Nobody Knows

There’s a place you go

Where nobody knows

Where the rain doesn’t fall

And the wind doesn’t blow

Where the sun doesn’t shine

And the earth doesn’t grow

Where the Shepherd doesn’t lead

And the Mower doesn’t mow

There’s a place you go

Where nobody knows

Where secrets stay hidden

And you don’t have to show

There’s a place you go

Where nobody knows

There’s that place you go

And Nobody knows

Marcia Knight-Latter

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Home (today)

Home is a metal robin and a vase

Andy Harrod

I write not out of a desire to tell stories, but a need to understand what it is to be alive. Though the use of writing, art and photography I explore themes of love, loneliness, despair, hope and the individual. I believe creativity is at its most beautiful when it challenges; wanting my writing and art to make people pause, reflect and feel. I am interested in if and when do we awake to our life, to a sense this is it and to living in the moment. I am curious to why for so many of those moments we are not authentic, instead we live hidden behind masks and afraid to be who we are; ruled by external messages, expectations and demands on us, rather than guided by our sense of self and the present. My writing is fuelled by the hope that by engaging authentically with ourselves and others we stop fearing difference and embrace our own individualism and enjoy this collective individualism. The rest is up to each of us.

View my writing and books at http://decodingstatic.co.uk.

Contact me at andy@decodingstatic.co.uk or on twitter @DecodingStatic.

 

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Homewards

Home is not a place,

home is a time.

A dot in time.

A non-dimensional point in time.

 

A time in the past, but not gone.

It’s not what happened, but what you kept.

A time in the future, but already known.

It’s not what will happen, but its meaning.

 

Home is not a place – home takes place.

Home is being accepted without any exam – as a tree or as clouds.

Home is being welcomed long before you arrive.

Home is belonging – or rather having belonged.

 

Home is a point in the chest that keeps us breathing.

Juan Maria Solare

Composer and pianist, Juan María Solare, was born in Buenos Aires (Argentina) in 1966 and has lived in Germany since 1993. Solare teaches piano at the Musikschule Bremen, tango music at the Universität Bremen and Composition and Arrangements at the Hochschule für Künste in Bremen. He conducts the Jacobs Chamber Orchestra at the Jacobs University Bremen, and the symphonic orchestra of the Bremer OrchesterGemeinschaft.

His compositions are performed throughout Europe and broadcasted regularly. As pianist, centre of his repertory are the contemporary classical music (Cage, Schönberg, Pärt) and Argentine tango music – featuring his own works in both categories. He writes for music magazines (Madrid, Mexico, Buenos Aires, Köln, London) and for the radio (Deutsche Welle, Südwestfunk).

www.JuanMariaSolare.com

https://open.spotify.com/artist/0sr00YxbHKRAruzYrJ6PEg

 

Meditation on Hiraeth

 

Elan Valley, June 2016

I am coming back to me.

I see my reflection in the landscape,

in the place, in the sounds, the smells, the language.

I see myself, whole.

 

Feel my feet planted in the ground.

Sense my roots deep and strong.

I feel the living wood,

the sun on my skin, filling me with light.

 

Hear the breath of the breeze move through me.

Feel the cool water as it runs over my feet.

Feel it in my veins. Taste it.

It is a part of me.

 

Let me sit on this hillside,

body close to the earth,

The rhythm of life beats in me,

As above, so below.

 

My heart sings out loud, a ‘calon lan’,

I am of the land where Oaks grow

and birdsong fills my being.

I am home.

 

Ruth Raymer

Ruth is a walker, thinker, dreamer and writer. She says that her soul speaks in Welsh and Hiraeth pulls her back to Wales at every opportunity.In October 2017, she will embark on PhD research at the University of Essex as a CHASE DTP scholar, writing on the concept of Home and the human search for it.

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Carried

Come and carry me away

gather up my pieces

fold them tidy

tuck in the frayed edges

carry me away

click and swish

bob me to the beat of your footsteps

make your way between the trees

brush me up against the sun rough bark

carry me away

packed with my heaviest bits at the bottom

place my delicate leaves on top

put me in the press undamaged

carry me away

or set me down in a windy park

let me unfurl

let the wind

carry me away

Sinead Keegan

https://allthesins.co.uk/

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Two Running Poems

Runners roots
Runners roots
Ter Race number 12642

Runners

       hell.

You, that’s who!

Sweaty locks and discomfort.

Trust in a few jelly babies for every

emotional and physical

        response

Found poem from 9 things you need for race day survival


Runner’s roots

Found: one trainer along the Portsmouth Road,

rooted to its spot atop a wall.

Lace tendrils carefully pruned, suggest a

recent transplantation.




Less is more,

except when running,

then two feet are always better than

                one.

        Run on.

Circuit complete, the trainer remains.

Pale circular roots have sprouted.

It means to settle. And why not, since this

                                         wall

                                         is as nice

                                         as any,

with its south-facing aspect and communal garden.

It’s the sort of place that nourishes

the soul;

the sort of place that one might

                 blossom.

By Lisa Davison
Lisa is running the Royal Parks Half Marathon
to raise money for Children and the Arts Start Hospices programme.
http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserPage.action?userUrl=LisaAndrews6&faId=728966&isTeam=false

 

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Poem

SW_4thJuly2016_6JPG
Heel and sole
as a span of fan
soothes with cool draught
as a cool draught
‘twixt cup and pain
heals a soul
heel and sole.
By Simon Tyrrell
(originally from Seething Writers writing prompt: Ready, Steady Write)
SW_4thJuly2016_2

 

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Lost Property

SW_4thJuly2016_5
Lost property
dropped from the hand,
who knows where they fell,
better to have lost, than never loved at all,
Christ lost a cup, and a shoe, up the hill.
By Robin Rutherford.
http://www.robinrutherford.co.uk/

(originally from Seething Writers writing prompt: Ready, Steady Write)

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Poem

SW_4thJuly2016_6JPG
Plastic shoes, cups, bags, furniture …
Furnishing mountains of futility,
where nothing is necessary,
nourished
 or nurtured.
Plastic mountains mounting massively …
bits breaking and flaking off,
to clog the cogs
of reproductive and digestive systems …
Permeating from the seas to the lands …
from amphibians to humans …
Plastic mountains,
mounting
daily …
By Katharine Scott
(originally from Seething Writers writing prompt: Ready, Steady Write)

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The Wordsmiths

Before, there was just sound.


Noise.

Gutteral utterings.

Inside a need

Outside, no form.

 
Then they came

A wandering band of vagabonds

A higgledy piggledy group of artisans

Skilled craftsmen and women all

A cart filled with wondrous tools

Cases packed with abundance

Dragged with joy from settlement to settlement

Infectious energy and smiles

Captivating hearts and faces

 
Their arrival a source of excitement

Their purpose as yet unknown

They stop and unpack their wonders

 
They are the Wordsmiths

 
An ancient band of creators

Capturing the sounds and making real

 
Once established they sit and wait

Slowly people come to forward

Sit, eyes captivated by what they see

Silence speaks volumes

 
A Wordsmith steps forward and points

The ‘tree’ is big with heavy boughs.

He points to one of the children and back

Slowly the child realises and makes the noise

 
The Wordsmiths scream with joy

Repeat the sound until it is fixed and set

Others join in chorus loud

 
With one gesture silence falls again

The Wordsmiths set to work

Tools blur, materials carved, sewn,

Forges lit, bellows strained

 
Effort precedes the emergence of

The word

TREE

Made real

There in front of them

A sound now physical and fixed

TREE

 
From their cart they take a case

Words tumble from it to the floor

Previous language captured

Now shared, passed, owned.

 
As dawn come up an empty space

Dents in the grass where once was

And

TREE

writ large

 
An elder turns to the assembled

“They have gone.”

Nods of understanding

 
Before, there was just sound.

Noise.

Gutteral utterings.

Inside a need to communicate

Outside no form.

 
Then they came

A wandering band of vagabonds

A higgledy piggledy group of artisans

Skilled craftsmen and women all

A cart filled with wondrous tools

Cases packed with abundance

Dragged with joy from settlement to settlement

Infectious energy and smiles


Captivating hearts and faces



Robin Hutchinson

http://spiritofseething.blogspot.co.uk/