SOCK MONKEY

This morning the sky is grey. Drizzle and low cloud are holding onto the fumes from the cars and I am longing for the scent of evergreens and incense.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a stuffed animal on a tree. I say it is sock monkey. He was a ‘makey-makey gift’ that I made one Christmas – I followed all the instructions in the kit, but he didn’t quite come out like the one in the promotional pictures.

I was thinking this week about things we do as part of a group and things we do on our own. I like doing things on my own, but I can see that perhaps had I been part of a group when making my sock monkey he might have been a little more refined. He does however have a definite personality of his own and I always look forward to him making an appearance as we lift the lid on the Christmas decorations box. He isn’t a Christmas tree decoration, but I thought he would like a seasonal photo opportunity for this week’s blog.

It’s been a gently festive kind of weekend. Advent Sunday saw us getting the decorations out and enjoying reminiscing about the origins of each one; always a lovely reunion. And before this on Saturday I sang in town with the local community choir. It always delights me that we can fill the Christmas Market with a beautiful sound, and add to the seasonal feel.

When I tell people I have been to the precinct to sing I often follow this up with, “not randomly on my own”. And the thought of me rocking up just to stand there and sing by myself makes me laugh. This would most definitely not work! In the group I know when I can trust myself to belt it out. I also know when I am in danger of being out of tune, and need to pause my singing.

I love the feeling in my chest and soul when the voices of the more competent singers shine. And being part of that is magical. The high notes rise and I remember to come in with the lower part at the right time and I can feel the sparkle of what is being created by many voices coming together. Sometimes I zone out when singing and temporarily forget where I am. This is quite entertaining when I come to and find myself singing along in tune and inhabiting the song. It was however slightly embarrassing at a recent rehearsal when I came to and heard the familiar intro of ‘This is Me’ only to forget that it was solo part and definitely not my turn to be singing even though that’s what I did. Fortunately I was in tune and quickly realised I should stop.

This week I was also celebrating the cover of a new poetry anthology called ‘Safety in Numbers’. This is another powerful reminder of what can be done when people work together. The idea for the book came from Gill Connors, and each poet was sent a poem to respond to with a poem of their own. Thus the poems were written in chains… each poem inspiring the next… women talking to women… poems talking to poems.  I am delighted that my poem Stunt Girl will be in these pages, and that it came into being because of Gill’s project.

Feeling seasonal brings to mind the following fairy tale inspired poem from my first collection Magnifying Glass. I hope you enjoy it.

THE RED SHOES

Never danced with a boy

wanted to

couldn’t flirt and risk the invitation.

No rhythm. No chance.

I imagined the red shoes would do the trick.

Too impatient to save (twelve weeks an eternity to me)

I distracted him; the Saturday boy

whose hands fumbled for bags,

whose fingers mishit the keys of the cash register.

He struggled to fetch the next pair

and the next

as I feigned tightness in the width

a squashed left little toe

my desire for a heel

a want for a bow.

The scarlet pair hugged my feet.

I felt the urge to stand and jig

my stomach flipped, I had to swallow a smile

I like these, I told him. But wonder

would black be more appropriate?

He withheld a sigh and readied himself for the ladder.

Top shelf, he mumbled as he stood to fetch them.

Halfway up the ladder

I laughed and left.

Had to grip my belly to hold myself together

as the chuckles came and came.

My feet spent their energy;

a jig, a reel, a reel, a jig.

I danced smiling at my new beat.

I roared as I polkaed –

my lungs grabbed for air

reeling, reeling,

I could not find the oxygen within my breaths.

The woodcutter smiled to see me

leaned back to enjoy the one woman show.

No, no, no! I panted in horror. It’s the shoes!

He stepped behind me

resorting to an imitation of my steps to keep time with me.

I wanted to laugh at the big booted feet dancing with me;

cartooning each step,

caring enough not to step on the hated shoes.

I could only weep.

He held me.

I trembled the rhythm of my legs

offered him one foot, one shoe.

He gripped,

yet his giant hands could not master the vice-like leather

he pushed my shoulders away in horror.

I danced to his axe

shocked him sick when I struck:

One foot, two feet

no feet.