writing, poems and friends

The pleasant tap of a wood pecker that accompanies our outdoor breakfast most days has stopped of late.  Perhaps wood peckers migrate for the summer.  More likely the insistent tap of the roofer in our neighbour’s garden has drowned him out.  The roofer is more methodical in his tapping. He places  each slate deftly and then taps away.  Row after row, so neatly, the visual effect is pleasing:  new tiles like lines of typing on a page.

There is sun today and there will be a walk in the hills with views of the sea, and lunch  with a friend and I am reminded of a poem

Oxford Brookes promote poetry. A poem comes along each week, singing its way to the in box.  This one something special but then each one is the same: something special

Weekly Poem for 10 Dec 2012

My Friend Mary Stone From Oxford Mississippi

We know we ought to be enemies,
her voice perhaps,
thirty three years off the Delta and
still caked in mud or
my hair perhaps,
bushed for the warrior women of Dahomey,
we know we ought to be enemies, only
Oh Mr. Faulkner
to prevail is such an awe full responsibility
to “have a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and
is an awe full responsibility but
we know we have to try it and
we are both trying to try it
red as the clay hills and blacker than loam

by Lucille Clifton

The sense of place conveyed by this so different from the back garden now overlooked by the eaves of an extension.  (Oxford, Mississippi.  where William F was from, no?)

A place gives shared history.  To come from the same place, to live in the same place.  Not necessarily of this world tho, can be the same astral plane.
I am a believer.  How else or what else would describe that feeling of kinship that two strangers or two friends feel for one another?


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