When you can’t see a way back,
Try to see a way forward.
When the person you were has gone,
Try to imagine the person you could become.
When all you hold is broken pieces,
Of a beautiful picture you can no longer see,
Rearrange those broken pieces.
The picture will be more beautiful, because of the breaking.
You can’t return, but you can reimagine.
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I keep thinking at the moment about the word unravel/unravelling, and how it has so many distinct meanings. When something is unravelling it can be hugely destructive as it comes apart and is destroyed, perhaps never being able to be put together in the same way or for the same function. There are also positive meanings, perhaps an unravelling being an unveiling or revealing of something that was previously hidden or unseen. I think an unravelling also provides the opportunity to develop a deeper understanding of the parts of something and what makes it work. This poem is about trying to capture some of those different meanings, particularly how they might relate and apply when our own lives feel as if they are unravelling.
I am unravelling,
I wonder what kind of unravelling it will be.
Will I come apart at the seams,
Insides split open, completely revealed.
A deconstructing disruption,
A rupture, a ruction,
A demising, dismantling, total destruction.
I am unravelling,
I wonder what kind of unravelling it will be.
Will I sever, untether what I know should never
Have ever been threaded together,
A separating, a disintegrating.
Remaking, replacing,
They start with a breaking.
I am unravelling,
I wonder what kind of unravelling it will be.
Will I finally start to see,
As all that’s concealed is gently revealed.
A code that’s cracked after loads of hard graft,
Unfurling, unfolding,
The veil drawn back.
I am unravelling,
I wonder what kind of unravelling it will be.
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This one felt important to post this week, with everything going on in the Church of England around inclusion, or lack of it. I don’t take for granted how lucky I am to be part of a church where ‘there’s nowhere I can’t go’, and I hope one day, that’s the experience of everyone.
A shaky old man put the welcome pamphlet into my hands.
With a smile for a while he told me facts and stats,
Asked where I was from, asked why I’d come.
I didn’t know, I guess I was just passing by,
A tourist just curious and this place looked glorious from outside.
But I realised why as he spoke his reply.
He said it so casually, passively, with a blind kind of apathy,
“Just so you know, there’s nowhere you can’t go.”
I looked him in the eye, this time my turn to smile,
I said “thank you, I know.”
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I saw it coming.
In that moment of slow motion as it got closer,
I had only seconds for preventions and protections.
I checked my seatbelt was clicked into place.
I slammed on the brakes, I tensed up and I braced,
Breath bated I waited and then it came.
It collided into my side.
Glass shattering metal clattering my body taking a battering,
Then it went quiet.
I realised as I breathed in relief I’m alive,
That despite all I’d done to ensure I’d survive,
The crash had still come and the damage was done.
Some things can’t be won, undone or outrun,
No matter how much you’ve overcome.
They’ll find you and hide you and one day they’ll try to
Make you the wreckage you crawled out from.
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I see you.
First to arrive, last to leave.
You start in the dark, while the world still sleeps.
Your hands, sore from mixing, kneading, shaping, baking.
I see it.
The bread you make, broken over a table.
The central element, a family staple.
Torn and toasted, sliced and fried.
Smothered in butter, it satisfies.
Don’t forget.
It’s ok, to take from the table you bake for.
To enjoy the fruits of your labour.
To lay down that apron, to say what you came for.
Take, tear, receive.
This is your feast to eat.
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I think the angry, rap-metal loving skater girl I used to be in my teenage years would love this one! It was so cathartic to write and record – there’s something so powerful about speaking out words that acknowledge experiences or people that may have tried to silence or gaslight me in the past.
This is my voice
And I know what it’s like to lose it
So I choose to use it I refuse to diffuse it and you will listen.
Cause you can’t buy my silence
And I won’t be compliant won’t be a liar.
I won’t make tweaks to what I’ve said I’ll speak
You can’t edit or take credit for this testimony.
This is my voice
And I know what it’s like to lose it
So I choose to use it I refuse to diffuse it and you will listen.
I bet you’ll make threats but what you shouldn’t forget
Is that truth can’t be changed rearranged or reset.
You say hold back don’t attack think of the impact
Well fuck that.
This is my voice
And I know what it’s like to lose it
So I choose to use it I refuse to diffuse it and you will listen.
And I won’t just write these words down, oh no…
I’ll speak them out I’ll shout them loud
I’ll drown you out and I’ll do it proud
Won’t stop it won’t drop it till you’re shutdown.
This is my voice
And I know what it’s like to lose it
So I choose to use it I refuse to diffuse it and you will listen.
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Sometimes you write a poem that is so clearly made to be spoken rather than written, and loads of my poems are like that. So I’m trying something slightly new with this one. It’s called Dessert Spoon, and you can hear me speak it by watching the video, or if you prefer you can read the words below.
I still include a dessert spoon when I lay your place at the table.
It’s a simple act of resistance,
An insistence of non-compliance and defiance,
A little piece of order against the eating disorder.
I still include a dessert spoon when I lay your place at the table.
It is a prayer I pray, a declaration I make,
A belief that one day,
This will end and as you mend we will again share a decadent pudding with friends.
I still include a dessert spoon when I lay your place at the table.
I know you’ll relearn that it’s ok to yearn,
To stuff your face, to take up space,
To say what you want, to claim your place,
To be full to bursting, to give yourself grace.
I still include a dessert spoon when I lay your place at the table.
Otherwise it reminds me of when someone dies,
One less fork, one less knife, one less life.
But you’re still alive and you’re still inside,
I know because I see it sometimes.
I still include a dessert spoon when I lay your place at the table.
I want to show you, want you to know that I still hold hope.
That this doesn’t define us but I think it could refine and align us.
That however much it aches and however long it takes I will wait,
That if you choose it and fight your way through this, recovery awaits.
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It doesn’t cost much.
It won’t last long.
Lost in a drawer for years,
It might not even light.
But it could be enough,
To spark a flame,
To light up the darkness,
To burn the healing oil.
So strike the match,
Rub the sticks,
Flick the switch,
Ignite an inferno.
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Cut the head off a flower, and it will grow back.
Tear a hole in the ozone, and it can close up.
Graze your skin, and it will knit itself together.
Healing is hard wired into the fabric of the universe.
So it is hard wired in you too.
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Shalom
Is there anything more attractive,
Than a person fully alive?
Completely free.
Totally whole.
The one who has done the work,
Overcome adversity, beat the odds,
Risen from the ashes.
Healing is contagious.
It catches, ripples, sparks,
Lighting fires that lead the way to Shalom.
This is what it means to live your best life,
Not to be free of hardship,
But to be travelling the path to wholeness,
Taking others with you.
Fragmented
Is there anything less attractive,
Than a person barely alive?
Completely bound.
Totally fragmented.
The one who refuses to do the work,
Beaten by adversity, obeying the odds,
Choked by the ashes.
Disease can be contagious.
It catches, spreads, sparks,
Lighting fires that destroy the path to Shalom.
This is what it means to miss your best life,
To be bitter about your hardship,
To walk away from the path to wholeness,
Taking others with you.
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