What do I know that is true?

It's late. My body thinks it's even later, tired after travelling yesterday and busyness today and this evening.

Liz asked what do we know that is true, and I wanted to respond, and began to write, and I realised that I know these things (above) are true. Right now. I know I'd prefer to trust than not; that I'd rather someone wrote to praise my son for his qualities than to berate him for his faults.

I know that Poetry does make things happen, within me... that the right poem at the right time can crack the heart open and allow pain to flow out.

These words, (I heard them in the Slovene first, and found my face was wet with tears before the translator had even begun to read his version) opened up my heart:

...My mother is sleeping, white in the whiteness, a white face
...with white wrinkles, white with softness. White time shreds
...into white flakes. The moment swells with whiteness. The
...voice falls, falls away into silence....
..................Barbara Korun, translated by Theo Dorgan

So I know this poem is true, that so many poems are true. I know that October is a time of special beauty, with the magical arrival of the whooper swans. This is my truth. Part of it. Bits of it.

I know that words will fail me if I attempt to go any further. I know with certainty that I cannot attempt NaNoWriMo this year. I know that the temptation to settle for NaBloPoMo by way of consolation is a bad idea, running counter to the spirit of Blogging without Obligation, and causing angst about times when I may be away from Internet access.

This weekend just past was a busy poetry-friends-and-family-filled few days. I missed out on the chance to rule the world with Sunday Scribblings yesterday, but I've visited one or two kingdoms in which I wouldn't mind living. I'm rambling. Truth? My brain needs sleep.

'night!

Saturday & Sunday Scribblings, Scraps, Stuff

It's been a week since I posted here, but because I blog without obligation, I know I don't need to apologise for being absent, but I did wish I had time to drop by Writers' Island, and to chase down this week's location for the Travelling Poetry Show, perhaps to post something, or even to say hello to my pals and just say "Sorry not to have time to visit properly". So, even if I know there's no obligation per se, I feel the gap and want to do something to bridge it, if only by waving and shouting "Hi there" as I rush by. When I went looking for this week's Travelling Poetry Show, I found it's winding up too. So whoever feels the urge will just continue to use Thursday as a Poetry day, and post a poetry-related something on Thursdays. I'd like to do that occasionally.
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It's been a busy week. My work's finally moved into gear. It took a long time, but I'm now up to my full complement of work, and it's going to take me some time to get a smooth schedule running.

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My sister came up for a short visit, too, so we had a couple of evenings out, and went visiting. I really enjoyed having her here. I think she needed to come to check that I really, really am ok since losing Trixie. I am ok. I still feel unutterably sad at times, but the times are becoming fewer, and shorter, and I am getting on with all the other things of life that are important for my wellbeing.

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Last Saturday, I spent at a poetry workshop followed by readings in a magical place,

with a crowd of wonderful poets. There was good food, great music, storytelling, candlelight, tears, and it fed my soul in a special way. On Tuesday evening, I got together with my writers' group, and tomorrow, I'll be away to an afternoon of poetry with a few of Ireland's best-loved poets. (Am I a lucky girl? Do I know it?.... Yes!!)

My camera and computer aren't playing nice together, so I cannot post a picture of the lovely gift that the wonderful Kara sent me. She sent one of her creative heart seeds. To hold it in my hand gives me comfort. It is a beautiful little talisman. AND she sent one of her precious daily lumps - a coyote, with just the energy that my heart and home need with the absence of Trixie so present (if that isn't too strange a contradiction-in-terms for you!)right now. I've put these two tokens on my hallway altar, just where I've left Trixie's collar for now. The lovely reaching out of blogging friends has given me great comfort. There have been emails and poems, and I know that many of you have sent prayers and special thoughts my way. I know that it has all helped. Thank you to all of you.

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And now.... There's a word used in the blogging community that I don't particularly like, even though I know it isn't always really used negatively, but LURKING (the word) smacks of something sinister to me, while I know that many people who read blogs without commenting do so for a whole range and variety of reasons. When I first discovered blogs, I read quite a few regularly, but never knew where the space really was for me to step in and say "Hi!". I felt there were groups of people who knew one another well, commented out of a familiarity with the background of the blogger, and that they were welcome to participate in the chat around any post. It felt to me like jumping in would be making myself comfortable in someone's living-room, without being sure the invitation was really there for me. My admiration for the blogs brought me back time and again, and my shyness kept me from saying anything. So I have been a lurker. I still am on a few blogs where I'm not sure what to say. Then there are Typepad and Wordpress blogs that can be just simply awkward to post comments to, and when I try, I end up seeming to be anonymous when that's not what I meant to happen.

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It's a minefield, in other words! And I understand! I have no idea whether there is anyone who visits here that's not yet commented. I don't have a sitemeter or any way of knowing how many "hits" I get. Maybe there's nobody. Maybe there are people who know me, and think I'd be bothered by their appearing here. But if you are out there, and you haven't said hello yet, come on and say hello now. I'm told it's National Delurking Week. I'll choose to call it "National Beat-your-Blogger-Shyness week" and invite you in.

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This week, for the first time in 80 weeks, there isn't a prompt for Sunday Scribblings. Some people are feeling very discommoded in the absence of a prompt, so they've turned the "Sorry, No Prompt" post into a prompt, and in a sense that's what this post has been, too. A weekend post, catching up with no particular focus, but a wish to connect in here, to let my BlogLand pals know I'm doing fine, and to just touch base with some of what brings me here. Now to finish, and try to get around to visit some of you. If I don't stop by, know that I think of all of you, and hope October has started well for you all.

Poetry Reading(s)

Tonight, as part of the annual Earagail Arts Festival in our county, I'll be joining fellow-poets who have been published by Summer Palace Press to read at a wonderful old house in the country. Over the past few years, perhaps I've become blasé about reading in public. I'm blessed with a demeanour that hides any nerves I might feel (people always tell me how "calm" and "serene" I am when I get up to read), and I have come to trust that "it will be alright on the night".

I love to hear poetry read. I love to hear the voice of the poet. I love to hear any few words of introduction they might have. I love to recall moments from readingsI have attended. When I read, there is always someone who comes up to me later to say that hearing that poem brought it alive to them, allowed them to relate to it, to understand something of it in a new way, and I think I've done my job well if there is just that one person.

I didn't always love poetry. At school, the way in which it was taught (and read) turned it into a bore for me. The first poetry-reading I ever went to, I went by accident. Back in 1989? 1990?My friend had a new job, working in administration for an arts-journal, and one of her duties was to make arrangements for the hospitalty for a group of visiting poets. She roped me in to go along and help with the sandwiches. So I did. And I went home and wrote the following poem, dedicated to the women of Killybegs Writers Group.

..........Poetry Reading

We said 'It might be good for a laugh, at least'
Imagine going totally rhapsodic over trees!
Don't get me wrong.
I like trees. Really I do!
But they're hardly that inspiring.

And then, a woman's voice came up
and spoke my heart,
unfurled the rumpled fabric of my life,
in front of all those people.
It was all said in six lines.

Looking around, I saw faces
saying 'She's telling my tale'
and we stood, applauding our lives.
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That night, in the Trades Club in Sligo, a smoky, beer-smelling room, filled with people, my soul opened up to what poetry might mean in a life, in my life, and my life did actually change forever. Where I live now, the friends I have, the journeys I have made, the paths I travel, have all been influenced by that night. My sanity has been maintained because of that night.

Since then, I have attended poetry readings in churches, in fine houses, in arts centres and in hotel meeting-rooms. I have heard Billy Collins, Seamus Heaney, Paul Durcan, Paula Meehan, Wendy Cope, Mary O'Malley.... many, many fine poets read, and there have been magical moments for me in each of those readings, but the memory of the night where I first met real poetry stays with me as the one that was the true gift.

If you don't go to poetry readings, try to find one. If you can't find one, open a book and read a poem aloud. If you have someone to read it to, all the better. If you don't have a book, read a poem from Poetry Thursday aloud. Stand up! Applaud!