Sue Finch

THE MOON POEMS ARE WAXING LYRICAL

This morning a light wind tickles the leaves and drops of rain, held there temporarily, fall. No bird song yet in the faintly herbed air.

Alt Text says this week’s photo is a moon in the sky, and this makes me chuckle because I wondered if this might be the suggestion. I say it is actually a photograph of a balloon flying freely in the sky back in 2014, and when I photographed it I was loving its flight and its brief moonlike quality.

I did a happy poet dance this week in celebration of the publication of My Sister Went to Live on the Moon. It was wonderful to see this poem on the Atrium site and to remember the joy of writing it. It was one of those intense writing experiences where the thoughts come tumbling out like a waterfall into a fast flowing river. The kind that has me eager to see what has been created when I can finally pause the writing. The kind that when that pause comes I feel as though I have been a conduit for the words and their journey onto the page.

My recent reflection that this might be the year I howl at full moons rather than include them in my poetry isn’t quite accurate now! I have opened the year with a moon poem and followed this up by writing another where the moon is centre stage during Kim Moore and Clare Shaw’s January Writing Hours! The one currently in the notebook is a little rough round the edges, but I reckon some tender editing and a few visits to Poetry Corner will have it seeing the light of day.

And where did it begin, this fascination with the moon? I am not entirely sure, but I think Hey Diddle Diddle plays a role here. I can picture the illustration that accompanied the nursery rhyme from a childhood book. Such merriment and joy with the cow jumping, the moon smiling, and the dish and spoon gallivanting off. Perhaps it was that very crescent moon that I once spent time trying to carve into my bedroom wall. The visual memory and the tactile memory are both still in me as an adult. Or perhaps it was Aiken Drum! I can still feel the gleeful rhythm of this dancing in me, and I know if I see a ladle I am almost guaranteed to start to sing!

Wherever it began, I am glad it has not ended. I am interested in this continued evolution and grateful for all those early songs and rhymes and stories embedded in me which have gifted me my fascination.

Here, from my first collection Magnifying Glass published by Black Eyes Publishing UK, is my setting down of the night I etched a drawing into my bedroom wall before sleep…

MY MAN IN THE MOON

Lying in bed

I picked at the anaglypta

jammed my fingernails with paper and paste.

Stroking the grainy grey-white surface

I remembered Sunday’s porridge,

how its tempting smell had lied about the taste.

I got lost in the thought that milky oats could stick paper,

that husks could be the wallpaper’s bumps.

Time passed in touching and picking.

I found friction.

Mesmerised by the heat,

I rubbed my fingertips hotter

as if it might smooth my prints.

I watched the crumb-like drop of disintegrating plaster.

Then a crescent was there

with a nose.

I smiled as I picked him out

my man in the moon.

I carved his shape with the lid of a blue biro

coloured him in with felt tip pens.

That night I slept facing the wall

ready to show my mum in the morning.

But night’s darkness stole my colours,

faded red to pink,

turned black to tabby-brown.

Mum was sparse with words.

I looked through a film of tears,

saw his sinister grin.

WOLF MOONS

This morning the crunch-slip under foot of snow fallen on snow, and the intermittent sparkle of pretend stars on the ground. Oddly, the air carries the scent of bananas.

Alt text says this week’s photo is two women smiling for a picture. I say it is me and Kath wrapped up in knitted goods getting our steps in. And I have chosen to put it in black and white because in the colour photo our cheeks and noses are glowing rather red from the cold.

On the first of January this year I did something that was very rare for me in the whole of 2025… I read a book from my ‘to be read’ pile from beginning to end. It felt good to make the conscious decision to slow down and devote time to simply entering the world of a book, and it also felt fitting given that 2026 is The National Year of Reading. I had already decided that as a nod to this year’s celebration of reading I would re-embrace the joy of reading song lyrics whilst listening to songs I loved. Often, I know parts of songs, but not the whole and I miss out on that full immersion. My ear buds help because they put the music right into the centre of my brain (that’s unlikely to be scientifically correct, but that’s what it feels like to me) and I can hear things more clearly. But there’s something about reading the words at the same time as hearing them that sets them down for me.

When January’s wolf moon was nearly full I went out late at night and howled at it just because I could which made me laugh. It was standing under the wolf moon in January 2022 which had me scuttling off to my writing desk to form a poem which was brewing in my head. This then led to my desire to learn the names of each full moon throughout the year and a resolution to stand under each one before writing a poem for it. There was no poem in me asking to be written for this year’s wolf moon, but I took time to admire it rising and setting. Perhaps this is the year in which I just howl under each full moon, and embrace the moment.

Here’s to all the ways we find of being full, complete and whole.

And here’s that poem from 2022:

I AM HOWLING TO JANUARY’S WOLF MOON

by this I mean I have no words

by this I mean I am too tired to speak

by this I mean I think if I started, I wouldn’t stop

by this I mean there is too much I am holding in

by this I mean I am struggling

by this I mean I need to ask for help

by this I mean I need you to help me

by this I mean please howl at the moon with me

by this I mean I need you not to be scared

by this I mean I am terrified.

MY YEAR IN REVIEW

This morning it is raining and the almost unchilled air carries strong hints of green.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a collage of a group of people. It is indeed a collage and it is made from the photos that accompanied each blog post this year. I do like to take a look back before I look forward and I thought this would be one way of doing it for 2025.

When I was little I loved an annual. To me it was a book of delightful snippets collected together to be enjoyed in a period of time that involved a break from routine. I can picture myself reading in my pyjamas, the seemingly bottomless sweet tin, and the advent calendar that left its glitter on our fingers with all its doors open telling me that it was indeed Christmas Day. This week’s photo is like the cover of my 2025 annual.

This blog has been my way of building a good relationship with Mondays, and the fact there have been 114 episodes since September 2023 tells me that I have definitely adopted this as a habit. Singing as the Darkness Lifts (this blog’s title) comes from my love of three things: the sound of birds welcoming the dawn, the feeling of darkness lifting, the moments of joy that make my heart sing. And writing each entry is a grounding in the changing of seasons when I take time to sniff the air each Monday morning and note its scent. In some ways it is also a setting down before moving on with the new week. It is a simple place to reflect, and it is a place to find joy as the darkness lifts.

When I look at my year through the lens of this week’s photo it makes me smile as I get transported back to particular moments and particular themes. It has been a vortex of a year at times, the kind where my tyres (both metaphorical and literal) have not always stayed pumped up, so it feels good to see it as a whole and honour the sadness as well as recognise the joy… the fact that we chose the brightest flowers for my lovely Dad’s funeral… that 2025 was the year I changed my mum’s photo on my phone so that when I call her she is framed right there holding her 80^th birthday cake and smiling. It’s been a year of reflecting on silence, and words, and within it I have memed my brother, climbed a mountain with my sister, shared time with good people, celebrated the ‘showtime’ of yarn shows, and am finally learning the art of slow editing.

The following poem was shared at the launch of this year’s Christmas & Winter Anthology from Black Bough Poetry. I enjoyed writing this poem, and I loved hearing the selection of poems read aloud in the zoom room, and the fact that it then became the perfect evening to have twiglets and vegan sausage rolls as a nod towards the festive season.

THIS IS THE DARKEST SEASON

The tilt of the earth’s axis

offers us to winter.

We cling on,

fingers numb.

Remember spring my love,

hold tight with me.

Look how the snowdrops

lift lime-green lined umbrellas

above the blank, cold soil.

Remember spring my love,

hold on.

Stay steady here,

as the tawny owl hands night’s darkness

to the blackbird.

Remember spring,

let me show you sunrise

clementine the sky.

A HEADSHOT IN A CHRISTMAS WREATH

This morning, under a waning moon and a bright planet, the swirling wind stirs up the scent of mud and brick dust.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a person smiling in a wreath. I say it is me twelve years ago taking my turn to have a photo taken. A group of us were finding much merriment in posing for our festive pictures and there was plenty of laughter. I picture this moment in my head each time the Christmas season comes around, and I hold it with a special kind of nostalgia because one of the lovely people who made the best photo that night is no longer with us.

This week I visited a DIY store to purchase a cardboard box (!) and the aisle it was in wasn’t easy to locate. Whilst leaning into the fact that I was probably getting some of my steps in on a rainy day I spotted a pink wreath. It was the perfect opportunity to create another wreath photo, and it brought me joy whilst wondering where aisle 61 was.

This week I did something I have never done before. I sent a simultaneous submission, i.e, I sent the same poem out to two different places at the same time. I have a system in place to make sure I don’t do this. It’s a spreadsheet (thanks to Jo Bell for the idea) and I am careful to log all my poems and where they are. Tiredness and my brain telling me it was sure a new poem couldn’t possibly have flown the nest yet saw me send off a submission before filling in the spreadsheet. The saving grace is that both places allow for this, but it is not something that I like doing, and it is the perfect reminder to me of why I have a system in place.

In delightful poetry news this week I received a Pushcart Prize nomination from Black Bough’s Matthew M C Smith for my poem, THERE’S A DOLL THUMPING IN MY CHEST. The poem was part of my Silver Branch feature for Black Bough in August 2025.The Pushcart Prize is an opportunity for poems published by small presses to be included in a dedicated anthology. Whether it is selected for inclusion or not I am delighted that the poem was recognised as having something special about it. I love the nomination, the poem, the way the poem evolved, and the way I have evolved since writing it!

I have shared it in this blog before, but to celebrate it one more time I will share it again now:

THERE’S A DOLL THUMPING IN MY CHEST

I spend a long time soothing her to sleep.

And sometimes I feel I’m running out of options.

When she cries,

and trust me she cries easily,

her whole body heaves.

And even when I’m calming her

there’s that long hiccupping of recovery

still stealing my air.

I don’t know if it’s the thought of people

knowing she’s inside me

that scares me most,

or that she’s going to beat her fists so hard

she breaks right through my ribcage

while they’re watching.

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.

MY SOUL AS A METAL SPINNING TOP

This morning herring gulls sound in the distance, and the sky is clouded. The air is gently cold, not biting, and carries a hint of woodiness.

Alt text says this week’s photo is two women standing together smiling. I like that description. And I love this photo and that I was able to say hello in real life to Tanita Tikaram after the excellent concert at Stoller Hall. I enjoyed it all – it made my heart sing. And I felt my soul shining extra brightly on hearing such a beautiful performance of ‘Valentine Heart’ from Tanita Tikaram and Helen O’Hara.

I had been enjoying the anticipation of going to the concert for quite some time having safely stored the tickets away when I bought them back in May. On the actual day of the event, I had factored in the journey and made peanut butter and blackcurrant jam rolls for tea so that when we got there we didn’t have to worry about finding somewhere to eat. What I couldn’t factor in was the impact of the weather on the journey time. Our one-hour journey became a two-and-a-half-hour trek so even with my tendency of needing to be early in order to feel punctual the timing didn’t quite work as anticipated. Earlier that day I had listened to a message on LinkedIn which posed the question ‘What would you do if you were not afraid?’ I love this kind of question! And on this occasion, it helped me not to feel strange about arriving when the support act had already started. Instead I leant into the thought of it being better to be a late audience member than to leave our seats empty for this part of the show.

For me there is a poetry to the lyrics of Tanita Tikram’s songs which I love. Reflecting on this reminded me that many, many years ago I wrote my mum a letter composed almost entirely of lines from songs on Ancient Heart and The Sweet Keeper. I can remember walking to the post box outside college to post it and I can also remember her telling me she was rather bemused when she received it.

So this week I found myself transported back in time to the late eighties and early nineties, and it was fun to look back on the me that listened to the songs then and the me that sat in the front row for a concert more than three decades later. When I hear myself recounting the concert experience the feeling is the same… my heart sings, my soul shines…it’s still like setting off a metal spinning top, and it’s just as shiny as back then, but as I watch it now, I see it glows at the edges with a vintage vibe.

For this week’s poem I select Watching the Rambert at the Marlowe which was published in ‘The Broken Spine’. This poem was written about a dance performance I went to in the early 1990s, so it fits well with the timeframe I have been looking back on.

Here’s to all the things that make our hearts sing and souls shine.

WATCHING THE RAMBERT AT THE MARLOWE

After ‘Rooster’, The Marlowe Theatre, Date Unknown

I’m not in a velour seat next to you.

Because right now

you are tight muscled,

assured in your seduction,

all strut and shapes

and I am the woman you dance towards.

I’m not caught by the breaths of every move.

I am breathless with desire

feeling the pulse

in every cell.

I know what it is to be alive.

I’m not just watching

droplets of sweat fly and fall.

I am the dancer in the red dress

spinning in and out of lives.

ON HAVING AN UNSTABLE CONNECTION

This morning a chorus of herring gulls and a crescent moon in a pale blue sky. And the air is simply cold.

Alt text tells me this week’s photo is a stuffed animal in the air. I say it is Ronnie jumping for joy at Weedon Bec. Although this is an older photo, we were there at the weekend for a celebration of yarn at a Riverknits event. Stollen and Wolle is the name of the event, and it features both those things (cake and wool) and also has lovely live music towards the end which gives a wonderful uplifting feel to the closing of the show and our subsequent journey home.

This week my internet became unstable. No great drama you might think, but this is me and I was at an event where I was reading! It has taken me some time to develop my reading confidence, and to have the right kind of self-talk when things seem to be going wrong.

And now I take a bow because I did not panic! Not only that, I also did not panic in the moments before this when my wife inadvertently switched the internet off at the start of the meeting and I was no longer even in the zoom room. It definitely felt weird to be staring at a screen and realising that despite not physically going anywhere I was no longer present. Like a kind of out of body experience in a dreamlike waiting room that didn’t even exist.

There is a past version of me that would have wanted to give up at either or both of these points. But the voice that used to be quick to notice a problem or want to point a finger of shame now offers solutions. It says this happens to other people too, it tells me there are ways forward, reminds me it’s not a deal breaker. And before I take all the credit for cracking on I must admit that I was very glad and grateful when my wife came in asked me if I wanted to hot spot to my phone and handed me a phone charger. Left to my own devices I would have waited for the main internet to reboot because I knew I only had a small amount of charge on my phone. And I am not very good at waiting when I want something to be resolved.

Seeing the message flash up about an unstable connection when I was back in the room had me inwardly chuckling at the thought of having to put my camera off to preserve the stability of the connection. How many times in the past had I felt the need to channel my inner strength to be camera on and resist the temptation to keep wondering whether I was coming across as acceptable? It suddenly felt very good to not want to be camera off!

It was a good week for poetry… I loved being invited to read at Stephen Paul Wren’s Blood Women book launch, I enjoyed a whole day of editing and drafting some work, and when I landed in my chair after the journey back from the yarn show I found a lovely acceptance in my inbox.

Here’s to zoom rooms, to words and to the people who invite us to share time and space.

This poem, about finding your voice, received a recent dusting off so I shall include it here:

SHE WEARS A HOODED CLOAK

She leaves voices in boxes for me;

some are easy to find,

some a game of hide and seek

that has me wanting to give in.

I have never seen her in full daylight,

but I know she stoops

to get through doorways.

I feel her watching from corners –

ahead of me,

behind me,

shadowing.

She shows me how

she seals the boxes:

tape, rope, padlocks.

Then hides them under her cloak.

When I wake

I think I’ve glimpsed her face –

fox fur,

the beak of a crow,

a skull beneath.

There is something familiar

in her eyes.

THE WATER TOWER

This morning a blackbird sounds an incessant alarm call after I have hit the snooze button twice. I take this as a sign to get up and see the day. The air smells of bare branches and the crows are conversing from chimney pots.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a person jumping off a water tower. I say I am rather glad it isn’t and that instead it is Herne Bay Water Tower in the late afternoon sun with Ronnie jumping for joy.

There is something reassuring about seeing the Water Tower each time I visit my hometown, and I love that this stark, concrete building can warm my heart. Taking a moment to notice it and feel the wave of nostalgia always feels comforting. It’s like a friendly, “welcome back”.

My brother was very good at building a replica of this tower with Lego when we were little, and along with Herne Windmill, it is a much-loved landmark from my childhood. Both these structures were most often viewed from a distance, and I felt in awe of the Water Tower’s height when capturing this photo. As I write thinking about being small in comparison to something tall, I can hear the sound of my brother fixing Lego bricks together and I can feel that satisfying squeeze/click as the bricks lock into place under the guidance of fingers. (I can also picture plasticene squeezed in the ‘stickles’ of sticklebricks, but that’s another kind of memory!)

Staying with the nostalgic I decided that the poem that would be most fitting for this week’s blog would be the one that features the pond in Herne Bay Park.

Herne Bay pond holds many memories for me. My brother and I used to canoe on it, my sister and I saw a gull eat a duckling after swooping for bread, then the duckling, then another beakful of bread (The most unsettling sandwich ever!) and it is always good to take a stroll there to find out if the terrapin is basking on the rock by the island. This poem was written after my sister rang me one day to tell me that the terrapin was not there and that whilst looking she had seen an abandoned doll floating in the water.

It seems apt to mention that there’s something dark about ponds for me… a slow evolution based on what it already holds…the long decay of what people discard there… the risk of stagnation. To me this kind of water seems a stark contrast to the tidal nature of the sea.

When I visited this time, the pond was having a massive clean out and I wondered what the wildlife would make of its new cocktail. And although I mention one terrapin because that’s all I used to seem to see when I was younger there are actually a number there now so that slow evolution is fruitful.

No Terrapin Today

Just her in the water.

The sun warming her

as she floats.

A fallen leaf,

landed beside her,

shines its green to the sky.

Branches and leaves

pattern her outline

with their shadows.

You say you want to photograph her,

that you wonder what her eyes are seeing

as she lies unmoving in the water.

I can only think of thick mud

holding on tight to faded crisp packets.

But look, you say, she is smiling.

And she is.

Her long hair floats out

like golden pondweed,

and she looks happy

the abandoned doll

eyes wide,

eyelashes still curled,

that mouth.

As if she doesn’t even know

she was thrown in,

left behind.

LIFTED

This morning, the cool air brings the smell of hash browns as the traffic builds its familiar rush.

Alt text offers no suggestion for this week’s photo. I say it is my sister, me and my mum in the lift after coffee and before a little shopping spree. I love this moment in time from our lovely, shared day, and the fact I remembered to take a photo.

This week I learned that I am a competent pumpkin carver. Good company, a simple design idea, a whiteboard marker pen and a last-minute pumpkin purchase resulted in a Trick or Treat worthy exhibit which made me smile.

It has been like adopting a mini half-term this week… catching up with a good friend, time with family, carving that pumpkin, having a toffee apple, going to a big firework display, landing on the settee of lovely people and having a photograph taken… and perhaps there will always be echoes of school holidays even though I no longer have these as an absolute in my working life. It certainly felt good to celebrate those echoes this week and mark the time of year with a mini pause.

Recently, I found myself dithering, or, as I now like to call it, playing a game of ‘Decision Tennis’. I felt the need to google that term to make sure I hadn’t inadvertently stolen it from someone, and I don’t think I have, but please someone correct me if I am wrong. I rather like it because for me it sums up that feeling of not dedicating time to getting my thoughts in order which then results in experiencing the to and fro tennis game of ‘I think I will’ / ‘No, actually, I won’t’. It’s the kind of thinking that tells you it needs attention because it’s still there when you wake up in the middle of the night. Sometimes during this kind of thinking my brain seems to sort things out in the background and then serve me the answer in a sure and powerful ace, other times it plays on like a tiring rally. This time a coaching conversation arrived just at the right moment to help me explore my thinking out loud and end the ongoing rally.

Last night I saw a prowling fox underneath a waxing moon in a wide dark sky, and it got me thinking of full moons. I stood still for a moment and remembered the year I stood in silence under each full moon before writing it a poem. This week’s poem was written back then…

BEAVER MOON

We stood under the sky

knowing the moon

would soon be full,

finding fireworks to match

those moments that have us breathless.

I told you that beavers are rodents –

the second largest after capybaras.

You said you didn’t even know they were rodents.

I told you that my favourite firework

is the jellyfish that comes

after the Roman Candles

which follow that rapid explosion

of rocket after rocket.

POET, COACH. COACH, POET.

This photo with thanks to a member of Wendy James’ team after a gig.

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.