For today

It feels odd to look long
At a corpse or a leaf:
It disturbs one's belief.
I found it hard to see my mother's face;
The more I looked,
The more her face eluded me.
I see her perfectly
In dreams, or when I don't try.
The long afterwards
I wonder why I suddenly cry.

Ben Okri
The difficulty in seeing

But the beauty is in the walking. We are betrayed by our destinations.

And you know I won't be satisfied with just a little. I won't watch the misery of my life. Either life gives me everything, or I'll quit.

When we are no longer interested in how we are seen by the person we love, it means we no longer love.

Immortality

High culture is nothing but a child of that European perversion called history, the obsession we have of going forward, with considering the sequence of generations a relay race in which everyone surpasses his predecessor, only to be surpassed by his successor. Without the relay race called history there would be no European art and what characterizes it: a longing for originality, a longing for change,

Immortality

The Wind, the Sun and the Moon

For weeks the wind has been talking to us,
Swearing, imploring, singing like a person.
Not a person, more the noise a being might make
Searching for a body and a name. The sun
In its polished aurora rises late, then dazzles
Our eyes and days, pacing a bronze horizon
To a mauve bed in the sea. Light kindles the hills,
Though in the long shadow of Moelfre
Winter won't unshackle the dead house by the marsh.

Putting these words on paper after sunset
Alters the length and asperity of night.
By the fire, when the wind pauses, little is said.
Every phrase we unfold stands upright.  Outside,
The visible cold, the therapy of moonlight.

Write or Right?

I had been fairly confident that I had produced a carefully planned, well-organised and engaging narrative to discuss why I write for assignment one. That was until I began to read the work of others, which forced me to question whether the approach I had taken was even correct and adequately engaging to achieve the purpose of the narrative: to persuade others to write. For example, I had not told a story with an accessible introduction, a middle that built suspense until the climatic end like Anne from York’s narrative about her husband’s eventful walks. Neither had I selected one specific point or one ethical question to mold a descriptive and captivating story behind like ‘why I don’t write any more’. My unconnected and somewhat disjointed events also differed from that of Yaroslava Roy whose narrative gracefully guides us from childhood up to the present day in their identity a writer.

We were given the same task based on the same question yet each of us interpreted the task differently. Perhaps it’s not a difference in interpretation of the question but a difference in how we came to the answer the question based our own individual causes and personal experiences, which are so varied and rich, to give us reason to put pen to paper or fingers to keys. In fact this was part of the beauty of the assignment: to highlight the ability of writing to cast light on the essence of our souls, each lined with our own unique mix of thoughts, experiences and memories.

For all the diversity found within our narratives I am able to draw parallels and pick out common themes between selected assignments upon further analysis.
Aisling Irwin who wrote ‘Why I don’t write’ shares my perspective that writing can be used to promote issues of justice, morality and social equality. In their care it was the plight of the poor in Bangladesh but for many others the injustices that take place outside the borders of our own countries had featured heavily. It is a common theme in my writing. I ended my essay emphasising the power that written word thanks to the knowledge it carries which can be a catalyst for igniting change. I was comforted that others like Aisling Irwin, who have more experience in using word as the tool for change, still see the value of communicating the injustices of inequality to western readers. Aisling describes both intensely and justly how poverty can drown the human spirit in degradation.
I believe we have a duty to commit ourselves to ensure that the world and those in it flourish. We should strive to live our lives as global citizens to be as rich as the colours of a nation’s flag wrapped around the coffin of a soldier killed in combat: drenched in meaning, weighed down by dedication and responsibility.

I also believe that life’s mission is to find our talent and unlock its potential in order to improve the lives of those who have limited or no access to the resources needed to also reach their potential. This is what motivates to me to get out of bed in the morning, this is what drives me to write, and this is what pushes me to better my own writing. I want to be able to persuade others to write with a similar conviction: to strive for difference, to use written words to educate, motivate, inspire, and ultimately to instigate change.

Brandon Pozernick offers the quote by Ben Mitchell in his assignment ‘I write to say what I cannot speak’ and reflects that we express ourselves more completely and concisely in written word than through verbal communication. The themes I discuss in my narrative: my mothers death, the inspiration of Maya Angelou and the betrayal of loved ones are intimate experiences entwined with similarly intimate emotions that I would be incapable of relating to family, friends or strangers in a conversation. I was comforted to know I am not the only one who writes to convey topics that cannot be spoken.

I think it’s also important to mention what I have learnt through this analysis exercise. I have learnt the importance of focusing on one single point in order to develop an argument or theme throughout a narrative. This helps to hold the reader’s attention without distraction. I find the three momentous events I discussed in causing me to write are enthralling but that’s because they hold personal meaning. I mustn’t delude myself that others will feel the same way without the story being skillfully retold. Moving forward I will spend longer carefully considering and selecting one key point to narrate in my rhetorical essay.

Considering skillfully written narratives ‘why I don’t write’ is written exquisitely. We repulse at the image of the enlarged testicles, we squirm in our seats through the power of Aislings’ details and rejoice in the perfectly selected metaphors that transport us to the taxi scene: we sit along side mother and child. Although it adds to further deprecation of my own attempt, also grounds me: I am at the beginning of my journey as a writer, I am in the opening chapter of my own narrative. I have so much to learn. Writers like Aisling set the standard setting the example of how it should be done, keeping us in the frame but sat below in awe, driving us with the desire to be the best that we possibly can.

Upon reflection and now conclusion to this synthesis, my aspiration is that by working through this course I will better equip myself to challenge, influence and motive others, either to write, to take action or to change their behaviour or the behaviour of others for the good of the wider community, be it locally or globally. My hope is that through the sharing and analysis of our collective works we will all understand to a greater extent the perspectives and realities of others around the world. As argued initially, we will never write for the same cause or utilise the same techniques, format or vocabulary because of our unique and individual life experiences, however my hope is that a greater number of people will now harness their talent for more benevolent and meaningful ends.

“later that night
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt?

it answered 
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere.” 

“every mouth you’ve ever kissed
was just practice
all the bodies you’ve ever undressed
and ploughed in to
were preparing you for me.
i don’t mind tasting them in the 
memory of your mouth
they were a long hall way
a door half open
a single suit case still on the conveyor belt
was it a long journey?
did it take you long to find me?
you’re here now,
welcome home.” 

Poem for a Daughter

'I think I'm going to have it,'
I said, joking between pains.
The midwife rolled competent
sleeves over corpulent milky arms.
'Dear, you never have it,
we deliver it.'
A judgement the years proved true.
Certainly I've never had you

as you still have me, Caroline.
Why does a mother need a daughter?
Heart's needle, hostage to fortune,
freedom's end. Yet nothing's more perfect
than that bleating, razor-shaped cry
that delivers a mother to her baby.
The bloodcord snaps that held
their sphere together. The child,
tiny and alone, creates the mother.

A woman's life is her own
until it is taken away
by a first, particular cry.
Then she is not alone
but a part of the premises
of everything there is:
a time, a tribe, a war.
When we belong to the world
we become what we are.

Anne Stephenson

Making Poetry

'You have to inhabit poetry
if you want to make it.'

And what's to inhabit?

To be in the habit of, to wear
words, sitting in the plainest light,
in the silk of morning, in the shoe of night;
a feeling bare and frondish in surprising air;
                        familiar...rare.

And what's to make?

To be and to become words' passing weather;
to serve a girl on terrible terms,
embark on voyages over voices,
evade the ego-hill, the misery-well,
the siren hiss of publish, success, publish, success,
success, success, success.

And why inhabit, make, inherit poetry?

Oh, it's the shared comedy of the worst
blessed: the sound leading the hand;
a wordlife running from mind to mind
through the washed rooms of the simple senses;
one of those haunted, undefendable, unpoetic
crosses we have to find.

Anne Stephenson, fellow guest at Gaby's Birthday celebration

We need art to live fully and grow healthy. Without it we are dry husks drifting aimlessly on every ill wind, our futures are without promise and our present without grace.

Angelou

Writing Assignment One: the three m's that inspired me to write

I never considered myself a writer until recently. Perhaps only when contemplating this assignment did I try the term out as if it were a new pair of shoes: slightly uncomfortable but hoping they’ll wear in to fit with time. With much regret I dedicated so little of the last 10 years putting pen to paper however that changed a year ago. I want to guide you through my narrative in becoming a writer with the hope to inspire others to explore their own narratives through written word.

I had never understood writing to be something you had to work at: you were either good at it or you weren’t. I used to consider myself an adequate writer or at least someone with a passionate voice, until I began working within in a team of Ivy League graduates from the US (I’m British). I soon discovered I had been fooling myself: my writing was incomparable to those around me. I gave up. I embraced my long meandering sentences, schoolgirl grammar and unimaginative vocabulary; I resigned myself to being average and leave writing to those that were innately good at it.

Looking back there were several factors that changed my literary path leading me to this moment: describing rhetorically why I am a writer with a cause.

Firstly, although outwardly resigned and self-deprecating about my lack of skill, surreptitiously I still held to the illusion that I did have potential but was trapped behind years of neglect.

Secondly, I took a job in marketing for an indigenous women’s organisation, and I was inspired to communicate the mind-blowing work this organisation was undertaking. I wanted to capture, package and send the women’s tear-jerking stories and heart-warming successes across oceans to my western peers, sat comfortably in front of their Mac-books. I felt obliged to give justice to the narratives of women who are forced to leave their rural communities to work in slave-like conditions in urban sweatshops, never earning enough to break free from the chain-laden poverty trap. I wanted to communicate that despite North American trade agreements bringing local economies to their knees there was hope. We as consumers can make a difference by supporting grassroots organisations like AMA (amaguate.org) who offered a viable alternative through the trade of ethically made products. I believe that words carefully selected, arranged and formed into a coherent and persuasive argument will shame and empower people to stand up and change the system crushing our global friends’ countries.  This is often a timely process but written word helps us to educate, inform and empowers our communities.

Thirdly, an unexpected byproduct of this process was the sense of pride I personally felt by producing my own literary creations. Similar to one of the women’s weavings painstakingly sewn with detail for hours on end to create intricate designs, I too had a vision and worked with dedication to create it. Like a painting I splashed a blank canvas with my carefully chosen word combinations, filling it with color and passion in my own unique style, and adding my name at the bottom.

Lastly, in May of this year Maya Angelou died. To me Maya Angelou was more than a writer. She was a link to my past: she was my mum’s favourite poet. We read her poetry together as a young teenager and I would sit and watch her read her rhythmical prose in bed. As a family we selected one of Maya’s poems to read over her coffin on the day of her funeral. Later, I read her poetry to soothe my grief, to inspire my own poetry, and in subsequent years to widen my understanding of what it is to be an African American as a partner to one.

The day the news reached me that Maya had died I unraveled. Maya had been a sturdy six-foot cypress standing entwined between my past and my present, arms spread wide, palms stretched out like star fish; one hand interlinked with my mother’s and one helping to balance me during challenges of my present.

When Maya Angelou died I became unsteady; I felt bereft. I was bereft because of what she represented in my life. It was this realisation that forced me to write about the importance of this magnanimous woman for others to appreciate, using metaphors, poetic prose and detailed descriptions drawn from distant keepsakes in my mind.

It was apparent that writing had assisted in the collection and organisation of memories. As if they were instructions of a recipe that needed putting into the right order to produce an edible dish, my writing had created something tangible out of scattered thoughts. I felt relief, pride and satisfaction in completing such a piece as did my father; happy to see that the hard work and time spent building childhood experiences had not been in vain.

From there on writing became an addiction. I could be found at dawn in front of the glow of the screen, keys chirping like the dawn chorus outside. I lulled myself to sleep with the sound of the mouse clicking to revise the verses and lines I had written previously. I spent weekends deleting miss-spelt words, adjusting lines to flow more rhythmically, adding stops where there were misplaced commas and commas where I had forgotten to pause for breath.  

Since then I have continued to tackle difficult events in my past and present with written word. I contemplate life’s big questions about choices, aspirations, and of course love and its betrayals.

As a spoken word poet explained to an audience I was lucky enough to be part of, ‘poetry can help us find creative ways to process the world we live in’. I would extend this statement to go beyond poetry but to include all forms of creative writing. Maya Angelou wrote, ‘we need art to live fully and grow healthy. Without it we are dry husks drifting aimlessly on every ill wind, our futures are without promise and our present without grace.’ I agree with Angelou and relish in her statement so beautifully described.

Writing is a tool to enable us to lead a more meaningful, thoughtful and conscientious life. It helps us to coherently communicate who we are, the past that shaped us, to reflect on what we are currently experiencing, and how we feel about all of these things. At least this is the case for me.

The question is not whether I consider myself a writer or what is my cause; the question is how I can demonstrate the value of writing to others so they are also inspired enough to write. Perhaps that is my cause.

timorous

of a timid disposition

Supercilious

having or showing the proud and unpleasant attitude of people who think that they are better or more important than other people

insouciance

a relaxed and calm state : a feeling of not worrying about anything

A journey

I listened,
I listened to a dispute unfold and did nothing to prevent it (the so-called peace campaigner).
I saw fear,
I saw fear slowly rise to blind a child’s eyes yet did nothing to clear their vision (the proclaimed empowerer of the public).
I witnessed,
I witnessed a face contort with anguish yet lifted no finger to smooth the lines spoiling the youthful face of innocence (this from a children’s rights educator).
I followed,
I followed the fate of two people: one big, one small backed into an argument they could never win (where was my charitable hand out of the situation? Is that not our role as the benevolent middle class?)
I imagined,
I imagined the history of hurt feeding their fires of contempt and yet empathy wasn't enough to provoke me to intervene, (It appeared I had left it at the office along with my name badge and integrity).
I breathed,
I breathed like a fish under water; my mouth opened and closed trying to conjure the words that would diffuse the fight (my ‘excellent’ communication skills had somewhat escaped me).
I observed,
I observed while words were thrown like knives and yet I said nothing to deflect them (the supposed protector of the vulnerable).
I lied,
I lied to myself that help will come soon; the bus will stop and the argument will dissipate (the foolish illusion that white privilege creates); it didn’t come.
I waited,
I waited, desperately willing the conductor to appear at the top of the stairs (was this not their paid responsibility to care for those within the vehicle?); he didn’t appear.
I was stuck.
Stuck to my chair: my arms hung as heavy as paperweights gluing my hands against the seat.
I gazed,
I gazed in shock, my sheltered eyes fixated on this car-crash novella that entertained so many of the bystanders (for this was their chance to put right all that was wrong in the world).
I remained silent,
Silent; my lips pursed as if distain alone would bring their shouting match to an end.
End? This was only the beginning.
The battle cries grew louder and louder,
the crowd gathered to observe two lost soles destroy one and other (how sad to realize that this is all there was to fight for; two battered chairs and a forest of abandoned litter at their feet.)
Then my opportunity came: the opponents paused for air-
I took my chance and weaved myself around the chairs, the raised stick, the pointing fingers, clenched fists, scorning tongues, pools of tears, the vexed cries and looks of hatred, and fled to the safety of the ground floor.
“There’s an argument upstairs” I stuttered, (a pathetic description of the events playing out on the transiting vehicle)
“Let them argue,” was the driver’s response.
We had been unknowingly thrown into a chapter of Lord of the Flies.

Within this bus painted deep red to resemble a loving heart (yet as cold as a room painted blue inside), compassion had been forgotten,
As for my complicity, how can I forget my own self-imposed inertia? Is my heart so cold that it cannot be compelled to act? 
I had left the bus having done nothing to resolve the situation.

The waves of hindsight may carry an ocean of solutions, yet that day - when it mattered- I was stranded in a sea of inaction.

Inaction: lack of action where some is expected or appropriate.  

3 ways to speak English

http://www.ted.com/talks/jamila_lyiscott_3_ways_to_speak_english

It is a well known fact that men have an unfortunate tendency to avoid paternal duties, to fall delinquent in alimony payments and to ignore their children. They refuse to grasp that children are the very essence of love... In the algebra of love a child is the symbol of the magical sum of two beings. Even if a man loves a women without so much as touching her he must reckon with the possibility that his love may engender an issue and emerge into the world...

Immortality

Milan Kundera

The more indifferent people are to politics, to the interest of others, the more obsessed they become with their own faces. The individualism of our time.

Immortality

On death

I should have written before now but I found it hard to put pen to paper and find the words. I don’t know whether you know but my mom died of cancer when I was 17. I think people think I will have some good advice, I wish I did. I wish I could make the pain go away and offer light at this terrible time. I wish I could write the typical ‘time will heal’ ‘it will get better’. It will but these words fall so flat and far from being an adequate response for you at this time. Death is the most incomprehensible thing to happen to us as human beings. I think it’s something that we can never truly understand or come to terms with. Time will take us further away from the rawness of it but the absence will always be there.

The absence can’t go away: your mum is so much a part of who you are and who you have become. And in this you should find comfort. She got to see you grow up and become the man you now are; she watched you follow your passions and develop them. She watched you enjoying life and I’m sure you spent many times together enjoying times and celebrations as a family. These moments and memories are priceless and will also never go away. This can bring us comfort.

I understand that she passed sooner than you had expected. The same happened with my mom and I felt so robbed that I didn’t get the long goodbye that cancer appears to offer so many families. Where was the time to do all the things we had wanted to do together, the time to say all the things we had never said? But there would never be enough time, there will never be a right time and death will never bring us a better outcome whenever it happens. We have to be strong and assure ourselves that the pure love shared between parent and child is unquestionably enjoyed and reciprocated. The love between a mother and child does not need putting into words because it just exists. You mom died embracing that love and I’m sure feeling lucky that she had enjoyed that love for so long and into adulthood. I hope one day this will bring you comfort.

I know you have such a large, amazing network of people there for you right now (a reflection of your warmth as a friend) but if you ever need an understanding ear; right now, in a few weeks, months, years, you can always write or call. Grief is an ongoing process and there is no cut off point for when we are unjustified to feel hurt and in need of another person’s understanding.

If you find it hard to share with others how you feel (I could never talk about my grief) write your thoughts down on paper. This is something I have begun to do recently and it really helps. Noone needs to read it but it helps in the process of comprehending what is happening and organizing your thoughts in such a confusing time. Just putting pen to paper and writing how you feel can be an unexpected release. It will take some time to feel comfortable doing this if you aren’t used to writing but stick at it or at least give it a try. Alternatively in nature, garden, take comfort from la madre tierra and the solace it can bring.  And hug Ramona, she is the source of so much love and joy. I miss her terribly.

I hope if this letter helps a little but if not I hope at least it has communicated that my thoughts are with you and that there is another person in a long line of others that wants to support and be there fore you should you need anything now or later on.

The Family Business

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2fIn8n9KEo&feature=youtu.be

Horse Chestnuts

A few things struck me this morning as I picked up the Horse Chestnut blocking my path to work. Gleaming in the sun and smooth as a polished oak table I could almost see my reflection in this discarded seed.

I realised autumn is approaching. If conkers have started to fall- the epitome of autumn in any child’s eyes- then we are certainly beginning a new season.

It dawned on me that I haven’t experienced an autumn in five years. I haven’t seen the leaves changing colours then shriveling into deep red sun dried tomatoes hung out to dry on branched lines like crisp starched underwear. I haven’t followed the leaves’ path falling effortlessly from branch to the ground like rocking cradles to create a blanket of protection against the looming frosts. I haven’t watched the nights roll in consuming days like the ivy insidiously taking over our garden. I haven’t observed a winter arrive knowing I can do nothing to stop it.

I try not to reminisce about my childhood, too much has changed, too much is now missing. Yet, in that split second when I spotted this golden gem, I was transported back to being the eight-year-old girl I must have once been. Back to a time when all the entertainment I could possibly want was wrapped up in a green covered shell. I relived that child-like wonder this morning, scrabbling to collect all the fallen treasures in my reach. I carried them in to the office between the creases of my arms and elbows like a first-time parent might carefully cradle a newborn child.

In preparation for the annual conker wars I would laboriously bore holes into these precious stones attempting to push through a string as if it were as simple as a needle and thread. How I avoided severing a finger in the process I still have no idea. I remembered the annual amnesia of childhood hope; forgetting my destiny was to loose in the first round every single year. Not even the nicest of boys would risk their reputations to give me a fighting chance.

I remembered my mum driving me after school in a hopeless search for the biggest, shiniest, strongest chestnuts: my key to fame and trophies. I remembered discovering not conkers but a stolen safe concealed under the branches of a Chestnut tree, evidence in a crime that I was too young to comprehend. What disappointment in hearing that these riches were not ours to keep but boy did we have a story the next day to tell to our friends!

Lastly, at the proud age of thirty when my confidence has finally started to wear in to fit the body with which I was blessed, it struck me that the Chestnut I found today reminded me so very much of something else reclaimed. Tucked neatly away into a padded bed like a solitary pea in a pod, unblemished by the sun’s rays, the weathering wind, the rain, and the hurt of human touch, it dazzles in the sunlight unearthed for the very first time. It is an interesting comparison, one I would not have made at eight years old. I decided tonight this allegory merited writing down.

The more I live, the more I want depth. Depth of familiarity, depth of purpose, depth of friendship, depth of understanding, depth of knowing. I want to tell stories with depth, texture, sadness, humor, triumph and defeat. There is a magic and a mystery in those depths that is utterly missing in superficial declarations, and in the best one-liners. Depth entails complexity. And we want things stripped down to their essence. But the real essence is in the details, not in the generalizations. And it entails investment. It entails grit. It entails hurt. But I don't want to run from it.

Pauline

http://www.ted.com/playlists/87/spoken_word_fireworks

The danger of silence

http://www.ted.com/talks/clint_smith_the_danger_of_silence