resembled nothing so much as an elaborate funeral for his beloved mother, Kate McGarrigle (who died in January.) The lights were dim, we were told not to applaud and there he was, sliding silently onto a bare stage, seventeen foot train trailing behind him, feathered, be-jewelled, grieving. His accompaniments were fiercely complicated, like mini piano concertos, as though he was trying to make it as hard on himself as possible, his voice rose and soared to reach impossible notes, showing no signs of strain. A giant eye – his – appeared on the black screen behind him; at one point tears began falling from it. The eeriest hush, laid across the audience.
Photo by Kasia Bobula. Shot at the Sadler’s Wells Theatre in London.
That night those songs were in my dreams. I felt calmer than I had in weeks, which is quite bizarre. How can something so melancholy create happiness? I don’t know but I’ll hold that thought. Mr Wainwrights’ new album is “All Days are Nights” but I’m renaming it: “All Nights are Days.”
When things are rubbish, I’ll think of it. How does the saying go? “The darkest time is just before the dawn.” Isn’t it when you’re on the verge of breaking through into your dream that you hit rock bottom? Or to put it another way: “Never, never, never give up.” (Winston Churchill.) What a mess we’d be in now if he had! So anyone out there who’s struggling with their dream (self included) :Don’t give up.
"Success is not final,
failure isn't fatal,
it's the courage to continue that really counts."
(Winston Churchill)
Hi, I'm Ru and I'm finishing my first novel, "The State of My Heart." Starguidemehome is a scrapbook diary of inspirational stuff and poetry I'm both learning from and writing along the way. I hope you find something here to encourage you.
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This beautiful poem is a guest post by my friend Dot, who has just lost her beloved – and beautiful dog, Josh: I went to the dog’s home to get me a pet, when a pup with long legs jumped in my arms the minute we met! Oh no, not you, you’re not for me, […]
Pretty Kite injured, trampled into salt battered stone; lone, unloved today’s sweepings left for trash. I’ll detangle your tail, unknot your ribbons, your strangled cord, lay you smiling faced neon over sun hotted weed. Lurch shake kite, cloud billow fill, wind bound loop over and above; sun streamered dragon, slink over sand, euphoria blissful, revitalize.
Silence tomorrow, Exit yesterday, I’m living for the now, For what I’ve here in my hands, today.
