POET, COACH. COACH, POET.

This morning a swirling wind makes an incense of its own as it mixes the soft dry scent of wood smoke with the damper smell of fallen leaves.

Alt Text says this week’s photo is a picture of two women smiling. I say it is me having a post-gig photo with Wendy James, and feeling glad to have the opportunity to express my gratitude for the music which has been in my heart for a long time now.

This week while tuning in to POETs Day live with Kate Jenkinson (Fridays at 12:30 via LinkedIn) I found myself drawn to the Venn diagram image in the Poetry In Business Logo. It resonated with my recent thinking around how two of my favourite things (poetry and coaching) intersect. Whilst wondering about this I had also been toying with the thought that people might find it strange that my social media presence often flits between poetry and coaching. My answer to myself was that I am a poet and a coach, and sometimes I am a coach and a poet, and sometimes I am only one of these, and sometimes I am neither, but even when I am neither I still carry their vibrations. And that was my way of saying that like the honeysuckle that grows through the hydrangea in the front garden I see them as entwined. So rather than thinking about separating them as two binary elements my answer seemed instead to focus on dialling up and dialling down (thank you for extending my thinking about this, Kelley). Even with this realisation, the Venn diagram was still drawing me back to its intersection and giving me the hint that there might be something to consider about this part of it. I enjoyed a little wonder about what exists there, and here’s what I found in my intersection of poetry and coaching: Setting something down, trying something out, viewing it from different angles, hearing what it sounds like out loud, seeing what it sounds like out loud, time and space to think, time and space to reflect, moving a thought forward, adjusting it, leaning in to emotions as they resonate in real time, trying on different lenses, wondering what it’s telling you, playing with it, considering different endings, recognising your own threads and patterns, deciding which ones to continue to weave.

And then of course there’s all the stuff that sits in the space outside the circles of the Venn diagram! Last week it included the absolute joy of meeting up with my friend, Kim, after 27 years as well as my delight in being the kind of person who likes to lean on the barrier at a Wendy James gig. Both these experiences highlighted things that had stayed solidly the same within me and things that have developed over time.

In my wondering which poem to include this week I thought about the fact that whilst editing some poems and carving out time to begin some shiny new ones, I have thoroughly enjoyed responding to challenges set by Matthew MC Smith for Top Tweet Tuesday. The first was to write a poem about writing a poem and this was closely followed by the challenge of writing a poem about writing a poem about writing a poem.

This poem, Rescuing the Giraffe, featured in my second collection might also be a poem about writing a poem…

(Huge gratitude to Yaffle Press for giving this poem its first home.) 

RESCUING THE GIRAFFE

I count the tangled legs; I make it six,

one head, so I count again.

This time I make it a knotted four

its eyes are fixed on mine

as if I was its mother.

But how do you retrieve

a giraffe from an earthquake crack?

And then what do you do with it?

The trees are bare

and I feel unqualified

for this emergency act.

I am sure its skin will feel like suede

and those hot chocolate eyes implore.

You are a poet, you owe me this, it says,

so, I sit on the edge

reach down my hands

pat its gentle rump.

It is all muscle under that thin, soft skin.

I stroke tentatively.

Don’t bite me, I say,

and the giraffe is offended.

OK, what I mean is

it might be uncomfortable

while I sort out your legs.

It barely makes a sound as I work.

Released feet scrabble to find their place

on the jagged sides of the hole.

It is ready for the haul.

My arms cradle its stomach,

leaving the legs to dangle,

and I have him rising.

He is as unsteady as the day he was born;

skidding like a skater on their first rink.

But finally, he is up,

shaking off confusion

and I am seeing the size of our shadows.