A Woman's Gift

We're not supposed to voice our differences,

For fear of fixing each other in stone;

Medusa's shadow is cast upon the wall behind us

as we exchange our gifts;

those ideas and dreams

that we struggle to transform into

living, pulsing, moving entities,

All the time fearing their fragility,

Worrying that they might fragment,

or be disfigured into rigidity.


The female power,

The power that is female,

An energy we have labelled,

Imagining we have identified

All that it is,

Remains hidden deep,

Within the labyrinth,

It's transforming fire

Perpetual light,

Forever flickering,

Through perpetual night.


So here we stand together,

Shifting shadows

on the wall of the cave,

And here is the fire.

And here is my gift.

Feel its weight,

Feel its lightness.

It leaves a space within me,

Carry it with you ever more.

Out of time - a twitter Haiku

Walking alongside,

watching your moves,

feeling like Ginger,

but looking like Harpo.

Out of step.

Out   of
 time.


Success in failure.

Me in a Hat

Picture this; I’m leaning across a pile of clothes in a boutique,

feeling the brim of a hat.  A middle-aged lady, out of place

though not caring,  

so thrilled by the appearance  

in actuality

the re-appearance,

of a hat.

Look again.

I’m on the cusp of old age

I’m familiar with these things

Styles come and go

and come again.

They’re usually in different materials, 

which adds to the effect that

this is not real.

Style as an affectation

It’s an illusion

But this hat,

with its black, slightly wavy brim, silk ridged ribbon round its crown

is the same hat

made of the same soft felt.

Hat incarnate

that I wore throughout my early teens

which collided with the early seventies

(a sepia-toned time when Laura Ashley was queen.

May she rest in peace)

Transported,

I felt its felt 

and thought about the time I travelled

on the train with my friend in the day

to dirty Manchester in the rain.

Me in that hat.

We arrived in the pub

Incongruous in our precarious

Silly elegance

Our two lads so sheepish and cocky in their scruffy best.

I kept looking across to the spartan houses 

with their small high windows,

and their dearth of gardens,

(we were wealthy in gardens),

then across to the drinking men,

mainly men, in the middle of the 

Saturday on the outskirts of grainy Manchester.

We were young, in love with life

A rich tapestry we were told,

To keep us going.

I am nearly old now, 

but I still

get a thrill

out of wearing that hat,

in my garden,

or, occasionally,

On a Saturday,
And usually

in the rain. 

If I ever get a tattoo

If I ever get a tattoo,

It would be the symbol of a heart,

Cut in two,

An empty outline,

Drawn in red,

Or maybe blue,

Divided in half,

One for each shoulder.

Yes, you felt it coming;

Two teardrops,

To remind me of you.

Trilogy - Encounter No2

No. 2  Resolution of a kind

Some time later. Maybe a year. Stella will sit in the designated waiting area, watching people and trying not to look as if she is. A young woman will park her bicycle outside, come through the double glass doors and sit down opposite her with one leg under, then take out a book. Stella will discretely study her and think that she looks posh. There are certain clues to indicate this. A smart shortish dress with blue stripes, short, chic haircut will be the main ones. These, along with the bicycle which she will have noted has a basket on the front. Stella will wonder about the bike. Is it common to ride bikes round here ? Like Cambridge ? The girl will start chatting to one of the girls on the reception desk. Stella will wonder why she has come into this place since it is currently being used for interviewing prospective students. It is obvious that she is already a student or employee at the university by the way she knows the girl on the reception desk. She will wonder if she's going to take over her job at some point.

The relentless drone of the video advertising the success of the university will annoy Stella to the point of her nearly going outside for a break, but she will resist, knowing that her daughter will notice if she leaves and this may unsettle her.

Her daughter will be involved in an interview. It will be conducted in an open, group session far down at the other end of the room and Stella will be able to watch how the lady with the very short grey hair looks up admiringly at her daughter who is much taller than the lady and she will notice how the lady looks particularly at the delicate expanding tattoo style choker that her daughter will have put around her neck for the occasion.

Then, a couple will come noisily through the double doors, struggling with a large portfolio, several files and a giant unidentifiable structure made out of what will appear to be paper mache and chicken wire. Stella will presume this is a piece of art that one of them has created and she will think, disparagingly and unkindly, that it looks hideous. She will watch as they wrestle with it all and they try to explain their business to the friendly and courteous receptionist. Stella will decide that the female is about 17 and the bloke about 30 odd. Stella will take in the dishevelled shoulder length badly dyed pink hair, tight drain pipe jeans, old pumps and revealing skimpy top of the young woman. She will notice and raise an eyebrow at the way the bloke keeps running his hand up and down the girl's back, side and bottom and how he keeps chipping in and interrupting when the young woman tries to answer the receptionist's questions. She will also take note of the fact that the young woman doesn't seem to care about these two facts, which will be indicated by the way she keeps nodding and smiling at the bloke.

While all this is taking place, a huddle of young people will shuffle out through some kind of exit barrier which is situated at the opposite end of the interview section and seems to be the entrance to the college facilities. They will all be dressed in an interesting and arty way and will be laughing and talking to each other confidently as they move through the waiting area together and leave through the glass entrance doors. Stella will think how affluent and posh they all look and sound, despite their apparent scruffiness and will sigh a little sigh to herself. As a wave of anxiety washes over her, she will take a surreptitious side-long glance at the interview end of the room to see if she can still see her daughter. She will have to scan around, however, before she will find her now sitting at a round table with some other young people, apparently taking part in a discussion. Her expression will be pleasant and smiling, but Stella will know that she feels intimidated by this situation and another wave of anxiety will wash over her.

The young woman opposite will get up suddenly and, stuffing her book into her little leather backpack, rush out of the exit doors, smiling a brief farewell to her friend on reception. Stella will see her through the glass doors, rapidly unlocking her bike and wheeling it quickly across the road in the same direction as the group of young people. The bloke's voice suddenly will then draw her attention back as he fires questions at the receptionist about some course that the girl he is with seems to be applying for. She will strain her ears to try to understand the situation being described and although she knows her imagination and prejudices are filling in the gaps, she will deduce that the young girl is trying to get onto a course that she is not really qualified for and that the bloke accompanying her thinks he can assist by being bullish and pushy. Stella will see the receptionist ask them to take a seat and then she will go through a door located in the wall behind Stella and be gone for some time, leaving the reception desk unattended.

Stella will scan the end of the room again to see how her daughter looks. She will catch her smiling and nodding as someone else speaks and then laughing at some remark another person makes. Stella will wonder if her daughter is really as relaxed as she looks and will decide to ask her as few questions as possible afterwards. Slightly to the right and over the other side of the waiting area, Stella will catch sight of the couple kissing and manhandling each other as they wait for the return of the secretary. Stella's stomach will churn in response to this.

Some few minutes later, the secretary will emerge from the room behind her and go towards the canoodling couple. Simultaneously, the group interview session that Stella's daughter is involved in will end and the students will stand, draw back their chairs and move back towards the interview area where they will have laid all their art work out at the beginning of the interview some half an hour ago. Stella will watch as her daughter, still listening to another student who is looking up at her and talking, shifts her tall frame elegantly as they negotiate the obstacle course that is composed of chairs and tables. Out of the corner of her right eye, Stella will notice the girl return to her reception desk and the bloke get up after kissing his girl. She will not have any difficulty hearing his booming voice explain to the receptionist that he has to leave now to attend an interview himself for a job in the area and will leave through the glass doors, waving at his girl who will now be hunched over herself, chewing her thumb nail. Stella's stomach will churn once more at the sight of this.

After some indiscernible amount of time, Stella will see her daughter walking rapidly towards her, carrying her portfolio and the carrier bag full of sketchbooks. She will wear what Stella will recognise as a frozen smile on her face and Stella's stomach will churn for the umpteenth time. Stella will rise and hold her hand out as if to take the bag of sketchbooks from her daughter, but her daughter will say no it's ok she can manage and will lead the way out through the glass doors, barely stopping to say a brief thank you to the girl on reception.

Stella will follow suit and have to almost run to catch up with her daughter as she makes her rapid exit and heads off across the street, hardly looking for oncoming traffic. Once by her side, Stella will look side-long up at her daughter's face and see the tears welling in her eyes. Come on, get me out of here, her daughter will say quietly and, Stella recognises, with suppressed anger.

These things take time to anatomise. As a parent you learn not to pry or to react too quickly. Well if you don't, you'll never get to understand anything at all. During the 180 mile drive home, Stella will talk about everything in the world except the interview. Her daughter will remain quiet and look out at the passing relentless monotony of the East Anglian countryside as they drive along the only road out of Norwich which is the endless A47. By the time they get to Sheffield, she might start talking about how posh and intimidating she found the woman who interviewed her. Stella will remember how admiringly the woman had gazed up at her tall and elegant daughter, but, of course, won't reveal this memory to her daughter. And so the gradual unravelling of experience in parallel will unfold on the long journey home.

Trilogy - Encounter no 3

No. 3  Go. Never return, though you will live in my memory forever

Just over thirty years ago to this day, Stella had been happily cooking in their second floor flat. She was alone, listening to loud music, enjoying trying out a new recipe. The banging on the door interrupted her calm. It was dark and she wasn't expecting anyone and the banging was a bit louder than you'd expect, but she felt relaxed and thought maybe she hadn't heard them knock the first time over the music. The shadow looked tall through the glass in the door. Who can this be she wondered as she opened the door wide to find his fist poised to knock again. He lowered it slowly as she appeared in front of him. His lingering gaze took her in from her toes to her hair. She drew back slowly, closing the door slightly. " Can I help you ? " It was, of course, utterly the wrong thing to say. He looked at her lazily. After a long pause he responded in a deep, heavily accented drawl : " Is Raoul in ? " Relieved she can answer; " No-one of that name lives here. We moved in a few months ago. " He was still looking her up and down. He was wearing a shabby suit. The kind you'd find in a second hand shop. A bright yellow and red shirt under. His beard extended to his chest and his dreads were thick and slightly grey and caught up high on the back of his head. She couldn't see his eyes properly behind his thin blue tinted specs. She suddenly wished she wasn't barefoot for some reason. " Benny ? " He tries.  He's not going to move. " No, just me and my boyfriend, sorry. " She closed the door as quickly as would seem polite, but he remained standing there.

As she walked back into the kitchen, he knocked again, quietly this time. She hesitated for some moments, then, drawing herself up, ready to spell it out to him, turned and opened the door, this time only a crack. There was no-one there so she opened it a little wider to check.  He leaned in slowly, his back peeling off the wall, his face looming towards her. He was wearing some kind of top hat now. Startled, she leapt backwards and slammed the door.

She retreated to the back of the hall, watching his shadow through the glass. Her heart beat strongly, but she felt ready. His shadow moved away and she moved into the kitchen, cautiously. She went to the window and drew the blind slowly, watching for his silhouette behind the curtain. It was pitch black outside on account of the light being broken. She went into the front room to turn the music down and then back into the kitchen and started to cook again, cautiously. All her senses were on high alert.

When the thumping started, she began to feel fear rising in her throat. What to do ?  Shaking, she turned the cooker off and the light in the kitchen, then went into the front room. There was no other way out but the front door and she knew it wouldn't hold if he wanted to break it down. Surely though, he wouldn't be that mad. It might be that he just didn't really understand her. His English might not be good. His accent was thick. She knew she was making excuses and picked up the phone. The thumping remained steady and dull. Who should she call ? Her boyfriend was in another city recording and probably unaccessible. She decided to call her friend. For moral support and advice. The ringing sounded as if it was echoing in an empty room and it went on forever. Time stretched. She began to feel dizzy with fear. It sounded as if he was going to try to kick the door in now. Panic stricken, she thumped on the wall to try to get her neighbour's attention " Boo ! Boo ! Help me !". The sound of her own panic-stricken voice shouting help intensified her fear. She shouted again, then decided to try to pull herself together and work out a plan.

She sat down and rang the police. The police station was within sight of the flat. They could send someone quickly. The person at the other end of the phone was maddeningly calm and slow. They wanted detailed information. Was it a boyfriend was the question that struck fear in her heart. By then, she could hear the door juddering in response to each kick. The police think it's "a domestic". They're not going to come. She puts the phone down mid conversation and decides to ring the studio anyway. Her voice is shaking and becoming hysterical as she leaves a message on reception. The girl is concerned, asks her if she's rung the police. She decides to ring them again, but not before trying to raise Boo again. She wishes they had a phone next door. She gets a pan and hammers loudly with it " Boo ! Boo! Come round I need your help ! " Pausing to listen, she realises the banging has stopped. Edging towards the door, she thinks she can hear voices. Plucking up the courage to go and peep at the front door, she sees two shadows behind the glass now and hears the low murmuring of a discussion. Suddenly, the letter flap flips up and Boo's voice calls through " It's ok. I'm here now. Open up " She nearly cries with relief, but the adrenalin's still pumping. Still holding the pan, she cautiously opens the door.

He's stood there, next to Boo, looking seven foot tall in that bizarre top hat thing, grinning at her, maybe maliciously, maybe mockingly. Boo's girl friend, in her pyjamas, is standing in the doorway of their flat, looking serious. Stella marches past Boo, rage replacing fear now and, brandishing the pan at him, lets loose a tirade that comes from somewhere deep within her and his face takes on a look of astonishment. He may not understand her stream of consciousness diatribe, but her wrath is evident.

After she's emptied her pit of rage, she looks him directly in the eye. "Go" she commands, pointing in the direction of the stairs. He remains. "Go ! " I've called the police and they'll be here soon. Suddenly, she doesn't want him to be here if they do turn up. Boo and his girlfriend are looking at her, bemused, but perhaps also with approval.

Eventually, he saunters off with a nonchalant swagger, pauses at the top of the stairs and turns to raise his hand to her ; " You one angry lady. Seems like you could kill someone. Look out for yourself ". Then he trots lightly off down the stairs.

Stella slowly drops the arm brandishing the pan. She turns to Boo and says, her voice full of bewilderment " What the hell was he doing ? What did he want ". Boo is studying her face closely. After some time, he replies " He wanted you of course. He wants you. "

Trilogy - Encounter no 1

No. 1  I speak, you rise and turn to me.



 "Sorry ! ," she quickly pulls her umbrella up and away from his face. He, rising to his full height, looks her straight in the eyes. First in her left eye, then in her right. She's wearing her new spectacles with their dark thin red metal frames. They make her eyes look quite small but they seem to draw people into them. He smiles. Like dawn breaking. "That's ok. They're dangerous those things, " he speaks, nodding towards the umbrella. She blushes slightly and pulls the thing away to the side, folding it deftly down.
"I don't need it. It's stopped raining. " He continues to look at her. Quite brazen really. She gestures to the shop window he's been squatting in front of before she nearly knocked his eye out ; " I love this shop. " She doesn't really, but it diverts his gaze. It's a small shop. Charity shop. Its window is always absolutely crammed with the strangest array of things, some of them so tiny and apparently insignificant that she wonders how people would be bothered to collect them up and bring them here. Like that tiny pottery rabbit. So small it wouldn't even stand up. Such a mysterious little thing to have made and bought and taken the trouble to bring here to be re-sold to someone else. The kind of thing Ella would have been utterly enchanted with as a child and begged her to buy.

"Yeah. He's a good guy, Dennis. He does some good stuff." He turns to look in the window also. She looks up at the name of the shop " People's friend ". Not very clear what the charity is in aid of from that. She hasn't noticed before. Looking back at him as he peers in at the vast hoard of knick knacks, boxed games, oddly sized glasses, old shoes, drab dresses, crocheted baby clothes, garish soft toys, china tea set, two vases, one clear glass, one green glazed pottery, and lots and lots of books, she wonders at his interest. There doesn't seem to be much there for him, except maybe the books. There were sometimes records in there.

" I always pop in when I come to the library." He nods towards the big seventies composite stone and glass building opposite.   She spent so much time in there when the kids were little.   And before.  She hasn't been in for a few years now.  It's a bit noisy and the books didn't seem to be as well looked after as they used to be.   That last time, she'd been looking for an art book and had found a whole row in complete disarray, crammed in any old how, some pages turned back as they'd been shoved roughly in-between each other. It had really upset her. " I come once a week to deliver some sample books to Howard. The head librarian. " He's staring at her again. She thinks to test her reaction this time.

She thinks she knows what she looks like. She can see a vague reflection of herself in the shop window. Her long black coat, flat black suede boots and the bright blue pashmina scarf that her friend gave her from China, rippled and dim amongst the bric-a-brac. Her hair's looking slightly unruly today. She hasn't been able to straighten it so it's almost triangular shaped. The specs are quite distinctive. A nice shape. She feels demure, quiet, but not too austere. He stands out in his bright red waterproof. The kind you'd wear on a stiff hike. Khaki coloured cargo trousers, stout boots, also as if he was going walking and those black dreads, falling over his shoulders. She isn't going to ask him why or what his job is. That's not something she ever does. " I used to take my kids in there all the time," she says, in stead. He looks at her left hand, holding the folded umbrella. Is he actually looking to see if she's married ?! What age is he ? Surely not her age. Although her age is a bit difficult to determine she likes to think, her clothes kind of give it away. " Oh ! do you have kids ? " He's mocking her slightly now. She hasn't worn a wedding ring since she lost it. She stares blankly at him. Is his eye twinkling as he says " I've got a daughter. She lives with me. She's going to move out soon though to go to college ." The relief. A safe topic. " Really ? What's she going to study ? " she replies, just a tad too quickly. Again, that look. He has a way of lifting his chin. He's quite a bit taller than her. His demeanour is proud. His gaze open and direct. " Sports psychology. She's very ambitious. And smart." At a loss, she replies with her standard, clipped, polite " That's interesting." Then, somewhat stupidly; " she's into sport then ?". By now, he's openly grinning. " Yes....." he laughs " She is into sports. High jump mainly. But she wants to be a sports psychologist and make a lot of money. She's got her head screwed on the right way." By now, she thinks she'd like to escape, except not really. "How about yours ?" She searches around in her brain for some words to make some semblance of sense with ; " I have a daughter too, she's in sixth form. My son finished his degree last year and came back home. "   "What did he study ? "    " English. English literature. "  His eyebrows rise and his mouth forms the O of a whistle. " Heavy. Heavy stuff. What's he doing now ?"  " Not a lot. Reading more.  Thinking.  Wondering what to do next. " He tilts his face a little. Looks her more closely in the eye but from a different angle. She's hardly blinked since they began their conversation, and now she's totally locked into his gaze.  " He wants to get out of his room. Don't let him stay in his room. It gets harder and harder to get out. I know what it's like ,",  he says, suddenly speaking with a distinctly Jamaican lilt. It sounds soothing. Caring. Fatherly. She smiles weakly back at him, the corners of her mouth turning upwards more naturally than they've done for months and months. "Yes. You're absolutely right. He should. " He extends his hand to her. " Benjamin Thompson." She takes it. He folds his fingers around hers with a warm and gentle grasp. Her hand is cool and thin inside it. " Stella Robinson " she replies. He pauses a moment to take it in, then; " Very pleased to meet you Stella Robinson ." Their hands, lingering, part, and, slightly dazed, Stella waves her pale, slender hand vaguely towards the library " I may see you again sometime ". She can't say his name. His broad, brightening smile again. " Oh you will. I know we'll meet again Stella Robinson". He raises his hand. She hesitates, thinking he's going to high five her, but doesn't make the reciprocal move. Then suddenly he's off, turning on his heel and striding down the road, hand held up with his back to her.

She turns back to the bus stop, glancing over at the library, then down the road again after him, searching for his red coat amongst the drab crowd.

Dicho tomy

                                                    Dicho                                                               tomy

                                                    two parts                                                       cutting



                                                                      The beautiful mystery

                                                                       that leads to growth.

                                                                      A division of parts;


                               branching                                   and                                            branching.



                               The one that cannot be                                                                  the other,

                                                                            or part of it.

                              The essential nature                                                                           of life.


                              Not Yin Yang,                                                                   more the moon in

                              its first quarter,                                                              then its third quarter.


                             The one that                         complements                                       the other.

                             The dance of a couple                                                  where neither touches.

                             The one place here                                                     and the other one there.

                             The never the twain                                                                shall ever meet.

                               Unless the universe reveals its other laws to us and growth takes on

                                          an                                                                               other



                                                                                 p
                             a                                                  t                                                                   t
e                                                                               r                                                                               n

Not what we do. The power of no thing.

The what we choose not to do.

The torn up shreds,

Emptied like confetti.

The erased image that leaves a shadow.

The thinking about

And the forgetting

The remembering

Then the putting aside.




The thought                                                                                                            The action



The choosing                                                                                                        The action/non action



The intention                                                                                                        The consequence



The thought                                                                                                         The non-action



Void                                                                                                                     Void

Another Picture

I am a camera,

You are the screen.

I project and

reflect upon you.



Imagine 2 pictures,

propped against some attic wall,

our images changing

in this hidden room.



I want to take 2 canvases,

and each with one brush,

take turns to paint our images;

respond to each other's strokes.


Show me what you see.

Reflect upon me.

We can share each others' vision,

Become each others' screen.


Imagine the hidden pictures

transforming as we work.

An evolving parallel,

only accessed in our minds.

Honey thoughts out loud.

Watching a bee lazily drifting today.

It settles on the tiniest lavender flowers,

I read they're attracted to blue,

though lavender is it's own colour.

Pondering if the power of its scent

has also drawn the bee to it's nectar.

Smells are very compelling;

sometimes more than the look of something.


Wonder where its hive is.

Humming the sound of purposeful activity there.

Is there honeycomb within.

Some people don't like honey.

Its texture and intense sweetness with it's own

particular flavour underlying it,

depending on where the bees have been,

requires open-minded taste,

like wine, or olive oil, or water.



Come to think;

everything we eat or drink has the essence

of it's origin within its taste.

Sometimes its more perceptible,

than others.

Sometimes it takes a lot of practice,

to discern it.

Perhaps the produce from the polylectic bees,

has a more complex, delicate taste,

than the intense flavours gathered,

by the oligoleges.


Whatever sort, however beautiful,

and delicious,

Vegans won't touch it.

Others who think about the way it's made won't either.

Coming from an insect's bottom is possibly

a bit off-putting,


if you let it be.



But the purposeful wandering of the bee,

attracted to flowers,

snuggling into snapdragons,

roaming over the moorland heather,

luxuriating in the masses of red campion

along the hedgerows,

loving the aquilegia;

(if they waken early),

and the buddleias that tower absurdly

high in gardens and out of walls,

gracing wasteland,

alongside the graceful nettles;

butterfly nurseries;

(even they have their flowers)

is a magical thing.



Bees have been revered

even worshipped,


justifiably,


since humans discovered their honey.



Up in the trees,

different types of bees,

drawn to apple and cherry blossom,

alder and blackthorn flowers,

even the hollies,

and the ubiquitous sycamore

hold nectar and pollen,

precious and nutritious

to bees and so, by proxy,

to us.


The honey made from the bees

whose work is to pollinate Manuka trees,

is surely the most prized and expensive honey

of all,

and said to have antibiotic and healing properties.

Slathered on wounds,

it keeps the germs at bay.


Thinking of soldiers,

clutching honey-spread bandages.

Did that ever happen?

Or was honey too fine a thing

to be found on a battlefield.  


We watched the Baka people waiting

for the honey gatherer.

Shinning up the tall straight trunk

of an enormous tree to reach

the bees' nest with his smoking torch.

Such skill and bravery,

to risk one's life,

in pursuit of the prize of honey.

The others, waiting anxiously,

excitedly at the foot of the tree.

My small daughter, watching

the film with me, gasping

as some bees, not made sleepy

by the smoke,  bombard the gatherer,

who calmly wafts at them with the torch.



How she wanted to live like them.

Me too. Fishing and cultivating plantains,

and singing and waiting for the honey.

Just once a year.

Gorging on the comb.

Beautiful golden treat.



The wealth of bees,

their gathered gold,

how we steal it,

to rectify our ills.

Heal our souls even.

Maybe they make it especially for us.

A body's heart's ease,

for time everlasting.