the forest and the mirror

below the reflection room lies the forgotten forest,
with it's ruined walls and closed doors,
which if tempted to open, might force you to fall
for a floor or two.

from red brick to blue paint as buildings revised,
it's a sombre sight, and such feats (whilst great)
have not quite halted the roots
which took hold when we were not watching.

their secret beauty takes tiredness away
and returns with wonder. inside,
the swedish girl finds the same wonder in
my wavy fingers - we're jigsaw people.

i linger upon strands of stray hair,
escapee spaghetti flees the window-frame.
i take on the role of cartographer,
trace map lines of veins and marvel in shame.

i see strong calves and feel thick skin like set jelly,
it's comforting, but my throat is exposed.
there is confusion in my right leg and
clarity in my left arm,

but the two can never meet in the middle?
instead, i swing between, a pendulum, as ever.

sighing with this i visualise
the city-forest outside,
i could kiss that freedom -

flying down from the third floor,
and i'm in just the right mood to
join jungle heathens.

love and chaos

despite chaotic appearance,
love reigns in this cruel cosmos
of lovely chaos,
and what complex chaos
this cruel existence is -
though my whole heart
does love it!

animalistic tendencies

are we but earthly creatures, beasts and straw dogs?
subsumed by a cycle - are we savages who bite
when pushed, and slice through love with our carnal lust?

can we unwind? unravel the bind between love and disgust?
the physical impulse of sweat and scratched chests,
as i find clumps of hair in my hands afterwards, and wonder,

where did that come from?

in those kinks of ink black hair i grasp traces of darkness,
i grow claws when you are near, enjoy the fur and teeth
of beneath, and twinkle-smile at my sexual aggression.

i see forests and sinister, crackling branches as home -
a place to make your body my own
for a molten moment.

i delight in the reflection of vicious teeth
dipped in stringy saliva, not sure if they're yours or mine,
but i share your desire for soft flesh to sink them in.

all i can visualise are
dead rabbits dragged in by the cat,
but who's going for whose jugular, i ask?

i tear at your hair like the banshee i am
and howl, a whirling dervish of
extremity, exalted for the present
in teeth-baring depravity.

fear, feeling, fate?

a few hours in and i'm tapping
the shell for weak spots,
leaning in, peering round
at kinks of ink black hair
and brand new stubble.

i have a red chin
and fear trouble ahead,
as i indulge in
bowl-eyed-beauty
of animalistic tendency.

i'm sorry that you seem to find a bind,
do you see reference points on a map
as a trap? i thought it was the kind of
thing you'd like - being practical
and enjoying detail, and fact somewhat.

there's a road sign we all slide behind:
it says no entry, roman sentry at the gate,
but like me you don't believe in fate, as such,
but what is, is, as lemn says
and we thought as much.

if i'd been alone i would've stayed,
followed the light, zoned in, got shot of ties
and reference points, pins in a map
can dangerously alter the course of flight
in spite of independence.

it itches like freshly cut hair
on the back of the neck to admit,
and i resist the comparison to
samson and delilah,
choice, i repeat as a mantra.

'the leap of faith without fear
requires relinquished attachment to result'.
i prise my fingers apart -
remind me that i don't own them!
a borrowed body shudders

and what strange creatures we are?
can't we let go of the stories we're told
and create our own?

i fear you're searching for a truth
you will not find, sir,
not in socialism or free parties or straw dogs.

is there more to life than death as it is?
let's not comfort ourselves in philosophy,
cast off the blanket of ideology,

let's remain unwrapped
entreating lines of logical
time space, space time
to spin behind, in front, upside down,
and all around in a circle.

a perfectionist, yes, but you'd do well
to end the embargo
on public displays of affection.
loosen the fingers from a clenched fist,
i'll help with the rest.

a beginning should be unspoilt;
so please, let's not let it be soiled
by reticence.

the sadness of a single line

I was a full-time waitress. It was an interesting learning curve.

One particular day, I was observing the behaviour of rain. I watched it score liquid lines on the white-blue wash of glass walls between me and the world. All day it poured, not dripped; glib watery onslaught. In memory, it appeared slow-motion like liquid methane on titan - a byword for boredom. Through the sheen, a samaritan sought shelter under the white outdoor arcade.

Silver-haired, he flopped on the chair to eat chips. They looked salty, warm and dry with grease. He seemed tired, grateful and cold with rain. Cue wringed hands and a pained expression. Boss gave the nod and looked on expectantly. He was the kind of restaurateur we all abide. A stereotype: inflated stomach and ego, misogynist, and lacking human warmth. As server, it was my job to rid our chair of the customless bottom.

Reluctantly, I sidled up to the elderly gent. I did ask him to move and for this I repent. I blamed it on the boss - claimed higher power, peaceful sneaky flower (I am, I am!)  Cue wringed hands and pained expression, crease upon crease stacked slow and year upon year of "Well I never, flower! Whatever happened to the milk of human kindness, eh?"

I strode back in to the soundtrack of a million raindrops, scoring liquid lines on the white-blue wash of glass walls between me and the world. 'Never again', I shook my head. For this, I will never repent.

broken rope swings

the frayed blue undulation is weightless,
on a trip back and forth
in seamless swing.

the pregnant breeze brings life lines,
and i'm aware of this about my neck
as i remember death.

the broken rope swing is bittersweet and
branchless; tied to the tree as it is, in a
footnote to freedom.

the click

"good day everybody! my name's hamish and i'll be leading your tour of the royal botanic gardens today. beautiful day for it too, ye little buggers ... s'not like this on ma days off!" esme smiled at the freckly specimen of scottishness before her. it was a beautiful june day, sun high in the sky and all thoughts of exams were far behind her now. it was the end of her first year as a philosophy student at the university of edinburgh, and she had been meaning to visit the gardens for months. esme loved the rich history of the city, and here it was again in all it's finery.

she lolloped along languidly behind the group, tuning in and out of hamish's dialogue at random. esme was stunned by the blossoming bounty surrounding her - huge, white orchids, gigantic, rich green amazonian lilies ... and a 200 year old west indian palm tree, planted in an elegant 1850s glass topped palm house. it was like stepping to another spot on the time-space continuum, and she had the unsettling feeling that this place existed in another dimension. 'too many books!', her mum would say, 'i knew that studying philosophy would do her no good, she could barely keep one foot on the ground as it was ...'

and it was true. esme felt that if she concentrated hard enough, she would banish the entrance of the west gate on arboretum place, and find herself out in the depths of the amazonian rainforest somewhere. she breathed in the multitude of scents and stopped still to soak in the diverse shades of green surrounding her. allowing one thought to cast out all others, she wondered along, 'green, green? was it really green? was it all even really there at all?' as she did so, she slowly became aware that she was being watched. it's strange how our instincts can tell us what our physical senses do not. it was a curly haired bloke with fascinating brown eyes. kind of serious, but with a mischievous twinkle at the same time. he was wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches - very history teacher circa esme's school days. in fact, he particularly reminded her of one such, favourite history teacher. 

"hello. amazing, isn't it? i'm not much of a botanist but i really do appreciate the beauty of it all. and pavilions and glass everywhere too, it's all rather grand ..." esme felt instantly intrigued. she was a great believe in speaking to strangers, took pride in the pure joy of it. unexpected alliances were always the most interesting, and as for social convention, well it was a knackered old concept that sucked all the fun out of living. just then, hamish butted in, bounding along enthusiastically and ushering them towards the rest of the group.

"come on ye stragglers, we haven't even seen the wee chinese garden yet ... get a shifty on eh!" the two grinned conspiratorially and obediently followed. the air between them was no longer empty, and esme knew that mystery fella with the brown saucer bowls for eyes was equally as aware of this as she was. well what the hell, a thought crossed her mind, a sordid fling with a history teacher to round off what had hitherto been a somewhat disappointingly rebellion-free year. hopefully he was married, kids, the whole shebang. esme smiled in shock at the lowlands to which her own mind could descend. elevated examinations of the concept of colour one minute, sexual deviance the next ...

"so, my name is rory, what's yours? to whom do i have the pleasure of speaking? and what do you get up to edinburgh? you're obviously not local..."
"my name's ana", said esme, "ana-maria. aspiring painter, sculptor and printmaker. currently pathetically penniless. born and bred in yorkshire, but of brazilian heritage". bloody hell, esme blanched at her own fictitious tongue. it had grown legs all of it's own in this game she occasionally played - creating characters, acting them out with people she hoped never to meet again. it had only backfired once before, but in a fairly hideously embarrassing manner. a look of surprise crossed rory's face, and esme quickly returned the question,
"and you rory? what do you, 'do with yourself', in edinburgh? you are obviously scottish, that's a lovely soft edinburgh accent if ever i heard one."
"i'm an antiques dealer. or perhaps that might be stretching it somewhat. i have an antique shop which might otherwise be known as a junk shop. it's just off prince's street. it's an aladdin's cave - full of curiosities for the inquisitive. had it for about 6 years now, but unfortunately, it too leaves me pathetically penniless. we lovers of art are doomed to this i think". esme inwardly grinned in anticipation, there was actually nothing she loved more than a rummage in a junk shop. being a great appreciator of the weird, the wonderful and anything olde worlde - time spent in the dusty enclaves of such cluttered shops was something she treasured. indeed, she thought she knew and had visited the shop he was talking about, though she had definitely never seen him there before. perhaps he was lying too. perhaps he really was just a history teacher. perhaps she had finally met her match in the lovely world of lying for ones own entertainment.

the tour continued but they had little chance to continue their dialogue, such was hamish's insistence upon group cohesion and the undivided attention of all it's members. however, when they reached the gates on west arboretum place, esme no longer wanted them to disappear into a whirl of south american jungle. she was now taking with her some new, somewhat tribal desires concerning the curly top in front of her. mumbled suggestions of coffee on his part and fluttered eyelashes on hers, took them towards city cafe.

"it's where irvine welsh drank coffee and wrote trainspotting, you know", smiled esme. the cafe represented an altogether different side of edinburgh, one of contemporary note, she supposed. esme had read the book, had loved the characters and observed startling similarities between herself and the anti-romantic renton, who was in fact, it seemed, a huge romantic at heart. dislocated, dis-enamoured and dishonest, esme found herself afloat on the waves of a life in which she lacked identification with anything much.

the existentialist romantic is a terrible type, and makes for an altogether painful experience. alright, so she wasn't a smackhead, but apart from that, she'd backed herself into a pretty similar psychological corner. despite the fact that she could observe this, esme still seemed utterly unable to find the 'click' that would drive her past this 'giving up point'. if only paolo coelho had provided a method; a tangible, results-driven mode of interrogation into finding the evasive sticking point.

"really? interesting ... never read the book myself. got the impression it was all misery and drug addled lunatics. would've spoiled my notions of old fashioned scottishness. i steered well clear to be honest". rory's answer was intelligble, and made perfect sense in the context of his seeming infatuation with nicety and antiques. his voice was gravelly smooth with a whispering lilt and he gave the impression of one who enjoyed the finer things in life, finances or no finances. esme yawned and ordered a coffee from the tired looking, pierced and aubergine-haired waitress.

sitting opposite rory, drinking her strong cappaccino (no chocolate) and posing as ana-maria that afternoon, esme was numb. she had felt more back in the botanical gardens, when she was surrounded by plant life. if only she could let go of her attachment to an inflamed world. all the way down the royal mile she had been exhilerated, passionate, loving of life in all it's wondrous variety. she'd spotted troops just back from iraq or afghanistan, with harassed girlfriends and kids trailing along behind their mirage. there were canadian tourists, bickering couples, two girls with the long, lean elegant limbs of dancers and faces like expensive cats. on that short walk, underneath rare blue skies and with a stranger at her side, esme had felt in love and at peace with the world. but love for an inflamed world steeped in the heightened anticipation of pleasure was not true. even esme knew this. 

exhausted by her own exhileration, she now stirred out the swirls from her good cup of coffee and wondered where that sense of well being had evaporated to. she failed to see the person sitting opposite her, though rory believe that he saw her. she had a freckle underneath each oval eye and a toffee colour complexion. she was exotic and manipulative, with a stunning sense of self-assuredness.

to him, 'ana-marie' was the archangel of feminine mystique, descended from the synchronicity of escape from his girlflriend's boring choice of destination. edinburgh ... antiques ... he might wear tweed but history was not one of his strong points. more of a persona he had adopted since realising that lovely literary girls always love a period drama. rory had ditched elaina dusting off books in the ridiculously named 'unicorn antiques', and was now entirely arrested by the momentary magic of this brazilian beauty.

"you can really see the hispanic heritage in you, ana. i can just imagine you dancing the night away in rio ..." murmured rory, in what he believed to be a seductive tone. esme blanched, the reminder of her lie and his convoluted notions made her feel slightly and suddenly, quite claustrophobic. 
"just popping to the ladies rory. be back momentarily. keep my coffee warm, and if the waitress comes over - get her to bring me a glass of decent red wine too. i think it's time for a drink drink" in this way, she excused herself from the red diner-style seating (american influence - city cafe - why had she never observed this before?). once downstairs, esme sat for several minutes staring at posters on the back of the toilet door. the band on later sounded interesting. they were called 'king charles' - apparently some kind of art-school pirate boy with huge hair and a propensity for falling-over during performances. esme absent-mindedly kneaded the purple flower-bruise upon her left thigh, the slight pain was satisfying.

she might come back tonight for the gig, but for now she slipped out quietly behind rory's unsuspecting back. the air was definitely empty again, and whilst unexpected alliances might be the most interesting, this was turning out just as tired as the last one. esme, too, was tired. 'interesting? interesting? was anything really that interesting?' she pondered. perhaps esme had finally found the click? the thought did cross her mind briefly, as she placed one foot in front of the other and focused on home. this was a doubtful turn of events, dear reader - but entirely possible of course...

the sweet taste of

today really was a beautiful train journey ... and so good to see the sea! i miss the water. the sea and the sun are important to me. my mind is half still, soothed by the rhythm of the train and exhausted by exhileration and adrenaline, but it's also half racing along - racing along with the scenery and enamoured with life and love!

this life is such a joy eh. there's a noisy hen party, soldiers just back from afghanistan, crazy fighting families and canadian tourists ... all right here, on this train. all walks of life in all their wondrous variety! i've also found out that the girls sat opposite me are returning from a dance audition in edinburgh. of all the people to be sat with! magical synchronicity, reminds me that the door to carriage f stopped directly in front of me ...

i am the smiliest public transport passenger! truly in love with everything and everyone! so appreciative of being alive! i am returning home in a crazy yet contemplative mood. the next phase of my personal legend is beginning. the brown saucer eyed beauty is but one more inspiration! a cosmic gift to keep me on my fully extended toes!

it's always the way i suppose. the unpredictable and intriguing nature of the art of living. there is always more to learn, always another enriching challenge, and anything is possible. so bloody much to be joyous about!

fond farewell

my final shift at himmat was a bittersweet parting, forced simply by lack of hours in my days and weeks at present. i really didn't want to leave. in all honesty, the whole thing has never seemed much like work. i've met many beautiful people - a diverse set of characters, from the youngest child to the eldest of the organisation. the kids have been brilliant, and i leave with so many wonderful memories of my short time there. many an evening covered in paint, refereeing arguments over the pool table, and drinking copious amounts of tea with my fellow youth workers. two in particular, will be friends for life.

not only have i laughed, learnt and loved during the time spent between these four walls, but i have discovered a new way to live. i have grown, become much less selfish, and finally understood that for me, when it comes to making a positive contribution, it really all starts with the next generation. they inspire me; through them i have rediscovered my own inner child. yesterday, i was touched to receive their goodbye cards, with such lovely spelling mistakes as 'good luck in your egsam miss izzy'. it also tickled me to notice that the other izzy (the male, bearded, muslim one!), had insisted that they all address their cards to 'ms' instead of 'miss' or 'mrs'.

i remembered fondly, an event from the previous week. one particular girl had been reading to me from an english translated version of muslim stories for children. suddenly, she stopped and asked, 'do you like the qur'an miss izzy?' i had to admit that, no, i had never really read the book to be honest. 'what do you read then?' she continued, 'the holy bible?' i shook my head again, no, and answered that i wasn't really religious, although i did quite like parts of the bible and had read it from time to time. the little girl looked utterly shocked, 'not religious? what do you believe in then?!' i said what i believe, which is both everything and nothing - translated to the statement that god is everywhere to me. having no particular name, religion, stories, but being all around us and in us at every moment. she looked intensely relieved, as though i had just been saved from hellfire by the skin of my teeth. 'ah, that's ok then miss izzy, you're right. god bees everywhere'. if you don't come across little kids of pakistani heritage and their slang often, that will be lost on you, but trust me, it was the most adorable thing ever...

so back to the last shift and after work we went for a meal, where i was shown photos of the wedding of my boss neelam's cousin. it had been ongoing for what seemed like weeks, and i was reminded of the cultural diversity and insight into what can seem a somewhat closed community, that i had experienced through working there. despite believing myself to be utterly non-judgemental when i began, i had to admit that the last six months had still provided a steep learning curve. they found me a curiosity, and i them. i loved to hear about their traditions and felt privileged to be included. when neelam said i could join in with the preparations for her wedding, whenever that may be, i was somewhat overwhelmed! a week of practising dances long into the night and elaborate rituals involving covering her in some kind of turmeric paste ... bizarre and brillianT!

i will really miss that place.

characters

i treasure characters:
the joy of eccentricity and
the quirks of unique beauty.
the saffron-robed, shoeless monk
in yorkshire november.
i always remember him
and his echoed reflection.
pete the feet and in turn
a lion-maned one
casting the cloak of
the image in rejection.
their rejection of comfort inspires
and souls reside on the other side
of the thin blue line.
they are questionners.
characters as questionners.
they wander freely as clouds,
through tree-tops
without clocks or any awareness of time,
and a 'character' would share
the tree's stance in politics,
'but you're not a tree, man,' i whined,
missing the point entirely, of course,
in my defensive subjective projection
of another's perceived dejection.

short thought. 2

: the moon and the sun

i go a little crazy around that time. i've experienced some extremely bizarre events by full moon-light. i'm not sure why - but apparently we cancerians are heavily influenced by that great shining orb ... and isn't lunar such a great word? a reminder of lunacy! but what else does a moon remind you of? i think we'd all be lying if we didn't own up. forever and eternity ... the viscount advert - or was it jaffa cakes?! 'full moon, harrrlf moon ... total eclipse!' in strange scandi accent.

and now to the sun. i am interested in plato's metaphor about the sun. u also read a quote yesterday in my spiritual india book, which went like so

we do not require another lamp to further illuminate the sun, when we can simply remove the curtain that stands between us and the sun.

wise words, i thought.

short thought. 1

: feminine things

sugar and spice and all things nice - is that what little girls are made of? what a question. my friend is a big fan of proverbs and quotes, often communicating some nugget of wisdom via text in quotation marks. one of my favourites is as follows:

experience is a hard teacher, because she gives the test first, the lesson afterwards.

he was giving me some advice, since i had been berating myself over some mistake earlier in the day. what interested me was that 'experience' was personified as a woman. what is it about experience that implies femininity? is it that we women are wise?! or does it hark back to the loss of innocence - the day that eve ate the forbidden apple and we were all doomed ...

a prayer to myth and legend

i would like to fulfill my own personal legend. i would like to unlock the door to the recesses of my own soul, my subconscious mind, my whatever it is that is beyond mere linguistic expression. i would like to find down there, amongst dusty chapters or age old myths, a huge, ancient key - slightly rusty and ominous looking. what's in there? a story-board outline of a life, a techni-colour painting depicting the overarching themes? perhaps a simple word - one word, summarising all that i will strive to achieve. or perhaps i will find nothing there - a pure, empty shell where once a legend lived. is jung correct? do we all know instinctively why we're here as young ones, but then forget progressively as we age? and never forget the 'giving up point'. to forget is to live a half-life.

and so, a prayer to peace and to love. to the part of the personal legend in playing it's unique solo in the universes most awesome orchestra...!