Monday, 4 July 2011
When all of Ireland was wooded.
When stories were wrapped in runes.
How far we have come. I test murky portals
into ancient history,
try to enter a time rooted in rock
to touch ancient kin
whose blood is in me.
I face the past as if it was the future,
steer into it as if I head into weather.
The future has my back,
the present is in my hands.
For a time.
Kay McKenzie Cooke
How to use time wisely, how to sieve it for clues, how to record its passing. So much to record, so much to recover.
It's been a pleasant winter so far. Our cats have enjoyed acting like starfish in the pools of sunshine spilling over the furniture and floor. I have enjoyed the lack of grey days. The days are short though; by three-thirty the cool edges return to remind.
I am in a bit of a writing frenzy - in fact I have too many ideas to handle. All I can do is write them down, one at a time. There is only so much time in a day. Life is good.
I have been neglecting this blog for some months. I think perhaps I should face facts and accept that it is indeed time to retire this blog...
Calling all poets -: Just a reminder about the poetry competition currently running at poems in the Waiting Room - go HERE for details. Clo...
The mild winter that we are experiencing has everyone remarking. I put out sugar water for the birds, but so far it has o...
Waipounamu (Wall Poem) Hoisting history on his back like a sugar-sack, the swagger strides along greenstone trails. All night the crib...