Musings

Athena’s Time

It’s not often you will catch me undressing as blatantly as this.  Normally I prefer to do it behind a poetic blind.  But today, I found my old writing.  And I mean decade old writing.  The writing of a newly born butterfly, that had ambition and doggedness in abundance.

I had assumed my old poetry would be naive, full of candied stories.  But like with all my current phobias, I used to face down my enemies.  Now I cower and submit.  I used to chat to strangers on the bus.  Now I catch a taxi and keep my earphones in.  I used to stomp on woodlice, laugh at clowns, pet giraffes and change my plans at the drop of my trilby.

As the years have slunk away I’ve steadily retreated, glowering at any little ‘threat’.  Until I buried myself so deep I could not breathe.  The claustrophobia was killing me, the lack of oxygen choking me, the lack of sunlight ever present.

Now my life is changing.  I did it myself.  I took my safety and stomped on it.  Security blankets hide you away from pain and pleasure.  But it’s hard.  I warn all of you who are still to climb out of your self-dug graves.  I have spent months searching for me.  Wondering where I left me.  Questioning what I did to me.  Yearning to fix me, find my strength and voice.  And smile.

As I dug through my treasure chest of youthful emotions, I came upon the reason for my old strength:

I know who my muse is.  She always watches over me and has done from the word ‘go’.  I realised who she was five years ago, and since then our relationship has gone from strength to strength.  I pray to my muse if I am at a crossroads or my pen is stuttering or I simply want to speak to her.

When I write she is there, embracing me, massaging my shoulder as the muscles ache.  She nudges my hand across the page.  She tells me when to stop.  She envelops me if the subject is raw, tender or sensitive.  I feel her fingers dig into my spine if I choose the soft option.

Our bond is unique because I know, and am happy, that she is there.  I understand she is a muse to others, but that is a comfort.  It prevents me from selfishness and laziness.  It spurs me on to think I might be wasting her time if I stop.

(21 year old Edge)

2017 is a year I want to hurry up and finish.  Every day I wake to new choices.  Not ‘what I want for breakfast’ or ‘shall i watch Jezza or Rinder’.  2017 is bolder than that.  It wants to be noticed, remembered.  I see it’s doing a damn good job of that for a lot of us.  But I’m an out-of-control narcissist, so I’ve not really paid attention.  I’ve been busy.  So busy.  And now I’m tired, but it isn’t the time for rest.  It’s time I bend my knees.

I shall pray.

I shall pray for the strength to meet these challenges.

I shall listen.

I shall listen to her wisdom, her gentle voice as she tells me to follow my gut and wear my personality on my chest.

Copyright © 2017 Hannah Edge. All rights reserved.

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Poetry

Airmail

Hoard your feelings

in this mouldy cardboard box.

Wrap them shut

with a cow’s intestines;

add its leather as a label

and send to Madagascar

***

where the lemurs can chew,

claw at the memories

and scents and tastes, devouring

your emotions until the pain

fades

away.

*** ***

Copyright © 2017 Hannah Edge. All rights reserved.

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Poetry

Does Insanity Cause Creativity

Or does creativity cause insanity?
Our wandering

mind 

lusts for gems,

jewels, poetic gold-dust.

***

We crawl through the tunnels,

the warrens, the burrows;

smothered and swallowed

by horrors a-plenty.

Drowing in visions

of murder and rape,

Swimming against currents

frothing with blood;

engulfed in a hurricane

of tears from all victims.

***

Cannot contain, cannot ignore.

Our knees buckle, we crumble

until we dare hold our pen.

*** ***

Copyright © 2017 Hannah Edge. All rights reserved.

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