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Cover drawings by Sally McKay © 2011

In Response

a secular artist’s prayer

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

IN RESPONSE

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


live birth

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

research

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

Cover artwork by Heather Hansen © 2011

in response | two

kintsugi

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

cartography

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

an archaeology of forgetting

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

in response | three

last like first

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


burn

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



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