I like the word ‘Midsummer’, rather than the more popular (these days) ‘solstice’.
Strange how words fall out of favour, isn’t it?
The word ‘Midsummer’ sounds romantic and burgeoning to me. I imagine ‘The Empress’, holding court, fit to burst with life. It’s a peak, the summit of summer.
The first play I ever saw was ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ too. Manchester Royal Exchange. I loved the fairies and mischief, and every year try to harness the playful energies, hoping to be privy to sprinklings of spell. I hold my cheek to twilight longing to be kissed by Titania, that the extended sunlight will grant my dearest wishes.
Sometimes the fairies feel close, I can almost taste my dreams. I smell potions of fireworks, candy floss, violets, strawberries and warm earth….. Other times, not. Sometimes they are impish like Puck, they delude and trick me.
I think when we are tuned in to our inner child, when hearts and emotional loads are lightest……that’s when our wishes have the best chance of coming true. It’s just a theory, of course.
My energy has been mixed of late, as reflected in these poems. But you can expect the usual manic extremes.😂
I will expand upon them at the end, should anyone want to understand them better.
Midsummer
Midsummer, beguiling dream
Come soothe my path to pink
Pave moon beams with mauve rose petals
Enchant the thoughts I think
Connect me with a higher realm
Where childhood fairies play
Confine all tears to chandeliers
Let Knights in castles stay
Search velvet skies for silver wings
My ailing heart seeks flight
Be true to June, dear Midsummer
Make magic mine tonight
Full Moon
The weight of full moon
Is the heaviest debt
A silver that chills
Freezing hearts with regret
Showcasing each shadow
Suppressing old fight
I wish I could shoot
Like a star out of sight
Oh to aim for new heights
Score fresh earth with my heat
But here I remain
Same old ground, same two feet
A Void
A void again, back to the start
Blank space I used to be
Drawn in by ever tightening reins
Responsibility
I must resist the gallery
Of memories in my head
Commissions of a Neverland
That sneers in mocking red
My heavy eyes rake over why
I had a brief reprieve
The well that drowns my will to live
Cascades for hope to grieve
Devoid again, lacking in faith
Old patience but a flicker
I wait it out, a candle stump
Aflame on blackened wick.
Searchlight
At 3am, I switch it on
The searchlight that I own
Trawling archives, combing ground
For what……I do not know
A missing piece to make it fit
Make sense of what does not
Was there a shred of evidence
A careless heart forgot?
Recalling the detectives
Revisiting each crime
Certain I’ll unearth a clue
I so far failed to find
The hunt drags on
And I grow tired
I put the searchlight down
I will return night after night
Til sanity is found
Running
My head, it went running
Bounding high on lilac morning
Breathless on instinct
A blind and climbing vine
Anger, now hunger
Energy, orange
Thoughts rolling and tumbling
Dangling as stuntmen from cliffs of my chin
Diving fearlessly from lips
I sucked them in, licked them
Tricked myself
Tasting wet time in the seat of my mouth
Luscious and precious
Awash with the fresh
I raced with ideas that were younger and fitter
Nothing could stop me, cap or discourage
Left behind jeers of apathy, misery
Triumphed to cheers that roared as loud foam
Digging hot heels into tracks of bleak dawns
I blistered in conquest
Bleeding
Succeeding
Midsummer - This poem is pretty much what I wrote about in the introduction. Every solstice, I try and harness the spirit of fruition. I watch the sun flood fields rich with grass and animal life. Each one once a seed. It’s wondrous to remember all a single seed can become with the right alchemy and conditions.
Full Moon - I struggle with full moons. I ‘know’ I’m supposed to use them to maximise my creativity, but often, they make me feel a bit shaky, exposed, vulnerable. Maybe you can relate?
A Void - Sometimes you feel empty, full of nothing. You feel close to no-one, separate and insular………yet you have to ‘show up’ - whatever ‘showing up’ is to you. Maybe it’s taking care of someone, maybe it’s a job……you’re on auto pilot, your physical body is present, but you’re a functional zombie. You are a void, devoid of feeling, you bite your lip or shake your hand just to ‘check’ you’re real, that the numbing pins and needles is purely emotional. And your body confirms your fear. Yes - still there…..but not there. A performing ghost in your own life.
Searchlight - Do you ever have those 3am moments when you have to rake over everything that went wrong, pick it apart? When you think you’ll examine ‘the evidence’ just one more time so you can lay it to rest? But 3am is never when you’re at your most rational is it? So my advice is……..don’t.
Running - One day a couple of weeks back, I woke up and it really did feel like my head was running - in a good way. It was on a beach with palominos. It was giddy and nothing could catch its speed. My demons tried (and failed) to mount it, but it was too lithe, too fast. Thoughts were fine sand. I could cast them to the wind or mould them to my liking. There was nowhere that my mind couldn’t run that day, it was fluid, penetrating every rock in its way, the stones were porous, the sea was just a series of waves to catch.
Oh for more of those days!
Those are the sort of days I wish for all of you. Let them daisy chain into weeks, months years……. 🩷
*Images from pixabay.
You capture feelings perfectly Julie. The verses are beautiful ,especially at this bitter/sweet time of the year where we are already at Midsummer, and boy, have have we had to wait a long time for some restorative sunshine! I think the description of ‘Void’ must have happened to everybody. It used to be described as “not being/feeling with it”, and it is a strange, lonely place but thankfully, mostly fleeting. Also we’ve all had the 3/4 o’clock wake up call, when your brain won’t stop still and is full of night nadgers...my remedy has always been to empty my brain by writing everything down, letting the notepaper take the strain instead. It works for me as I always go back to sleep.
I love your poems. The symbolic intensity of Christina Rossetti and the metricality (probably not actually a word…) of Robert Frost. Keep feeling, keep sharing.