Author: eharpingon

The fifth season

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‘Three white butterflies to know you’re near…’

‘Grandfather please stand on the shoulders of my father while he’s deep-sea fishing’ – Lana Del Rey, Did you know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd (2023)

I try to

smile sweetly

at April,

but my teeth

hurt.

I force myself

to consider

the miracle

of primroses

that scatter

the churchyard

wantonly;

but I hanker

for the crows

and their inky capes.

I grab T.S Eliot

in the morning;

pick my skin;

mangle my words;

then accidently

smashed the

almond blossoms

on the floor and

cried.

A month begins

with the

interplay

of shadow and darkness

under relentless

grey; the new

Del Rey album

knows.

I asked to

see, hear and know;

all I received

was the same old puppet

show and I

feel all the

ways I don’t

live up to the sun.

Today, I keep it small:

there’s nothing

much to do

except to give thanks

that I have a plot

safe enough

soft enough

to wait this out;

let woundedness have her moment,

her head between her paws,

her sighs reverberating

off the wardrobe;

compassion whispering reminders

through the blinds,

of the hallowed blue sky

as the wheel

it turns, it turns.

*

Then,

there we were

singing

‘Under the Bridge’

in murmured

unison.

Magnolia! Magnolia!

And our laughter

recalled the

sunbeams.

We sat down

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We sat down

to breakfast

on beans and eggs

and I gazed

at the blue

sky, shyly

peeping

through tendrils

and coverlets

of grey.

I thought of the

sweetness of

slow, cold,

void-full

January,

and how

she is

time-dishonoured.

The tentative and loving

bite in her beauty

and patience is

lost

when we

are forced

to rise in

the darkness,

beating our

way though the

shadows and furies

when our bodies,

our souls

ache to awaken

with her.

No wonder

we struggle,

when the

rhythms of

cogs are

venerated, ghosts

of deeper

more sacred

practice,

woefully ignored,

rendering us

ghosts in our

turn.

So I do only

that which is needed,

to suit the

naked limbs

of the trees.

I allow poetry to

pull me

down slowly,

kindly and

passionately

and –

of course! –

there is so much

lusciousness

in January.

She was never

barren,

her darkness

prismatic,

her kisses sent

in hellebore.

With huge love and gratitude to Nikki McKinney at The Bell Jar Flowers for her generous permission to use this photograph as the featured image for this poem. Nikki arranged, designed and provided flowers for my wedding and I never realised how much I cared about these beautiful creations until I met her. She is a true artist. Her work can be found at https://www.thebelljarflowers.co.uk/

Beauty’s beyond

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‘My life has been the poem I would have writ,

But I could not both live and utter it’

Henry James Thoreau

And I cried

in the kitchen,

for Beauty’s beyond

me.

I know it

should not

matter

but it

does.

That when

I write and

dance and sing

and feel

that I am

being shut

out of realms

of divinity:

the glassy plains

of the transcendent.

I am Earth-bound,

with a soul

that yearns

to unite with airy loftiness

but stumbles

and mumbles

in the clunk

and failure,

whilst other

gossamer souls

soar and delve

mining and mirroring

the riches of

abundant plenty.

*

He held me

and looked me

straight in the eye.

I realised

that my

art is in

my living:

the bounding

of my heart;

the alchemy

of my emotions;

the boundaries

of my bones;

the glory of

my joyous, shining

belief in the

brilliance and radiance

of connection.

My laughter.

My fury.

My dreams.

My choices.

My desires.

A living breathing

Mythology.

I may not

leave behind

masterpieces,

as I fumble and float forward,

but maybe even

simply

the attempt

is something mythic

something magic

something uncontained.

7

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Lime, olive

cedar

breath

when will

goodbye

not be tinged

with the forlorn?

It rumbles

like the rocks

and pebbles

as I left

the Lake for the

last time

this time

every footstep

a grinding

presence,

a remembrance,

no hope

of leaving

unconsciously.

We are leaving

the Timeless;

the seagull

on the

telegraph pole

sat in meditation

only moving

to stretch;

the recline

of lounging

so often denied

as books,

music, podcasts,

birdsong

and mountain view

incorporate

into rest.

Tomorrow

will be back to

trains,

timetables,

schedules

but for today

you rubbed suncream

into my back;

we drank beer;

laughed;

revelled in

and repelled the

future,

as I cried

tears I didn’t

know I had

into your shoulder.

You helped me down

the stairs,

we talked about

the moon and the

stars,

we kissed

wet kisses

in the shower

and the marble

floor

greeted our reflections

beaming

burnt

brilliant.

Wednesday 3rd August 2022

6

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The heat

of a winged lion

bearing down

on an artist

selling his oil

paintings

in the piazza.

Classic

and expression,

his humble godly wares

speaking this town

and his heart.

I see in his

gently trembling gait

the withdrawal

from the soul realm

at home with

his paints

and his pencil

relaying the work

on its underside,

as people

swamp

him and his makeshift

table,

still bearing his palate

and paints,

thick with oil.

I see in him

the care of the waiters

working so hard

at dinner,

with kindness

pushing down

their personalities

with smiles and

gentle platitudes

and bending

over backwards,

and watched

from afar

under moonlight

I felt a sadness

for their selflessness,

their toil and stamina

doing what they can

all they can

casting this most

beautiful of veneers.

Tuesday 2nd August 2022

5

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I heard

that today

is Lammas:

peak summer.

I knew

and did not

that the abundant

crux of the season

was washing over me

with its fresh

transitional clarity

as I bounded

joyfully

reverently

into the waves

who insatiably

held me and helped

me to dance

in holy play:

the water

wild and home.

I had felt the gears

slip

when I greeted

the yellow

waxing crescent

last night.

‘I am sure

glad to see you’

I told her

whilst she winked

through the boughs

of cedar,

cresting her merry way

over the mountaintops.

The joy

has not abated:

my lips and heart

ripe

like the olives

burgeoning in

the heat.

Monday 1st August 2022

4

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Gentle boat

out on the Lake.

The bully in my head

told me today

that I was a

‘blot on the earth’.

It is still hard

to deal with this.

I felt refuge

in the shades and pines

of Monte Baldo,

the pagan mysteries

revealing themselves

in evergreen familiars:

needles, lizards and moths.

Feeling the bodily descent

keeping adrift with

the slopes of the trees.

It’s hard.

Like the mule tracks

scrabbled and rough,

bearing heavy loads,

cut with the footholds

of gentle

more-than-human

loves,

patient, unrelenting.

The boat

with its sails

up,

pauses amongst the

tides, currents,

glimmerings and lappings.

The mountains

in their haze

hold their breath.

The flowers and crickets

sing love,

the sun

a ball of amber

gifting luscious depth,

and I do not flinch

at the sweet wasp

coveting nectar’s beer

and I am caught

by the honey river

charting its course

across the Lake

straight to me.

Sunday 31st July 2022

3

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Lake Garda,

Mother,

gentle and ferocious

holding me

witnessing the tears

unravelling

and maybe I am

a mother

of sorts

already

and this is acknowledgement

as such.

I feel

the quickening

of a desire to

create

nurture

tend

love

the slowness

of being

begotten

by the Lake,

modelled by her

sitting in the pause

and words

are nothing

just being

awash with sanctity

like when the

water

licked my wrists

at the edge of Malcesine

like a puppy

endearing, tentative

and we met

and loved each other

and the lake

runs into the deep

shadowy, unknown

with the reach

of mountains

never to be truly

understood

outside of poetry.

Saturday 30th July 2022

2

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Seeming silly,

scanning the mountains

and the Lake,

glittering harmonically,

waiting for the spiritual experience

to begin.

Where is it?

The belly full of awe

the butterflies and

eyes brimming with tears

and why am I not feeling

like Goethe yet?

Sweet baby.

And it feels

like no coincidence

that my tired

adolescent clamouring

for a feeling of

infatuation

coincides

with a latent realisation

that my vocabulary

isn’t as expansive

as I had wished

and I need to

look up many words

at the moment

and it is thrilling

and it is humbling.

Mind and language

scattering.

And the storm descends,

cheerful with potency

over the mountaintops,

it’s been clearing

its throat

all day long,

the pine trees

bowing in the wind,

the lightning,

scintillating.

Then the stillness

of the

rain lashing;

the Lake patiently

rippling and receiving

as the storm

roars itself

with delight.

Friday 29th July 2022

1

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If I am nothing

but a ball of consciousness

then

why does my soul

seem to want to know me?

Why does spirit want to

experience this life

through the unquenchable

being of this body

this heart?

I am myself

nothing

everything

the whole world

and also the

shimmering emptiness

of possibility and space

Thursday 28th July 2022