Our nephew’s wife, our niece-in-law, is an artist with words, otherwise know as a poet, whose work thrills me. She has given me permission to share this one here. In honour of her poem, Pisces Public Apology, here is a photo of a mobile that my Dad brought me from Mevagissey when I was five years old. I have treasured them for many, many years.
Pisces in pottery
Pisces Public Apology
I’m not a rock, I’m water.
I will never be still, try to understand that.
There will always be a ripple beneath the surface of my clouds
There will always be a reaper in my waves.
I am the child they called Powder Puff,
crying eyes caricature
doggy paddling the riptide
squinting for a dwelling place
in the oasis of my own peace but at the moment,
that pebble
is somewhere downstream.Try to swallow the fact that I
ingest my surroundings and
spit them out in distillate form and
that could be a shower or
hold on to your hats cos
it could just as well be a storm.I know that you want me to stop dissecting the particles in search of a source babe,
but isn’t that the definition of
precipitate?Can you relate to the water cycle,
from pool to vapor to ice and then bled
out by gravity over and over and over again-
Have you ever danced in the rain?
Have you ever tasted water from a glacial stream?This is a public apology.
Don’t get too close to me.
When you see the water rising,
get to shore or I’ll pull you down.Try to understand that I am not
an empty threat,
you will get wet.Your nostrils will burn with the flush of salt.
The sun setting in coral tones behind me
says that the only way to make it is to float.The moon never says anything,
a conductor in silhouette.It’s just the way of the sea,
the rage is under the surface
and rises up like Neptune –
Is my tongue a wave or is it a blade?The sun has seen me sleep serene
beneath his rising,
like a mirror in the dark.He knows I will show you
the red and aubergine vessels,
I will pull on the pumps in
your own heart and you will drown
in love for the rawest remnant of yourself.I am a teal tyrant to be sure
and yet,
in the summer months all of the earth’s children delight in my mischief.They say you haven’t lived
if you haven’t at least dipped your feet or
turned your grinning face skyward in the rain.I am not a rock but I’m a home for
beings too small to even see,
predatory beasts with bloody teeth,
creatures too foreign to even believe.I’m not a rock, but
anyone will tell you,
I am the blue blanket on this
big round boulder,
the source of life for every form and
the finest refinery of every stone.
A Dear Friend from choir who knows my Suffragette history has given me a Suffragette calendar. The following are July’s picture and caption.
