My head is about to explode. I've managed to study at Cambridge University and although its not a normal year I am told, I am eating up every moment of it. Richmond is wonderful and beautiful in many ways, but so much like ice cream. Sweet but too much of it, it makes you sick, and gives you brain freeze. And I have never enjoyed living in stasis which is how many or perhaps most like to live. With a happy ever after and a The End. Life is not like that. Any Buddhist will tell you that. And so I found myself this week reading about poetry. I do not read about poetry. I write poetry, occasionally read poetry but do not read about poetry. Its a bit like reading recipe books. You are not making the food or eating the food, just reading about making the food and potentially eating the food.
And I've had to re read childrens books. And identify the first book that wowed me. None really did. I read a lot. Loads and loads of stuff I wasn't meant to read like interviews in Sunday magazines - like the Observer and Sunday Times, when celebrities were even more dishonest about themselves than they are now.
Any way. poetry and children's books. I identified the book that I read a lot as a child, and then re read it. And bang. Did it hit home. I wrote two poems. Here they are.
The Alice Dance
Opening the first page
Like dipping the toe
Like jacques Cousteau
I remember she fell
Into a puddle of her own making
That was deep
But she was never still
She talked to animals
Like people
And realised people behaved like animals
But the animals had a dignity the people did not
She would not play the game
Or agree with anyone she met
Knowing caterpillars think they are wise
And life deals you cards
And the garden is never what it seems
And never follow a cat
Especially one that smiles
Or take tea where nothing
Fills you up
Not even impolite conversation
Moving on to the next empty seat
To take another’s place
But never yours
To find your head
When those around you are
Losing theirs
Oh I joined the dance as I re read the journey
The original travel journalist
And yogi
Who told of her weird
And wonder land adventures through rabbit holes
And tiny doors
And grew too large and small
Until she realised she is
Enough
How much like me this
Alice is
mirrored as I read again
Much older now
About myself
She said one day she would write a book about herself
And I did.
And turtles who mock and cry
So many tears
To drown the mice in your life
And babies to pigs
And pepppppper anger
Who said cooking makes you happy?
And the drag faced Duchess and the Queen wanting to be treated like royalty secretly terribly disappointed with her passive king doing absolutely nothing until judgement day comes and everyone must stand to account even if you live in a tea pot. Oh how she wanted a prince and to move on like Alice did.
The writer wrote for himself
As they always do especially when writing to their child like self when they can be more honest
And barriers are meant to be broken and
Plots are meant to have holes in them.
Carroll was an adult who wanted to be a child and have an adventure and descend down that rabbit hole.
I ventured down
Oh yes I did
And moved on past the
Empty dinner parties of impolite conversation
Of non sense and
Kitchens full of resentment
And mothers who
Are born to have pets not
Children
And wise old men who sat on ivory mushrooms
Of sprouted platitudes hoping they would one day turn into something that flew and had colour
But he never did.
Did he
not on this page
Not like the griffin who
Arose and led you to another tale and tail
Of a dance
How much like me
With her curious nature
And love of words
And thirst to play with life
And adventure
And realising everyone
Is painting their white roses
Red
And red roses white
Because some malcontent
Says so
Just smell the roses will you
How I woke up that day when
I turned that first page
And dipped in my toe
Like Cousteau
And on poetry.
Poetry
Photograph to painting
The language of children
Turns what you see into
what you feel into
why you hear into
how you touch into
putting words together that have
never met before like
rushing blue and
hiccup pink
to make it
pop
like paint colours for the wall
to add poetry to your home.
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