2014 was a year…

it was a year that asked to be

buried

or burned on a pyre 

constructed from the shyte

that held my year together.

Or was it …?

Surely there was more to it than that?

Surely there was a before and an after?

Before was wintertime.

Before was the joy of the city of big shoulders,

the invitation to excitement desired,

hope retained,

an event looked forward to.

There was a new year

full of hope

a future to celebrate with Revolution.

There was a period of time

when I prospered.

The joys of March.

Days when my lover’s offer 

came to Cork

were an unmitigated blessing

– before that offer was too much.

All those early days,

all those days before the French holiday,

before the paintbrush 

wiped away the smile from my face 

– I sat by a stream.

I imagined the whispering flow

of water over stone.

I imagined paint on canvas

and fell down in the field

during the drama of women

confronting the god.

Oh how terrible that field,

how awful

until 

months later.

Bless Netflix, bless Breaking Bad.

You were so wonderful.

Where would I have been without …
______________________

Composed on 31 December 2014

“To fly in the clouds and winds with me, and play with the measureless light” – Walt Whitman “Song of the Banner at daybreak”

Tis time for daisy-chains and dandelions,
the thrush with gangly legs has gone to wind,

hostas, risen, pushed aside the shale,

and clover back to torment dreams of lawn.

There’s a cherry blossom behind my back,

the baby oak’s grown leaves on time

………………… in rowan and hawthorn writ

with showers for ink, lavender for paint.

The black dog tastes an apple core,

licks the fly and sucks for more.

The black dog’s in the grass,

…………… paws, panting fast.

She sleeps below the windline stretched,

out of senses, out of mind,

no rush to untangle the rest of the deep.

The black dog’s dead. The black dog’s dead.

The daisy chains are broken,

the dandelion’s divine.

There’s a place we know as light.

There’s a home we know is right.

_____________________

Unfinished:  you see the bits that I’m sleeping on. Waiting to approach this fresh.

The two poets who give me quotes these days are Wslt Whitman (1819-92) & Mary Oliver (1935 -).

10 reasons to love @ClaireWad

1.  We all love travel

2.  We all love Paris & the idea of Paris

3. We love women who listen & attend

4.  We love to be educated

5.  We love to experience another person’s style

6.  We love stories of a day in the life

7.  We love someone being a bit riske

8.  We love people who are generous towards others

9.  We love daybreak & sunset

10. We love people who are reliable

______________________________________

Claire Waddington live streams from Paris on Periscope – every day. Her Twitter name is @clairewad. Right now she is visiting her dad in New Zealand

The background poets in the English Market

It would be easy to miss the poets

in the Farmgate Cafe

encased behind glass

as you sip espressoed coffee

on a Saturday afternoon

in the English Market.

Poems slip by without fuss,

prefer to let you pass

until you’re ready to listen

to your breathing heart

– the minute they sense you ache

for a set of fingernails

with which to grip on to fragile life

ticking like a fading metronome.

Poems are used to coffee drinkers

who turn their backs on them.

Poems become taken forgranted

even when handwritten and hung.

Poets never have the last laugh.

Ink fades gradually away.

I wonder whether the spirits stay

hidden among fushia encased in a water jug.
____________________

This was composed in the English Market Farmgate Cafe in Cork Ireland in May 2015