MOTHER TONGUE From under your skirt I glimpse the world - your leafy arms reaching, keeping it all, just out of reach - I’m quiet, calm enough to hear your tongue without names, to feel what I don’t know, to try and understand. I remember speaking without words, when the feel of the stick in my small hand told me that if I held it just right it held, dirt would give way with the right touch, I knew every branch that held me and broke me. I remember knowing who was watching without seeing and to not be afraid, instead I let you keep me company and show me I wasn’t a stanger but just one more cause for delight. Now here I am in your lap with my morning coffee. I take off my shoes and rest my bare feet on yours and hope for a quiet revelation to take root in me, I close my eyes, I listen for the old gods speaking my mother tongue. ~ ❤️AC
What about you? Can you relate? Do you remember a time when you spoke without words? When, where and with whom?
I’d love to know if you’re willing to share.
Thanks for being here and may you find ways back to your inherent knowing and wisdom. With much love, Amanda
P.S. If you’re curious about how my self-publishing project is travelling, read on below!
Not a lot of ‘above ground’ progress this week to be honest. More of same - collating, ruminating on theme/s, title, a little bit of editing. This week’s poem feels like it might have been the missing poem that needed to be brought into being before I could go any further? It feels like it holds a lot of what I write about in more detail in my other poems.
Thoughts?
I’m going to take the next week to step back a little and let things be instead of trying so hard to see what’s there but isn’t quite visible yet.
I love working with tarot and visualisation at these times when I need help seeing the bigger picture. I’ll also spend time listening under the old fig trees so watch this space!
I’ll keep on sharing here for those of you interested in the process! Until next week, take good care. xA
I lost count of the amount of times I felt my heart stretch as I read and listened. Thank you, always, for these powerful reminders of our true place 🤍
Thank you Amanda, as my Mum loses language I am reminded of how much can be shared by presence and touch.
Your poem reminds me of the presence I feel in some woodlands, both here and in the UK. The first time I walked in Suffolk woods I felt at home in a way I never expected. I understood the stories of the Green Man.
Thank you for your poem, and for taking the time to care for the poet! When creativity won’t be forced, we need to heed the message (its usually rest, or do something else for a bit).