Untitled work by the Dutch painter Teun Hocks.
"My poetry examines the changing landscape of my life, between moving from country to country, but also into motherhood. It revels in the small moments of beauty while also facing the realisation that it will always be a challenge to find one's place."
Gerry Stewart is a poet, creative writing tutor and editor living in Finland. Her collection 'Post-Holiday Blues' was published by Flambard Press, UK. Her writing blog is thistlewren.blogspot.fi/
Bound
Inspired by an untitled painted photograph by Teun Hocks
When will this world finish
its infernal unravelling?
I cannot miss a stitch,
this garment cannot hold its shape
against time’s furious spiral.
Beneath this dim light,
spoiled by moths dying in its fire,
it is difficult to count each knit and purl.
My work is unending,
bringing together moments of existence
on this twirling mass of inconsistencies.
A Fate with golden thread
my needles click out time,
swivelling around each other
with the speed of angels
tying knots in God’s shoelaces.
I can never cast off
or step into the unknown
that hovers just at the edge of my vision.
The yarn keeps unwinding,
never frays or releases
its constant tug against my senses.
One dropped stitch,
the tangled universe breaks apart.
How I long to turn away
and let it unravel itself to nothing.
before
we could take a whirl
across the floor
spinning like children
in our beat-up shoes
hands and cheeks touching
eyes closed to all
breathing each other in
or
we could find an old pan
and bang it like a drum
wake the neighbours
and the sleeping dogs
with our caterwauling
singing a wordless song
we thought we’d long forgotten
or
we could whisper
sweet nothings
in each other’s ears
giggle in front of strangers
until they give us odd looks
I don’t mind
give me a day alone with you
in some distant place
until we can remember
what we used to do
The Sound of the Sea
That long-lost summer,
hushed and humid,
before you were a wish.
Days of no rhyme,
no reason to wake early,
he and I discovered
what had been overlooked
at the water’s fluttering edge.
A sun-baked folly,
feet tucked beneath me
on the stone-tossed beach
as your father recorded
the sea’s white noise.
Waves reached close and urgent
for the tape machine.
Electrics sizzling with the spray,
its motion grinding,
hum and click,
against mementos of sand.
Stashed, forgotten,
the dusty tape stretched thin
across the decade.
Again a Greek afternoon laps
at the shore of our unmade bed,
bringing you into our dream.
You in your niche,
a seed’s heart
hard-carved from our bodies,
we are pushed towards sleep.
The Sound of the Sea/2
The sea’s salt mouth
with dark whispers
sucks at stones
in its rush to touch, to know.
Our breaths mingle,
drawing close the arms
of that long-lost summer,
youth rediscovered,
hushed and humid.
Before you were a wish.
Awaiting Exodus
Another wrench of goodbye.
We start in the summer glow,
Finland at her welcoming best,
stumbling to the shore
with our transplanted lives.
Our children bind us, magnetise
our need to understand.
The vital and the throw-away details
overwhelm our days;
the rules for winter clothing layers,
why pea soup is served on a Thursday.
Those settled offer advice,
steer us towards parks, shops and playgroups.
They don’t whisper or give warning:
one or two move off to new beginnings,
soon more tug free, the autumn rush
of birch leaves whipped away.
Replaced by an urge to squirrel away
memories, hours together.
We attempt to line our nests with friends,
scrabbling to store up a momentary glut,
hoping one will settle deeper.
Pledged to remain, I turn to hibernation,
burrowing beneath the drifts.
Left behind on the cracking banks
we scrape away the snow,
seeking hints of spring.
We long to emerge
into friendly warmth and light.
