Death and dreaming

teas in a pod


Over the spring and summer, I wrote a few poems, one about my friend Steph’s painting, another about satellites and diamonds, and string and forks and waiting. I wrote a eulogy for my dad, sprinkled his dust. I wrote some great titles for stories. I had some wonderful dreams… I fought imaginary and real battles, with myself and others. I think I am growing up.

Do we, though? We grow along, maybe. We curve and bend.

I keep writing, and editing, about all sorts: climate justice, dreamers, art, homemade soap, dinosaurs, life and all that’s in it, rainbows… and Christmas, of course. I might start putting words to music. I am making some great kids books. I have the beginnings of a very fun novel, with some choice characters. Here’s the poem I wrote and read out for my friend Steph’s private view. It was a response to her painting, Wake.

Response to ‘Wake’, a painting by Stephanie Fawbert

I cut the water, thinly,
quiet in the darkness,
cold grasps away the warmth I was left.

Life is on the way,
on the way

Below, a pool of dark water.
Above, the sun winks out

The world is big.
So I’ve heard.

Stars press in and out of time.

They are fireworks in the darkness,
to flare and flame

I see a clever video.
The Earth a head on a pin,
each life a point of dust,
the stars perhaps a million dandelion seeds,
floating in space.

It plays on above, in the thickness of night.

Weight slides away –
Its blanket now a vapour.

And I can see it.

I look at the shadowed trees,
I look to the hills beyond.
I see across them, over and through,
I am no longer cold.

Does it matter
what is fire
or vapour,
pin or seed,
dark or light?

I am breath and muscle and time,
ribboning out, shimmering through black.

-Robin Pridy

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