Lockdown poems

Poem: Unfurl – Lockdown Poems 11

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Welcome back to my Lockdown Poems series.  These are simple reflections, more or less as they come, usually written in the garden during these times when many of us have suspended our normal activities, and are at home.  It’s been going on a while now, as we all know, and some days are better than others.

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I’ve been seeking to practice being in the moment, and here’s a record of a tiny shift, noticing the sensations and the sights around me, noticing the moment.   That helps so much.  I hope that sharing these snatches with you, wherever you are, gives you a glimpse of green that helps you too.

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Unfurl  – Lockdown Poems 11

World-weary, bone weary,
head aching, I list the small
things I should do, and then
turn my face away, towards
the olive green and bright green
leaves of the climbing rose,
fresh opening,
and as I do so, feel the sun
on my cheek, soft,
and as I do so, see how the
hazel leaves have grown
overnight,
grooved saucers of green,
catching the sun,
as my cheek is now,
warm.

I shall rest here awhile,
list on my lap,
and let the sun unfurl something
strange and new in me,
not knowing what.

Lockdown Poem on the radio!

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I am delighted and astonished to announce that one of my Lockdown Poems is going to be included in this week’s episode of BBC Radio 3’s wonderful  The Verb.

That’s Friday, 15th May at 22:00 BST. If you follow the link to the programme above, you’ll be able to find it on that date.  The programme is entitled birdsong.  I’m just after 20 minutes in, but if you start at the beginning, you’ll hear the nightingales…..

It’s a fascinating programme, and very beautiful.  It explores our relationship with birdsong, which has become much more intense during the lockdown, and how people have been inspired by it, and how we connect to the natural world through it.  The producer invited me to say a little bit about myself and the process, as well as reading the poem.  So I’ve been learning how to record myself on my phone, which is one of many new tech experiences of this time.  The poem is The Blackbird – Lockdown 7.

I sat on my bench quite early in the morning, and did manage to capture some birdsong in the background, which was just perfect.  The blackbird was joining in, as is only right.  It’s his poem as much as mine.

Thank you for your virtual company through these poems – there are more in the notebook, wainting to emerge.

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Poem: Alarm – Pause Lockdown Poems 10

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Welcome to my series of Lockdown Poems, where I’m posting fairly free and unpolished jottings, writing of a life limited to my own patch.  Here is the tenth so far, and this one did not come from a time of quiet and contemplation, but from wandering around in a chilly breeze, checking all was well with the veggie patch.

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Blackcurrant bush – a gift from a dear friend.  I do miss her. I hope the blackberries ripen.

So there’s more of that kind of unstructured thinking in it….
but what I wanted to record was how startling it was to hear a sound like a phone ringing, how much it felt like something from a different world, intruding on my calm.

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Yes, the lettuices are doing well.  I’ll get some more started.

So with these pictures, we’re checking the progress of the future harvest, as we take a look around the garden.

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Beans! good, at last.  I wonder how high they’ll grow this year?

We can take a seat in the shelter of these trees, and read the next poem.

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Alarm – Pause  Lockdown Poems 10

The wind is cold,
blowing from the north
and I pull down my sleeves,
sheltering behind the trees.

I walk to the place where
the veggies and the soft fruit grows –
yes, they too are sheltered.
The wind does not reach them.

Gooseberries might do well here,
I think, and more blackcurrants,
wondering – can I order them?
Essential? Food?
Yes.  No. Perhaps. Don’t know.
But I do know this – it is good
to see growing things,
even these tiny growing things.

And a bird breaks in
as if from another world –
the bird who has learned
to alarm like a telephone.
Startled, I jump up,
but only for a moment,
and then other birds join
the song, weaving music
from that stark call,
softening its insistence.

The north wind blows still,
the loud world retreats again,
as the bluebells open,
as the pigeons strut
on the roof ridge,
and the whole green
glorious song pauses
a moment, steadying
its startled breath.

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After a conversation with a friend, I thought I’d better point out that I did, in fact, order some fruit bushes from Chris Bowers.

My usual plant suppliers weren’t taking orders at the time, and it’s all quite variable, but nurseries could do with the business, and gardens could do with the plants.  I’m very much looking forward to them arriving, and growing, and fruiting!

Poem: Frogs – uncertainty Lockdown 8

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Welcome back to the garden.  Today’s Lockdown Poem is a small piece about our small and rather scruffy pond.  It’s raised, and I’ve built a staircase of broken pots so that creatures can get in and out.  We’ve had frogs, and toads, and a couple of species of newt in the garden, but it takes real patience and dedication to catch them on camera – I haven’t managed it yet.

As I was trying to watch the frogs the other day, I couldn’t help thinking of the observer effect, and the uncertainty principle.    I am sharing lockdown with people interested in physics, so these things do come up from time to time.  Of course, these effects are very different from the difficulty of observing and counting frogs, but they do help shape how we think about looking at the world.  We know that there are things it’s hard for us to know for sure, and that our attempts to know things can disturb the things we wish to study.

And so the number of frogs in the pond remains a mystery, if I wish them to remain in the pond.  Like so many things, we know in part, and see in part.  And that’s good – for the frogs, and much else.

Metaphysical speculation aside, I hope you can take a moment to enjoy the garden, and the frogs.  Maybe one day I’ll be able to take a picture, and add it in here. For now, here’s the familiar bench, to sit awhile, and think of frogs and uncertainty.

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Frogs – uncertainty.  Lockdown 8

There are frogs in this tiny pond
I should have cleared it,
made more room.
I have seen one, two, three maybe,
but to look, to try to count,
is to disturb them,
and I want them to stay.
I lean back, so my shadow
falls elsewhere.

The presence of frogs,
the knowledge of the
presence of frogs,
is joyful, so joyful,
I hang back, and give
them room.
I shall come back tomorrow,
early, and look again.

 

Poem: The Blackbird – Lockdown poems 7

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Lockdown Poem News!

I am delighted to be able to share with you that this poem was featured on BBC Radio 3’s The Verb on Friday 15th May at 22:00 BST.    You will be able to find a recording of the poem on the link above, under the date.  The programme is entitled Birdsong.     If you start at the beginning, you’ll hear a marvelous piece on nightingales, but if you are short of time, my contribution is just after 20 minutes in. You can read more about being on the programme here.

It’s so exciting!

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Welcome back to the garden. It’s been a harder week, this week, with much, and much needed, rain. It has felt more confined, being more indoors. I have ended up watching more news, and felt more sucked into our strange, shifting reality, our uncertainty.

As you may have gathered, these Lockdown Poems tend to emerge in bursts, and find their way here a little while later, so this poem was one that came on one of the brighter, sunnier days. Coming back to it now, it helps to connect with a time when it was less hard work to be in the moment, to settle into stillness, and to be open. It reminds me of all that. It reminds me of the connection we can feel to the creatures we share our space with, and what riches we can find in such connection.

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I hope, whatever your week has been like, you can take another moment to listen to the birdsong, as we did together in the last poem, and hear its dark and beautiful strangeness.

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A female blackbird – I can’t find the name of the photographer to credit this.

The Blackbird – lockdown 7

The blackbird lands just
behind my shoulder,
I hear the air in his throat,
I hear the slight preparations
for song,
then song.

I scarcely dare move my pencil,
and yet, my pencil moves.
Oh, for the gift of
interpretation of tongues,
that I might write,
in words, that song,
that meaning, the cares
belonging to this small soft being
with its deep globe eyes
and stabbing beak.

I see you, I hear you,
in all your dark and
beautiful strangeness,
as you shift from
spreading branch
to spreading branch,
open to receive you.

 

Poem: The Wood – Lockdown poems 6

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Welcome back to the garden for the next in this series of Lockdown Poems.  These strange lengthening days are bringing us new experiences – some are very unwelcome, but others have something to show us, something that might help us navigate our way to a better world after….
I hope you are finding moments of tranquility.  You are welcome to come and sit on this bench in your imagination, and hear the sounds of spring.

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What has struck me, like so many others, is the birdsong we can hear as our human hubub has quietened.  Although we live very near a small wood, I haven’t heard the birdsong from it before – not from the back of the garden, well past dawn.  Sometimes, in May, you can hear the dawn chorus before the traffic begins, but now there is very little traffic, and the wood’s loudness is astonishing.

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I hope you can hear birdsong where you are.  Here’s a link to a recording of the dawn chorus in the UK if you’d like to listen

So, here’s another poem which emerged from my practice of trying to deepen into contemplative prayer, but being open to the sounds of the natural world as they speak.

The wood – lockdown 6

This April morning,
not even particularly early,
I sat on this bench,
allowing my breath to deepen,
and settling into presence,
and into Presence,

I heard, for the first time,
the sound of the wood –
not too far away,
across the grey snake
of the road.

I heard it like a distant choir,
together and rejoicing,
or an orchestra playing jazz –
wild, improvised,
I heard it as the sound of life,
reaching me even here,
across the silent road,
unquenchable,
green through the blue air,
calling the trees awake,
calling the bluebells – up, up,
and flowing round
the fragile white anemones
as they bow their many heads.

 

Poem: Two Trees – Lockdown poems 5

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The next poem that came from this Lockdown is a little different from the others at first glance.  Once again, it was emerged on the page, and has had minimal tweeks.  I was intrigued to find it there.  Its subject is the trees in the Garden of Eden, and it asks tentative questions about human nature, and the human experience, which they raise for me.  I have wondered before why the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil was prohibited, when so many religious systems seem very preoccupied with such knowlege.  I have wondered too how Jesus’ warnings against judging help us understand that, and balanced those warnings with the image of knowing a tree by its fruit, as he advises us to do.

I find it helps to allow the images – of trees, and fruit – to grow in our minds, and see what kind of shoots emerge. This is not a theological exploration, but a poetic instinct. Here,  I have been asking questions of myself, in a kind of uncertain echo of a chatechism, and allowed the questions to be there, partially or inadequately answered.  What if there is a choice, moment by moment – the fruit of the knowlege of good and evil, the fruit of life?  Might that have something to say to us as we seek to choose life, again and again?  Can we say yes to life, moment by moment, even in these moments?

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I don’t have two trees growing in the centre of my garden, but I do have this tree, whose early morning shadow delights me.  I hope you can make it out. The early light was tricky.  I thought I’d offer it to you to see if it might help give another image to add to the trees in this poem – a growing tree and its shadow.

 

 

Two trees – lockdown 5

Two trees grow in the midst of the garden; the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.   paraphrase from Genesis 2:9

What if we stand
in the middle of the garden,
choosing the wrong tree,
moment by moment,
again and again?
There they both grow –
tall, beautiful,
pleasing to the eye,
laden with fruit.

And we are drawn to one,
not the other, at least at first.
Wanting power to say things are
this, or that, the illusion of
control, wanting to judge,
wanting to be right.

Do we need to lay all that
hollow fruit aside in order
to eat from the tree of life?
I think so, yes,
Maybe empty-handed is better.

And what if we had made
a different choice
from the beginning?
Chosen that other tree,
unprohibited,
free.
What indeed!
And yet we did not,
and ever since, we have
hungered for its fruit.

And can we choose differently
now, each day, each moment?
I think so, yes, I think that we can
set down the fruit that
sours and spoils,
and choose life
again, and again,
and again.

Poem: Yes – Lockdown Poems 4. For Earth Day

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This is the next lockdown poem to emerge – today, here, is clear blue, but we had some stunning clouds a few days ago, and it was good to take a few moments to watch them.

It’s Earth Day, when we look to our place as part of the wonderful whole that is our home, the Earth, and look also to our responsibility to tend it.  One of the things I am experiencing in this time at home is a greater sense of connection, of love, for all that makes up the place, the ground that I’m part of here. I feel this love and connection are deeply significant.  I wonder if they are the necessary roots of a better way of living, one that acknowledges our dependence on the living Earth, and works to heal our environmental crisis, the crisis the living Earth is facing, including us.  These deep connections, this gratitude and love are, I am coming to think, more important than we know. I touched on these themes in a talk I gave at Girton College Chapel, and if you’d like to, you can read more about that here.

I hope there are ways, however small, that you can find connection with the natural world where you are.  Whether you can or not, you are welcome to join me here in your imagination, and sit in the sun.

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Yes, thank you – lockdown 4

The white clouds are coming now,
sails spread, a fanciful armada
on a soft southerly wind.
My skin feels the heat of the sun,
surprising. And I say thank you, and yes
to the blue and white of the sky,
to these various dark bees
among the comfrey,
heads dusted with pollen –
yes, drink your fill,
yes, thank you

To the peacock butterflies waiting
open-winged on the grass,
until another flies by,
and they rise and dance
as perfect as silent larks.
yes, and thank you

To the bright leaved hazel,
to the dark flowered fritillary lilies,
the yellow dandelions and their
white butterflies,
All, yes, thank you.

Poem: Red Leaves – Lockdown Poems 3

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I’ve been spending time with my notebook, while we’ve been in lockdown.  Usually, the words come from what’s going on around me, grounding myself in my ground.  I am aware how fortunate I am to have sight of new leaves, as here, but I hope these small verses give you a place where your imagination can connect with the spring, wherever you are.

They are just moments as they come.

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The subject of this poem springs from the story of Moses and the Burning Bush, which you can read about here.

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A moment in the garden, shared with you.

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Red leaves   lockdown 3
Oh, the sun through those red leaves,
shiny and shining,
And here, too, the smokebush,
just kindling to red flame,
before the leaf-smoke thickens,
as the sun’s light strengthens.
You can almost feel them growing,
as you bask in their cold fire.

It’s all holy.
All this good earth.
As my knees feel the
softness of grass,
and the air smells so of green,
and of the damp warming soil,
and grass, and primroses.

Yes.  This place.
Yes.  This time, even this.

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Poem: Owls – Lockdown Poems 2

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Welcome back, thank you for joining me again.    I hope we can take a few minutes to rest here.

I’m sharing another of my lockdown poems – simple, largely as they appear from my pencil – in the hope you’ll find some companionship, something that helps.  This one begins not in the garden, with light and green, but in the middle of the night.

Waking at night, or disturbed by dreams, thoughts race away.  If I remember to catch myself, I try to pause, to breathe, to notice.  Sometimes, you’re lucky enough to hear something wonderful, which breaks through the patterns of thoughts.
It’s been owls for me, lately. The night has its consolations.

 

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Owls – lockdown poems 2

Three nights now,
I have heard a pair of owls
in the garden.

 
Startled awake, suddenly,
by a fragment of
remembered news,
of fear,
and then, suddenly,
there they are –
the owls, calling
to each other, and,
it seems, to me.

Now, morning, and I look
up at the solemn black windows
of the barn, great eyes,
one shiny with a film of sky,
one matt and sightless.
I am glad we did not fix that glass.

There is room for an owl’s drawn in wings,
room to fly into that attic darkness,
where the peacock butterflies blink
their wings awake after the winter,
room to fill that desolate space
with life. May it be so. May it be so.