Tender Rebellion

The box

Inside is no place to hide.

It is a pit, a climb—
a ladder with missing
steps

A dark place leading to a volte-face.
Too much introspection leads to death.

Pummeling by mothballs, cedar, toile de Jouy,
whalebone ribs ripping,
tender scribblings on lined paper.

Who are you?

Box or pyramid?

Will you ever let me go?

Inside out
I walk the steps,
up, down,
it doesn’t matter…

Directionless is a new direction,
hopeless is a new goal.

I become adept
at random laughter.

Outside there’s no place to hide,
and all the better for it.

This is what I call an intuitive poem, a poem written in a kind of meditative state in response to a prompt. The prompt is the image you see above. It’s a card from The Wild Unknown Archetypes tarot deck.

It was posted by poet Cassie Fielding on her Instagram account for Alchemical Poetics, a gathering place for poets interested in Tarot Poetry and poetic inquiry into archetypal images.

March 24, 2023

archetypes, Jung, Poetry, tarot
Photoshoot

The giant water lily clears rivals
from the sluggish surface
by brandishing its pale-spiked bud like a morning star.

In the cerulean murk, the bud creeps,
then thrusts upward, emerging
as a monstrous Aphrodite.

Well-armed, the bud jets out,
performs a dizzying choreography
that makes the water seethe.

Victorious, the lily bud claims its spot,
drives spikes into its competition
as it unfurls,

a final burst
of sunlight for life below.
Staring up at the ribbed structure

supporting the glass roof.
The moist air forms crystal drops
on the sitting baby’s delicate skin

that contrasts so nicely
with the scale-like green of the giant lily pad.

Shooting babies on giant lilies is a yearly occurrence at Plantentuin Meise.

March 17, 2023

nature poetry, Poetry
An assembly line robot wants to be a tree

On the wide factory floor, the shiny floor
not scuffed by shuffling feet,
a metal arm stands – bolted.

For all its permanency
and never-ending action, the robot arm
conveys a sadness with the state of affairs.

And it dreams of entropy … .. . .

an energy to take hold of the small particles;
to rearrange them, spinning
in a somewhat different formation.

This could have been: cambium cells fed by hormones,
made by leaf buds,
passed down through the inner bark;

which then slowly gives up feeding and turns to protection.
It builds and builds and protects.
What do robot arms build?

It’s a different kind of forest.

Counting electrons and protons,
one – two – tree
Could it still be?

March 10, 2023

Poetry
After: Relax, you’ve arrived

Not restricted to poems alone, my After series will also occasionally delve into other sources. This poem was inspired by Just One Thing, a newsletter by Rick Hanson.

after Rick Hanson, PhD

the cup I drink from this morning washes up on the shore
the eye that receives a sunrise this morning washes up on the shore
the smile of a friend that lands in my heart this morning washes up on the shore
I step onto the shore
leave the unmet
for now

March 3, 2023

Poetry
Update on The Summer Book Project

In the second half of 2020 I started a book-long erasure poetry and collage project: The Summer Book project.

I have been mining Tove Jansson’s The Summer Book for poetic lines that express the isolation of living with a bewildering chronic illness and the struggle to keep a sense of purpose. This came about after reading a line in the introduction about how “an island can be dreadful for someone from the outside” and how it “has no need of you”. I just couldn’t decide if I’m the person the island has no need of or if I’m the island.

Progress has been slow, because I’m constantly distracted by a million things. Then there was some growth.

I wrote a post a while back “Where to go from here“. I talk about how I realised that this victim narrative was keeping me trapped in my discomfort. So now I’m making a conscious effort to draw out the positive instead of the negative.

I’d like to share some of these newer erasure works with you today 😊

You can also follow my progress on my Instagram page.

Something lovely walked on music, and everywhere was a drawing full of gold.

The minutes poured into her hand and opened up the night.

Follow me. We’re safe on this island.

Calm hours have smooth spines, as sleek and pale as the sea of summer.

A crack turned into a canyon of peace and quiet.

February 24, 2023

bibliotherapy, blackout poetry, chronic illness, Collage, erasure poetry, mental health, mindfulness, Poetry, Poetry therapy
Submerged (a poetic personal essay) @ The Winged Moon Magazine

If you’ve been reading my work for a while, you will have noticed that I don’t shy away from writing about highly personal, and often painful, experiences. I suppose my urge to write has come from a need to get a handle on situations that have uprooted me and have sent me on a journey of self-discovery.

This essay, that was just published for the first time by fellow poet Jai-Michelle Louissen in her Substack magazine The Winged Moon, tells the story of a woman who was set adrift by a creeping chronic illness and a disintegrating relationship. Having grown up on the Belgian coast, I was compelled to use the imagery of a submerged land, called Doggerland, to build a poetic mindscape that mirrored my emotional state during these hard years.

This essay means a lot to me, because of the subject matter, and also because it’s my first proper lyrical essay (in a braided form, to use technical language). It would mean the world to me if you could go to the magazine and read it.

You may be asked to sign up with your email, but it’s free to do so!

I hope you like what you read there! (The other poems and art are absolutely wonderful!)

READ “SUBMERGED” BY CONNY BORGELIOEN

February 23, 2023

chronic illness, lyrical essay, memoir, Poetry