Poetry is leading the way for me at present. Calling me in the night and early morning—a conduit for the various layers of undoing, sense-making, ritual practice, deep listening, being and giving that this life has offered up… especially recently. I joined Asher Packman from The Fifth Direction on Monday 22nd August, at 7:30pm.
This was one of the poems I shared with the listeners.
It can swoop like a magpie—knocking you off kilter. Or dart about like a yellow-throated thrush in the grevillea. It sighs on the breeze like an eagle circling warm currents. Or ascends heavily, like a black cockatoo caught off guard ripping apart a banksia head. Sometimes wisdom feels more like fear than grace—a sick feeling in the belly, a sudden sense of threat, a burst of anger, tears, fight, flight.
Kestrel hovers close:
Intimate, raw. Prey, your heart
Frays, your mind’s in fright.
But how would it feel to meet vulnerability as friend, not foe—listen to what whispers or screams for attention? Listen and hold the shifting ground. Wait out the weather and, like the weather, change.
On the crag, the bird
Splays its wings in the dry squall
And waits. Cormorant.
If not a friend, then a door that opens to a friend. Teachers, storytellers, poets and elders know vulnerability as a door, an opening of the self into knowing. Baffled, bow deeply into the mystery—this trembling uncertainty, this shameful embarrassment, this late-at-night cacophony of concern, these demons, a knock down, a calling in or a calling out. Offer no defence. Fall. Lose your footing in the awkward beauty, the ache, the unseen epiphany—vulnerability.
Pelican takes off
Long and slow, but air lifts her
Like a feather weight.