I met a Muse who sent me back
To the hall of poets, bearded painters…
I live with a musician still,
Yet I left them in my mind;
Left for the realm of Insubstantia,
Dwelling where it’s not substantial,
Doing jobs that have no substance
With the worldly kind.
Where to go that’s free and open?
Go to the Bohemian crowd,
Join in with the voice they speak in
When at last they’re skilled and proud.
See the world the way they see it,
Be the change the artists wrought,
Linked to them in their endeavours,
With them once again in thought.
Weed under the duck pond: twisted, strangling, dank.
I dived beneath the surface, and it tugs and grabs at me.
Ellis sent me down here and told me to stay under.
As this is meditation, does that make it a dream?
I drew her by the pond and I meditate here sometimes.
She said I need the other aspect: swimming underneath.
The languid, shadowed water fills my mind with green.
I love the green in plants, but slimy pond bed green?
it slaps against my face, so I feel but cannot see.
I count the moments under here, but my time sense is gone.
Is she satisfied? The surface looks so far above.
The pond bed has so many bumps- they feel so slippery;
It seems too thick and soupy for a fish or newt to live.
Now I will associate the pond with murky sludge
As well as sunlight sparkling on the ripples at the top.
Is that the other aspect that I’m supposed to see?
I’ll have to break the surface now; I’ll start to feel I’ve drowned.
I’ve been riding the Big Dipper here in this fairground for weeks. I know every dip on this ride, every shudder and plunge. All I remember is that I wanted my life to get better, and it would only improve if I switched to the carousel.
I took a leap from the Big Dipper to the carousel, flying through the air with my straw-blonde hair and long cut -up dress streaming out behind me. When you launch out into the pure air you give yourself over to the buoyant winds. Anything can happen in mid-air, but it usually doesn’t – not to me. Usually I land exactly where I plan to go. No-one saw me jump; why can only sparrows see me?
As I climb on the carousel and mount a horse, I notice there are horseshoes printed all over the poles and floor like a trademark. Round and round I go on the carousel, merging into the past and future as I spin around. All times meet in the pit of dust churned up by the carousel as it spins. Why can only sparrows see that now I’m riding the Big Dipper and the carousel both at the same time? That’s what I knew would make the difference, yet I don’t know where I am now as it all rushes past in a blur.
I stand and eat a toffee apple in the deserted fairground and wave- to whom ?
Cinders sounds soft and brown
Like cinnamon and cocoa.
Words are musical notes that tap:
Icing sugar, circle, sprinkle.
We are baking gingerbread men,
Softly sifting words.
Curl them round your tongue and speak:
Poem crumble, crust encircled.
Take the biscuit, spell out purpose:
Teatime number crunching verb.