Return

Like a cavern my mind was waiting,

Stripped down walls and a bare floor.

Emptiness surprised me like a well laid trap.

I never see it coming.

The long evenings are new to me,

Fresh, white-pale light stretches on,

I feel very northern and European.

And a little bit foreign.

Looking at the map I am startled ,

I could've lived anywhere else.

Weighed down by these places in which I have dwelt,

Like tent pegs they hold me firm.

Stones in my pockets to stop me from,

Wallowing in that hollow room.

I can use what I learned whilst I loitered there,

In order to fill myself.

I find that there are books on the shelf,

Sharp pencils and drawing pads.

A picture that I didn't see on the wall.

This room's not spare after all.  

Memorial

Inspired by the ice sculptures made to commemorate the first anniversary of the earthquake and tsunami in Rikuzentakata. Photograph seen on the Guardian website: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/gallery/2012/mar/11/japan-earthquake-tsunami-disaster-anniversary?intcmp=122#/?picture=387194335&index=10

Memorial;

Made of ice,

Frozen bird.

Frozen time,

Speaks one man,

Of his heart.

Two-forty-six:

Time of start.

End unknown.

Caught in flight,

Silent birds,

Now cast in ice.

Waiting

Waiting:

Exhilaration.

The countdown starts.

Energy in my feet,

Spreading from my heart.

Floating thoughts in a head,

Occupied by change.

A favourite notion.

Worn like slippers.

I fought it once so hard,

It broke completely.

Consumed me and now rules,

All my decisions.

A promise I made,

Or an old song,

Either way this is me,

Coming back to life.

Kiyomizudera on Christmas Day

A samurai dog,

Small, white, posing,

Enjoying the attention,

Tourists snapping shots,

Calling kawai.

The postman passes by.

Crispy, burnt out leaves,

Hanging on in the cold,

Waiting out the snow,

Shielding the drop,

From the floating floor,

The postman darts through a shop door.

Pottery and green tea shops,

Ice-creams, sweets, biscuits,

Steaming bowls of macha,

Clerks calling in the tourists,

With tasters and a bright grin,

The postman revs his engine.

Kimono and small zori steps,

Bright silks and grey clad men,

Kyoto spread out below,

Grey snow clouds gathering,

Around the surrounding mountains,

The postman dodges a tourist and drives on in.

Castle Cary Station

Sunshine and a strangely crowded platform.
Same old sinking feeling,
Although it was never you before.
Neither of us wanted me to wait for your train.
Remember the old push down windows?
Beeping automatic doors aren't the same,
Though this is the same game.

I used to put my hands over my ears,
As the engines roared and gathered speed.
While you relished the whoosh and rush.
Waving goodbye until it was out of sight.
The empty car unwelcoming as we returned to routine.
You'd be chatting, chatting, chatting.
I'd be watching, watching, watching.

We knew however regular this goodbye it wasn't quite sane.
Parceling up our tiny heartbreaks into ribbon normality.
Twenty years on we remember that practiced neutrality.
Stoicism is key. A smile and a casual see you soon.
Connived pretence that you'll be out to visit.
Not daring more words; that same quick hug,
Since we began living apart.

For a jealous moment I hate all those genuinely casual,
Goodbyes happening around us.
But as it is I turn before there are tears.
The waiting car a sanctuary for temporary insanity,
Before I return to family reality.
In the first few days I don't utter your name.

Now we've turned the corner;
Half way point. We know this bit well.
You; head down, focus on the job in hand and,
Before you know it; normality has returned.
Me; sociable, planning and counting. Anxious to,
See that you know,
I'm coming home.

Christmas Eve

Tinny bell,

Secrets and the dark;

a dusty smell.

Love sketched on my heart.

Santa Claus,

As played out by you,

Second-hand call,

Not that we ever knew.

Powder scent,

Your voice on the phone,

The day you went;

Only the past on loan.

We were made,

To be left behind.

This past decade,

Thoughts of the Christmas-kind.  

NaNoWriMo

I've been absent from this little collection for a while because this year I've entered the NaNoWriMo challenge. National Novel Writing Month but it's a particularly enjoyable acronym I think. The challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days; the month of November. At first the notion is absurd, then somehow exciting. It must be possible. Here is a site that will give me numbers and graphs and show me how much those few hundred extra words a time can make the difference. I'm a list maker and a word count break-downer so it was too good for me to refuse. I want to write everything like this. With a little count down bar that tells me three hundred more words will take a day off of my time. 
The other big bonus (and continual millstone) is that for this to work, and be as painless as possible, I have to write every day. There are no days off. When published authors tell you that the secret to being successful is writing every day I never doubted them but neither did I ever really understand. Whatever else you are, whatever else you do, you are a writer, every day and that sinks into your psyche pretty fast. 
The joy of NaNoWriMo is that you need to get the words down. It's a rough draft and so every day you write. The questions, the should it go this way or this way can't be mulled over endlessly; a decision must be made and the words written down. There's no time for the doubt to set in. All that can come at the end. 
For me it's a chance to write something that I have wanted to write for some time. Last year I travelled to a place where everyone's lives were changed by something big and bad. I've been trying to make some sense of it ever since. I found myself toying endlessly with these half ideas and difficult thoughts and then here I was exactly a year on from my trip and faced with the reason to get on and bang out a story. I chose my point of view, jotted down a few general points of direction and sat down to write. The first two days were heady, I lived a high of excitement that I could finally make sense of this. I could lose myself in my imagination and also in a real world that had meant so much to me, if only for a tiny moment of life. Fusing these two aspects gave me an energy that I haven't written with since my teenage years. I rediscovered what it's all about. Since then of course the day job and real life have intervened making writing feel challenging and occasionally chore like on some days but the story is shaping up and the thoughts are forming themselves nicely. And to think all I needed was a word count stats page to get me going.