L E O N I E . W I S E

the carpet is growing weeds again and
crocus blooms keeping thrusting themselves
up through the charcoal flecks
adding patterns of joyous colour.
it’s kind of annoying though,
i have to watch my step when i get out of bed.

we have guests coming on friday. i’m going
to have to put a sign up outside the front door
“beware the plants” or something like that.
and at this rate, i’ll be able to set up a stall
outside our flat, with an honesty box -
flowers for sale: 50p a bunch.
come back tomorrow, there’ll be more!

i’m half expecting to arrive home today
to find my husband clasped in the arms
of an affectionate nasturtium, or
wedged beneath the rowan bush.
i’ve no idea if the neighbours are having issues
they always take pains to avoid us.
have i got twigs in my hair again?

it’s not about being published;
though that does bring some degree of satisfaction,
feathering my ego’s nest with soft white down.

it’s not a desire to be noticed;
all this visibility often makes me want to hide, sneak away
and pretend it’s someone else that does this.

it’s not about what you think of it,
though i’m glad if it speaks to you, or if you recognise
some of your life in the words.

it is about the overwhelming urge to write, write, write
thoughts scamper about, teasing my pen, mocking my hand
for not being able to keep up.

it’s about the feeling of expressing in short form
a feeling, a snapshot,
a life being lived outside of the page.

© 2010. leonie wise

just cos i’m goin’ thru shit times doesn’t mean i need rescuin’
do you ever stop to think that hugging might make you feel better
but that i just want to be left the fuck alone to deal with this
and that i need to make my way out in my own sweet time?

please stay though, just don’t fucking touch me
whatever i’m feelin’ is likely to discharge
giving us both a shock and breakin’ my concentration
just sit there okay? hold me. but only with your eyes & heart
and not in any kinda physical way.

and don’t say you understand. because how could you?
you’re not me. like i’m not you, so kick me if i ever say
“oh honey, i know how you feel” because how can i?
you have your shit. i have mine. we connect. but our shit doesn’t overlap…

yeah, it might seem like the same shit sometimes (and possibly it is)
but thinking one of us can fix the other is so totally bullshit and all ego.
i can’t fix you any more than you can fix me.
and what if it’s not something that needs fixin’ anyway?

so yeah, stay. i’m just workin’ through my stuff.
it might not look pretty from the outside
but trust me, it makes everything better
and more beautiful. i just have to live through it.

© 2010 leonie wise

venus (after surgery). banksy installation at the bristol museum 2009

so, anyone who reads this blog (or any of the blogs of emma, jo, lisa, megg, penny, sas and susannah) will already know that last weekend we all got together in a cottage in a small village in england. i still don’t (and don’t think i ever will) have the words to adequately describe the weekend, even to those that were there with me! it was a gzillion different kinds of wonderful.

the weekend was full of such openness, sharing and love that the only way to be there was as my truest self. i come home on a high, with a heart full to bursting point, fallen in love a million times over with each of the beauties i shared my weekend away with.

and i find myself returned home to the same place, the same husband, the same job, the same clothes in my wardrobe (okay, apart from a new coat purchased after being inspired by emma) and yet not the same life.

it’s the same feeling i have had upon returning home from being held in the company of women in the past; a feeling of being accepted, fully, simply as myself, then leaving that safe space & making my way out into the world once more.

and it’s hard.
hard to come home and integrate back into the world.

because i am no longer physically cocooned in a cosy cottage, within a warm blanket of loving arms, understanding and love. all i have here is me and the world.

yes, my friends are still there and still love me. but they are not here. and i am not there with them.
yes, my husband is still here and still loves me. and i love him dearly, that hasn’t changed.

but still i feel like a piece of me is missing…
it’s like all my friends suddenly grabbed their coats and left the playground, leaving me standing there alone with just the sound of the empty merry-go-round grinding slowly to a halt.

as i said before, it’s not the first time i have come home from a weekend away feeling like this. and the realisation came to me today that this is all i really have.

me. here. by myself.

so, everytime everyone else has said their goodbyes and gone home, i better bloody well be willing to love myself; to sit down with my reflection, greeting myself with the same look of love in my eyes that i have seen in others when they look at me.

that is my love after love.

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott

“i want to write about faith”
i hear
your
earnest words
repeatedly
in my mind…
burrowing
into the hardened
parts of me -
reminding me
of an urgent
conversation
we are destined
to have,
as soon
as i stop
and
allow
it to happen.

this day
is
my heart:
beating
in time
with yours;
where faith
washes over me,
like
sparkling
winter sunshine
glistens
on the wet grass.

this faith
is
my faith:
the bellbirds call
as dawn breaks;
the ocean waves
crashing
endlessly
upon the shoreline,
these hands
folded
in prayer.

this faith
is
my faith:
unspoken words;
wisdom
of the ages
living
through me,
ribbons
of light
caressing
the darkness.

this life
is
my faith:
a place
without walls;
with
deep grooves
of
kindness
and welcoming
spaces
beckoning me
from
beyond
the threshold.

© 2009 leonie faith wise

walk 2 blocks that way and you arrive at the tate modern. the view from work, london.
candon 400d, 12-22mm wide-angle lens

your gold is not the same as her gold, or his,
your tongue craves sweet, when they want sour;
these words aren’t yours, you have your own
which deserve to be recognised as being your truth.

these eyes smiling at you, a mirror reflecting
the kindness thats there within your own;
your bones, your limbs, your hands, your heart
are here for the world demands it so.

© 2009 leonie faith wise

{ for darlene’s december views }

baubles. canon 400d

without context

some days it seems many
lifetimes have passed since
you held firm to my hand
whispering secrets in my ear.
days flow by, like sands

constantly shifting,
shaping new landscapes;
our sweet times together glide
quietly out of memory’s reach.

something tilts… floats…
drifts just beyond my gaze,
leaving a cooling hollow
waiting to be filled with
another warmth, or
another’s touch. please

lets revive our friendship? come,
take a step back towards me
and discard that old mask;
remember how it feels to have
my sun warming your face.

© 2009 leonie faith wise

{ for darlene’s december views }

this bloody unfeeling object

      refuses to co-operate
        aura changes colour display to
          frustrated, tongue-tied.

beyond the pen, blank pages mock
the author, the emotions that
surface & ripple. without a shoreline

on which to land, the words float
through endless gray seas.

the silky feel of words
    ………..sliding………………………………..
                    just
                        out
                            of
                                reach

leaves a pit
in my stomach, as if hunger
is an acceptable solution.

i thank you god for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any–lifted from the no
of all nothing–human merely being
doubt unimaginable you?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

-e.e.cummings

begin forwarded message »

i shout orange kisses into your sky
hoping for some response
brown leaf whirpools
the only audible answer.
grey clouds hang
quietly on the line;
dead roses make fine
garlands for this
feeling of unbelonging.