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Behind the cement wall, an engine rises in my belly,
Unseen but for the shark's tail I, with the mind-less courage of a warrior Run lithe, muscles gleaming steely bronze in the blistering sun A swan yearns its neck skyward, the paradox of everything Resistance unfolds Belief suspended before I see the nose Breaking into "I don't know" Shout after a bird in the distance, "Tears for your freedom!" Fallen on trails through heaven left by a smirking cigar, "Nothing is for free." On watching an airplane take off after a long period of not flying during the pandemic.
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Weep for the legless peddler on the curb
or for youth on the drip of a phone, For the woman through a slit or her angry aged child, For stray dogs hungering on the edges of broken playgrounds. Weep for poppies and presidents and policy or the face behind the bitter mask of desertion, For the chasm between home and the airport or the rifles borne like handbags, Or the bodies twisting like airborne foliage. Weep for the murdered guardians of light or the golden millions melting across the border, For fibers of trust spat out on strategies or the dust settled on reports, Or the satisfaction of a vacuum-packed manual. Weep, weep, weep a flood on the plain of parched hope. On the desertion of the people of Afghanistan in August 2021. The pandemic has been both beast and blessing. There is barely one of us who doesn't have a family member, friend, or acquaintance who is no longer with us because of it. Perhaps as a result and not in spite of this - beast and blessing are not separate - it demands that we value life, all life, more, This has been a time of worry, but it has also been a time to get lost in what fascinates us so that we can see the connections; to overcome hesitations about spending time rather than saying "later." In this sense, the island garden series I have created on Instagram is an ode to the pandemic. In the prose poems that accompany the images, there is fear and ease, the unknown and knowing, doubt and faith, fragmentation and wholeness, mortality and eternity. Imagination births a deep sense of connection to each complex being which, in turn, invigorates our imagination, until we recognize that this process is our very source and begs the question of what this means for how we live. The collection consists of fifty-five images and stories, gathered daily through two months of this summer on a small Swedish island where a garden once grew out of little more than rock and sand. Enjoy! https://www.instagram.com/julcatlin/  If I knew my own pattern, I'd find the sun in every repetition Broken by the blessing of fresh thought. If I recognized my own frequency, I'd hear the wide vista on either side Pulsing with the chance of new sound. If I saw each hesitation, I'd caress every leap of faith, Commiserating with the lonely pilgrim Whose path is always her own.  She said, let there be darkness, and there was light In the dried rose between handmade winter pages, The scent of summer incandescent under lanterns Flickering over the brown wafers, Stronger than plump young petals at blooming. For we who have seen an empty year are alive, Knowing death at the threshold, hearing the words From the doctor’s beak that points inward to the blind soul that breaks Free of “we weren’t enough," and follows The child who sounded the alarm because she cared. Between ourselves and the shadow is a realm unknown, The space between, billowing like untameable silk, Glowing unmistakably with the shiny cheek of spring, Whose skin colour is equal as trees In an opera of flitting whispers under the canopy. On a day of stillness there is no waiting, or longing for the restoration, For there are no advances or refunds in time That meanders like a crooked stony creek, gnarled as used fingers, Offering a pure cup not to be mistaken For insurance, which cannot save a flower. Only the beholder can do that.  In the warm light of my desk lamp, you died tomorrow
At 4 a.m. in words from my fingers explaining You were gone, that I stood at your footprint On a plain of undone spirits I couldn't tend to When the children awoke and I made them eggs for breakfast. Tomorrow at 4 a.m. I live past you in each breath My slim mouth mirrors yours on the mountain You snatched a look at me through the fiery cloud, soon closing, My lungs fill with walks, old movies Waiting for the unsaid. Crooks, all of them. Don't trust your own mother. Take care of your own. How I tried But couldn't stand the weeping of the leaves On another path you never walked, it's different here, Shuddering in the wind, I wear another coat, keep you in the lining. I eat the fruits of your life richly, but hunger for the stories and the spruce On the wings of gulls hovering over the catch at dawn, Waiting for their time, long past 4 a.m., When the beak clenches the body, swallows it rising As I you on this day, so you can watch it through my eyes. For my father, a Republican I loved. In a deserted still sea
Gold does not shine Yet caresses the shore, Gives the trees faces That gaze at boulders Like giant turtles Incapable of lying Either to me or the flocks Flying low in fog's padding Toward new land, On a fleeting surface. Unshifting skies weep droplets Slight as cygnets among the reeds, Parents circle Feed, nestle In the pause Before the freeze The oar breaks molasses On lifting it heals, No trace of anticipation Or my giddy heart Once here. In the lost realm Where fish graze A tree grows from the deep, Once ignored By famished sailboats Hungry to be free, Witness to the fullness, No wind No need Breath rising and falling On the thickening eve. Summer sun echoing Through a curtain of fairy dust Tender as first fall rain On ears in waiting for the peace Of winter's weightless bright cascade.  Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way. Straight path Right path Singular road to go. Trusted Certain A once reliable show. Broken Swirling Dimensions all unknown. A million Forms emerging Retreating to the whole. All tracks Are no tracks Dissolved in the flow. Right ways Are wrong ways When there's only one road to go.  Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way. Remember me in an autumn storm In the forever of winter When cults are born And the end is nigh Darkness no end A velvet white petal In the warm summer wind.  Almost a quarter of a century ago, I was privileged to move to a small island that had the early makings of a garden. More than thirty years before, an old man for whom this place was therapy for depression had planted some flowers that tolerated the rocky, dry soil. After over twenty years of tending this garden with the help of pollinating insects, I have watched it become a small paradise that in June-July defies the wildest imagination.
In between the heavier poetry and prose in this blog, this is the story of a garden in spontaneous unedited images and butterfly words. It's all play, but that is survival in the most challenging of times. Through play we experience perspectives that change us and our relationships to the world around us. In a garden there is rhythm but also the promise of a new way. |
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February 2023
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