SeaWyld

Tag: poetry

  • A poem for Wintering

    Photo by Shannon Deans on Pexels.com

    A poem written during my hibernation this winter. I was sat at my allotment, where the garden is definitely in it’s winter slumber, reflecting on how at odds I felt with the ‘New Year’ energy. How can it be a new year when everything is still so cold and every inch of my being is still firmly in it’s winter cocoon?

    For me, since aligning my life more with the seasons, I find myself coming alive again in spring. My ‘new year’ begins when the leaves burst into being on trees and the first flowers are tentatively emerging.

    Wintering and honouring the slowness of this season have become central to the rhythms of my life. I notice myself becoming disconnected and burnt out when I try to keep up with the frantic January rush.

    Do you feel the same?

    An Invitation Declined

    They say it’s time to call in a new year.

    Quick! Rush! Declutter! 

    A flurry of change and drive and surging forward with

    the battle cry on the crisp air – 

    “New Year! New me! New NOW!”

    On the stroke of midnight, ‘just being’ is no longer enough. 

    Be better, be newer, be sharper, be smaller, be hustlers, be different. 

    A constant stream of content screaming:

    “New year! New me!  New NOW!”

    I feel like an alien, an other-worlder.

    My bones are slow like snails

    in my cocoon with hibernating beings.

    Small tendrils of dreams for springtime 

    only just starting to appear from the frost.

    Same me. Slow me. Wintering me.

    I feel at odds with man-made time.

    The budding of the leaves on trees

    and the eruption of the first spring flowers make more sense to me.

    My drive to hibernate, to drift and dream and ebb 

    is stronger than the calendar on the wall.

    Same me, slow me, Wintering me.

    The number I write at the end of the Year has changed. 

    But I am not ready to emerge. 

    I tug my blanket of hibernation across my soft animal body. 

    Quietly turning down your invitation. Call me when the spring arrives.

    Same me. Slow me. Wintering me.

    Lizzie Elliot-Klein

  • Wyld Words- Rockpools

    Hello Wyld Souls,

    For the last few months I have been running an online nature-based poetry circle called Wyld Words. For each session we write individually and as a group based on a nature being or ecosystem, it has been a magical journey so far as we voyaged through moss and rockpools. Some beautiful poems have been birthed and a creative community is growing in this contaner!

    Here is my individual poem from the session themed on ‘Rockpools’, the prompt was

    ‘Rockpools are challenging and changing environments, imagine yourself gazing into a rockpool and write about what arises for you as you feel into the energy of these spaces.’

    Rockpool.

    I know that the tides will change,

    that I may soon be exposed to the elements.

    To the pressures and forces that I cannot control.

    I can only weather them and await for the coolness and calm to return.

    Yet, how do I survive it?

    Do I hunker down inot the rocks like a limpet in their homescar or do I hide away in the crevices of the edges of my mind? Like a blenny in the rocks.

    Perhaps I could draw myself inwards, tentacles tucked until I am inconspicuous, invisible and hoping that the sun will spare this worrisome wallflower.

    These cycles of harshness and softness,

    coolness and heat,

    abundance and scarcity

    repeat like clockwork through the days of my life.

    I know in my bones that I can weather them,

    I have done so many times before.

    Yet every time the stresses return and I am in survival mode.

    I wish to be as tenacious as a starfish,

    resourceful as a hermit crab.

    adaptable as all of the lifeforms in this mesocosm at my feet.

    I dip my toes into the rockpool waters,

    as if to absorb it’s wisdom into my skin.

    The water levels rise, tide is coming in –

    coolness and calmness return for now filling the rockpools of doubt within.

    I watch, waiting for the tide to ebb again.

    I can weather this,

    I know it.

    I trust my sea-salted heart I can.

    – Elizabeth Elliot-Klein

    The next meeting of the Wyld Words Poetry Circle will be held online on the 14th of May (19:00 -20:30 GMT) and you can book your place here. It will be all about ‘Birds’!

  • A Weed’s Farewell

    For those who dwell where they are not appreciated. May you find your place to bloom.

    Bolted, like a plant too eager to bloom

    Now stretched out, gone to seed and

    Full of the bitterness of pressure

    And changeable weather.

    Hack me back to my roots

    Take the seeds of potential

    Which I have quietly nurtured

    And spread them far from here.

    Where the water is plentiful

    And the seasons mild

    Where I can turn my face to the sun

    And dance in the rain.

    In your eyes I have been but a troublesome weed

    Yet when you watch me bloom and unfurl

    I guarantee that you will see what I have

    Always known, 

    in my roots,

    in my quiet wisdom

    I am a radiant, strong and passionate flower.

    Photo by Hamandra & Ektoplazma on Pexels.com

  • Wild Woman of the Trees

    Another tree inspired poem. This poem was birthed at the first meeting of the Red Writing Circle, an outdoor poetry circle for folk who identify as women. This project is being run with the lovely Poppy Jones – a fabulous poet and champion for women’s voices in poetry. The prompt was to find a space in the park that called you and write about how you feel. I chose to climb a tree, nestle in the branches and write.

    Wild Woman of the Trees

    When I was a child

    Every tree was a possible grand adventure.

    Gnarled. Smooth. Bare. Bending.

    The trees beckoned and it was impossible to resist.

    I would clamber, hang and lose my balance so easily.

    But I was not afraid.

    I was alive.

    When I was a tame woman

    Every tree was a possible accident.

    Enticing. Forbidden. Lofty. Out of reach. 

    The trees still beckon but my fear was stronger.

    Afraid of falling, judgement and broken bones.

    Keeping me frozen and trapped to the ground.

    As if falling and breaking would cause all the darkness

    To spill from my body and across the earth.

    Now I am a wild woman.

    Every tree is an ancestor, a guide.

    Wise. Ancient. All seeing. All knowing. 

    Aloft in the branches I am suspended, weightless

    And at one with the bird song and moss.

    My wild soul is singing 

    And I no longer fear the fall.

    I am alive. 

  • In the Arms of the Evergreen (Poem)

    In the Arms of the Evergreen (Poem)

    Today I found a beautiful evergreen tree, curled up onto one of it’s branches and listened to the rain, this poem came to me. I hope that you enjoy this love letter to the wise watchers, those trees that just make you gape in awe at their timelessness. Here is a recording from the branches of my tree muse, the text and below that the story of how it came to be. Enjoy!

    In the embrace of your boughs

    I feel the smallness of a young child

    in awe at the lines on an elders face.

    Touching them with questioning fingers,

    knowing that you have witnessed time’s slow march

    and survived it.

    The reassuring sway of your leaves,

    whispering words of comfort to my questioning soul.

    Sheltering me from the rain,

    creating a caccoon of comfort against the unpredictable elements,

    as I unburden myself of my troubles.

    The strength of your branches to hold not just my fragile frame

    but the weight of the world that has heaped onto my shoulders.

    It fills me with wonder,

    the weightless feeling of being held in the arms

    of a wise being, a watcher

    without judgement.

    The timelessness of your holding

    and the grace in which you stand

    makes me wonder how many other

    wondering,

    wandering souls

    you have witnessed and held in your time here on this Earth.

  • Poem: Ebb & Flow

    Poem: Ebb & Flow

    Written after a snorkelling expedition off Plymouth Hoe where I discovered a beautiful little nook where some tiny Pollack fry were floating in a bed of lush, green algae! It was so beautiful and so peaceful to just float and observe this tiny microcosm of life! Being underwater is such a nourishing and connecting space for me to just lose myself in the wonders and magnitude of life.

    Ebb & Flow

    I let the ebb and flow,

    the ebb and flow

    carry me, carry me to and fro

    as I watch the tiny fish fry move as I do

    with the ebb and flow

    the ebb and flow.

    The vibrant green of the algae

    swaying with the ebb and flow

    the ebb and flow

    and all the treasures which lie beneath my beating feet

    drifting with the ebb and flow

    the ebb and flow.

    From the sunlit zone above

    to the depths of the deep below,

    we all dance with the ebb and flow,

    the ebb and flow.

  • Poem: Elder

    This poem arose from an experience I had at This Earth Gathering, 2018. We were gathered around the fire, cloaked in darkness and sharing songs we had learned on our travels. A wonderful, wise elder shared a song about witches and danced around the fire as she led us drumming and singing ancient words. I wonder how many other elders have passed on their songs and wisdom around campfires through the ages? I will never forget the fierce, wild, gracefulness of that dancing, elder woman.

    For all of the wonderful, witchy, wise elders I have met on my travels.

    Elder

    Firelight creates canyons in the wise lines of your face as you dance around the hearth singing long forgotten songs of our sisters long since passed.

    Every time I see you, my mind races to a woodland clearing and you, dear crone, are there. Grandmother tree. Elder.

    With your deeply lined bark and your time battled stance. Timeless, time worn, time perfected.

    But then I am back at the fireside, lost in the beauty of your dance.

    15.05.18

    Photo by Yogendra Singh on Pexels.com

  • Poem: Wyld Woman

    I wrote this the evening that I returned home from four days living out on Dartmoor and had emerged from my bath. Every time I come back to ‘the real world’ after spending days out in the wilds I always lament the loss of the smell of woodsmoke from my hair and clothes and the fact that my feet are shoe bound and not able to tread on grass. This poem is an ode to that feeling and a plea to the Goddess to help me stay a wild woman, even in my flat in the midst of a city.

    Wyld Woman

    As I wash the woodsmoke from my hair,

    prising the soil from beneath my nails.

    Oh Goddess, let me stay wild!

    As the scent of the land leaves the grain of my skin

    and the soles of my feet become soft again,

    Oh Goddess, let me stay wild!

    As the warmth of the sun on my skin in the field

    is replaced by the glare of a 60 watt bulb

    Oh Goddess, let me stay wild!

    As I pull on my 8 holed Doc Martens

    and stride out into the urban jungle

    Oh Goddess, let me stay wild!

    As the songs of the hearth are replaced by Pirate FM

    and the drums cease to beat.

    Oh Goddess, let me stay wild!

    Oh Goddess, let me stay wild!

    13.05.18

  • Poem: An Introduction to Me

    This poem was written as part of a Creative Writing & Poetry Workshop run by Jackie Juno as This Earth Gathering 2018, the prompt was to write a poem to introduce ourselves to the group.

    An Introduction to Me.

    Hello, my name is Lizzie.

    I’m a cat mother of two,

    an introverted extrovert who

    wants to be calm but who’s

    mind is always crazily busy.

    Look for me under oak trees

    or buried in a reading nook

    or singing onstage with my eyes closed

    because I’m too afraid to look

    as I strum away until I am happy.

    I’ve got a head full of useless facts,

    arms ever ready for in case of a hug emergency,

    two feet made for wandering

    and the eyesight of a bat.

    So yes, I guess that’s me.

    12.05.18