The Sleeping Giant

What a gift to be reading/listening to this book now.

Even though it was published in 2017,

it is relevant for today.

In my world, she is describing the River of Goodness.

It is vital we remember and cherish this.

Another fitting quote:

“Paul Goodman famously wrote, 

“Suppose you had the revolution you are talking and dreaming about. 

Suppose your side had won, and you had the kind of society that you wanted. 

How would you live, you personally, in that society? 

Start living that way now!” 

I believe we've been doing this...and we will carry on

and overcome that which does not serve dignity for all.

kastilwell

 

Flight Paths Ending

"...my mother gave me a gift containing only air,

only a scent to breathe once and never again--

something familiar but undefined, 

a secret that could not be spoken 

but brimmed with memory and atmosphere all at once."

I read this line several times mulling over its meaning.

When I saw "mother" as Earth, my breath caught in my throat.

"my mother gave me a gift containing only air"?

Only air?  

After covid, haven't we all recognized the omnipotence of air?  

Haven't we come to deeply appreciate the "simple" act of breathing?

"a secret that cannot be spoken".

This "brims" with an air of mystery and invisible power.

 Like coming home to a place you sense is there

but haven't yet walked through the door.

You're standing with your hand on the knob

envisioning the welcome opening inside you.

"...the secret of being without validation..."

Being at home inside yourself

without need for followers, views or clicks.

Friendships are the rare treasures of your existence.

"We are all born a secret.  Maybe life is in learning 

to set it free."

Yes. Yes. Yes.

kastilwell

 

Flight Paths Three and Four

"I can fly but my words cannot."

Some words do fly.

They begin in the heart of one person

and fly through the ether

by various means of transport

from one person to another.

They carry invisible vibrations

only other hearts who are listening can hear.

Sometimes it takes years or eons

for those words to land on the cochlea of another;

  dropping seeds of enchantment there.

"The desire to speak and become what they are."

Does one have to speak to become who they are?

Does speaking to oneself count?

It feels true. 

Speaking, writing, signing,

drawing, painting, singing,

growing plants, raising children,

teaching students...

there are many, many ways 

of speaking yourself

into who you are.

kastilwell

 

Flight Paths Two

"As a child, I thought I'd been stitched together from scraps;

a quilted child..."

This description speaks to how so many of us are knit together, doesn't it?

A father descended from County Clare farmers,

a mother from a German adoptee and a sulky driver from Sligo.

The quilt gets more intricate with each generation.

"I think I am the child of too many poems instead."

Somewhere back in time, somewhere in my line of succession;

perhaps even several someone's,

I'd like to believe, lived a poet or two.

Jotting musical words as she waited for dinner to simmer,

or at a kitchen table during nap time,

or sitting on the floor in the bathroom

as children played in the tub.

Someone who wrote on pages no longer existing.

Pages decayed or burned or discarded with their things.

Written for fun or from longing or sorting things out, 

not for an audience.

Stitched together from poems.

kastilwell

 

Flight Paths One

"We all begin in secret"

A tantalizing thought,

and a new one for me.

Yet, isn't it true? 

It feels delicious.

I know I certainly feel

"late for the present moment" often.

So many times, I experience

a feeling of delayed response

as my mind absorbs something

now in the past and wish I'd

have "caught it" 

when it was actually happening.

I know only a little about being displaced;

but can imagine it.  I love the language 

the poet uses.

"an unfinished sketch

hovering in the half-light...

space of endlessness

and disequilibrium"

And finally, anyone attempting to learn a new language

can identify with "bruising ones mouth".

I would add bruising one's mind as well.

PS:  This is the first section of a larger poem I'm posting in smaller pieces. I'm struck by this poem being co-written by two poets, I was also drawn by the fact it's featuring emerging (a favorite word) women writers from migrant backgrounds.  It makes this piece especially poignant to me. I haven't much experience with being 

Elodie Books and Creative Writing editor at Lucy Writers Platform, and is a co-facilitator of What the Water Gave Us, an Arts Council England funded anthology project for emerging women writers from migrant backgrounds,

In Between Worlds

 These words form an aspiration.

Something I feel close to and eager for.

"A part of her is leaving." 

I know the part intimately but cannot name her.

It has to do with outsize concern about outside opinions.

"She's present and neither timid nor bold."

Accepting hard feelings within . . .

no longer rejecting them.

Riding the tumult of conflicting emotions

with steady determination, rising after falling.

Offering her best with dignity and humility.

Recognizing the steepest paths

often result in the most revealing views.

Knowing that not knowing is also a path

and stumbles are part of the adventure.

Listening deeply for the song, 

often silent, always enchanting...

sometimes even humming

snatches of it to herself.

kastilwell

 

Listen

Another gem squirreled away 

some time ago.

On this note, I offer this poet.

Namaste'

The dignity in me 

bows to the dignity in you.