I listen
to these stories
you have come
to tell
with your songs
and your poems
and your dance
I listen
to these stories
that you’ve worked
with your clay
and your paint
claimed
with your chisel
I listen
to these stories
that you’ve caught
with your lens
or your brush
or your words
stitched
with your cloth
and wrought
with your iron
or your silver
or your gold
that you’ve cast
with your light
and your silence
and your sound
these stories that
you’ve drawn
with your body
and your voice
and your heart
I listen
to these stories
to feel something new
to hear
or see
or think
something new
some
thing
new
perhaps
remember
re member
something new
I listen to these stories
to be
something new
* * *
I listen
to these stories
that
I
can tell
with my clay
and paint
and light
with my silence
and my sound
that I can weave
with my body
and my voice
and my heart
I make
these stories
I can tell
that you might feel
something new
that you might
hear
or see
or think
something new
perhaps
remember
re member
something new
I tell
these stories
that
we
might
be
some
thing
new
November 2010
Extracts from IN RESPONSE, an anthology of my poetry
During an innovative workshop or a creative activity like dancing, images and impressions sometimes bubble up to the surface unbidden.
My training is in theatre and improvisation; performance is my dominant mode of artistic expression. I have an impulse to perform these thoughts; to speak the words aloud.
illustration
by Sally McKay © 2011
photograph
by Heather Hansen © 2011
the words
we write
the pictures
we paint
the pots
we fire
the theatre
we craft
each needs our
labours sweat
and the contractions
of our heart
we must be
the ancient patient
wise doula
the rigorous focused
skilled midwife
the howling
roaring powerful
birthing woman
to bring
our art
alive
into this world
fragile
flawed
perhaps ten fingers
and ten toes
perhaps
alive
into
this
world
March 2018
I am chewing on
my view of the world
masticating
my worldview
white privilege
middle class
middle aged
cisgender
heterosexual
woman
in the middle
white privilege
the sweat
and the breath
and the moving
gets me down to a place
where I can do the
research
search
search
re search
I am looking for the story
trying to find the story
I can tell
am allowed to tell
the sweat
and the breath
and the moving
help me
search
re search
vision
re vision
re member
the story
I need to tell
in the dance
I can peel back the layers
to re veal
the story
that wants to be told
the sweat and the breath
and the moving
help me
get it down
write it down
dance it down
set it down
the story
April 2018
in Japan
there is an ancient
tradition of repairing
an earthenware vessel
with a seam of gold
fragile precious pot
made new
stitch stitch stitch
when I mend myself
when I put the pieces
back together
when I close the site
of an excision
or an accidental cut
the edges never
meet just right
there will always be a mark
a silver keloidal seam
or deep tissue cording
I will not be the same
I cannot be unchanged
I will bear the
scarification
of damage done
June 2018
I am the map maker
the cartographer
of my own story
tracing the outline
filling in the contours
flagging the high points
pinning down the low
identifying
the gps coordinates
the latitude and longitude
of my life
my own true north
but underneath
deep below the surface
the tectonic plates are shifting
I feel my continent drifting
I may have lost the path
the plot
the plan
I may have lost my way
again
June 2018
the dance
tonight
is a gentle
archaeology
I brush
an ancient dust
off the artefacts
of my story
I am sifting through
the residue
I am sorting through
the detritus
what is left behind
in the afterness
I catalogue
and categorise
archive and list
this shard
of pottery
what did the womb
of the bowl hold
when it was whole
set it down
this flinted stone
what did the
cutting edge
of the knife slice
when it was sharp
get it down
this handprint
in a dark place
in the shadows
of my cave
what does it
signify
what did the mark
mean
when the imprint
was fresh
write it down
retrieve
record
remember
write it down
write it down
write it down
October 2018
the closing
part of the
journey
is the emptiest
quieter
slowed down
drained of all
but the essential
the afterness
the impressions
the music maps
I move through
the last quadrant
letting go and
holding on
spiralling
tracing my steps
through the labyrinth
in and out
out and in
impressions
hand print
foot print
imprint
impress
sift through
the detritus
the scraps
the fragments
spiral and sort
what was stolen
what owned
adopted
made my own
every body
every body part
a part of every body
joints and limbs
heart lung and brain
vital organs
organs of vitality
everybody
every body
can dance
I dance towards
the final breath
last
like first
a portal
September 2019
each of us
stardust
the afterness
the ashes
of an exploded
star
our metal
precious metal
molten metal
forged in
an ancient furnace
what is
birthed | re-birthed
in the flame
what engendered
what regenerated
in the liquid fire
burn burn burn
before we can
ascend
burn
to prove
our metal
burn
before we stretch
our wings
burn
lift off
soar
so close
so very close
to the sun
and there is
danger here
tend the flame
mind the fire
‘what’s done is done…
and cannot be undone.”
no star can be
re-configured
re-constituted
re-constellated
burn burn burn
what I lost
in the fire
irreplaceable
irreversible
irreparable
burnt
scorched
singed
incinerated
sift through
the debris
the grey
the white
the pure matt black
of the charcoal
charred remains
the afterness
the ash
September 2019