Jump in the river

The river of stones will be flowing again this July.  Take a moment each day to stop, pay attention to the world around you, and write about it.  If you fancy jumping in and posting your stones each day, you can have your blog or website added to the river of stones blogroll.  But more importantly, you might just catch more than you bargained for.

I have been & will be posting my stones here.  Hope to see you there!

31st January ~ a walk in stones (125 word diary)

a lone coot on the water
one ripple flows the length of the riverbed

Jake stops to stare at a pylon
and the airplane flying overhead

He notices the water level in the river
and the reeds growing out of them

I take him to the bridge
and he stops to throw sticks

we turn and see a heron
still as a statue
I snap a photo
and then it flies away

walking home
our shadows from the sunset
lead the way

a gull flying west
takes on a pale cherry breast

the island on the reservoir
is now alive with bird calls
black shapes alighting on nests

the sunset reflects on everything
treetops, upper story windows
eyes looking up to see

~

 
Although the river of stones project is coming to an end, I've enjoyed the trip so much this month, meeting fellow stoners (hee hee), having my eyes opened, sinking deeper into the stillness of the moments of the day-to-day, that I will carry on writing stones, though perhaps not every day.  I have a new project I'm looking forward to starting for the month of February, one that will redress the drawing part of the drawing / writing balance in my life and which will perhaps include the writing of stones.  I don't know exactly how it will go but I look forward to figuring it out.  I hope to catch some of you along the way.

Thank you for dropping by!

30th January ~ 100 word diary made of stones

A grey tabby washes his face
on our green garden chair
~
pale sunlight reflects off the puddle
on Jake’s overturned paddling pool
~
patches of blue through speckled window
squares of yellow light on the wall
~
Our 2.5yr-old stands on a chair and says Bollocks!
doubling over with chuckles
Bollocks! Bollocks! Bollocks!
egged on by our unrestrained laughter
~
I piss myself laughing
while doing jumping jacks
Jake says, “That’s really good Mummy!”
then decides to lie down on top of me
during the abdominal crunches
~
pressing his face against the window
Jake catches the sunset
“Wow, look at that colour Daddy!”

29th January ~ a stone for the river

a crowd of gulls
swoop and glide and circle and call
before leaving
a lone crow
perched on an antenna
stillness in their wake

28th January ~ my morning in stones (100 word diary)

Brushing my teeth
Jake stands next to me
imitating the sounds of a Hoover
I look down and see him using
Bagpuss’s tail as the Hoover nozzle
I laugh
Jake laughs too then says
“It’s not funny Mummy”
“But it’s cute,” I reply
“It’s not cute,” he says.

~

Breakfast:
Dried pineapple chunks
the shape of sunken squares
tinkle against the sides of the bowl

~

Words from my magnetic poetry kit
scattered on the carpet
I see words I want to form into sense
Jake says “Let’s make a tower”
He asks for more
I place Love in his cupped palms

27th January ~ a walk in stones (in 100 words)

Snowdrops in a neighbour’s window box,
smashed baseboard of an acoustic guitar,
the door to no. 46 slightly open,
a large woman pushing a shopping trolley trying to run for the W12,
a stoop painted fire engine red,
a ripped bin bag spilling clothes onto the street ~
chiffon polka-dot blouse
one cork-heeled sandal
a pink and cream striped tail catches my eye
sticking out amidst soft toy torsos
I stop and lift it out
Bagpuss! Brand new with the tag still attached
I place him in the seat of Jake’s pram
furry striped body rattling
all the way home.

~

This is from my walk along the same stretch of road as yesterday, returning home after dropping Jake off at nursery.  I love that I can walk the same road every day and see something new each time.

26th January ~ a walk in stones

a nest with conifers hanging off it,
a whippet the colour of a yellow labrador,
a small boy clutching an amber recorder in one hand
and his mother's hand in the other,
a jogger in black, her red hair swinging in a pony tail,
an abandoned cup in someone's front garden
advertising Thirsty Fun,
a discarded packet of cigarettes
bearing the image of a diseased lung next to a healthy one,
the smell of soup mingled with fried onions,
the chatter of magpies
~

What I saw on one stretch of road, walking home from dropping Jake off at nursery this morning.  Everything I see seems so connected, I'm having trouble separating them and picking just one.

25th January ~ At the Museum of Childhood: 100 word diary made of stones

A child in tomato red jumper
lies down in front of the crisps and screams

Tiny-legged Alice in a blue dress
escapes from her flustered grandmother
ordering macchiato in the café queue

Bigger children
wearing fluorescent vests
choo-choo around the model rail display
edging Jake out of the way

Strawberry Shortcake still in her box
takes me to the car park at Toys R Us
Long Island
a bright cold day

Drawing an American Teddy Bear
from 1904
the bear’s torso shakes
as children stomp by

(Later...)

At the Bethnal Green Gallery Café
two labels beneath paintings
Grief, £150
Joy, Not for Sale

January 24th ~ 160 word diary made of stones

gifts wrapped in deep blue paper

a mug thrown by a friend
shiny deep blue glaze
creamy speckled inside
ripples on the base
and her name stamp

a perfectly sized copy of
The Hare with Amber Eyes

~
another gift in a tiny brown envelope

flat teardrop pendant
creamy smooth surface
crackled cream glaze
with a red stripe through it

~
Oscar the neighbourhood cat
scratches his paws on a silver birch
standing on his hind legs
his black and white belly exposed

Later,
Oscar jumps on to a low wall
to bump his head against
our shoulders and outstretched hands

~
The dentist’s receptionist
sings me Happy Birthday

~
People I hardly ever see
leave me messages
on a virtual wall

~
My son tenses his legs straight
and goes on to his tiptoes
as he hunches over
his arms around me
trying to hold in his poo

~
I sniff the plaster on my finger
it doesn’t smell good
but I can’t stop sniffing

23rd January ~ 100 word diary made of stones

The windows are being taken out
from our ex-neighbours’ flat

~
After Paul leaves, Jake clings
to my neck, my leg
asking “Where’s Daddy, want kiss him”
dragging Paul’s brown jumper in circles
pointing to his blue work shirt
going to the window and looking out
his hair pressed against the
white cloth blind

~
slicing carrots
the knife slips
blood runs from a gash
there is no pain

until later

~
silence
typing with one finger padded in a washproof plaster
a cup of tea
the dry rise of heat from the radiator
faint and constant outbreath
from a thin metallic hollow

22nd January ~ a stone for the river

washing my hair with Johnson's baby shampoo
the smell of childhood fills the shower

~

Later, Jake watches kittens dancing on youtube 
They dance to children singing
I’ve got the joy joy joy joy joy down in my heart (miaow)

Down in my heart (miaow)
Down in my heart (miaow)
I’ve got the joy joy joy joy joy down in my heart (miaow)
Down in my heart to stay

It becomes our unintended anthem for the rest of the day
escaping our lips in whistles
sung quietly while washing up and
filtering into my mind during the relaxation
at the end of yoga

21st January ~ shadows (a stone for the river)

shadows in the folds of the silver beanbag

19th January ~ a stone for the river

Jake’s small hands
release Penguin’s neck
hovering and conducting
the air
a song I almost hear

18th January ~ a stone for the river

clouds

clouds the shape of great britain
float across a windshield

clouds reflected in puddles
the sky on the ground

17th January ~ a stone for the river

the head of a streetlamp
reflected in a puddle

~

With this thought in mind, I shift my attention. If it wanders into simile, I will try to bring it back to what I observe without embelllishment or interpretation.

17th January ~ 100 word diary

Reading this post on A River of Stones makes me pause. I fear I have mistaken the writing of small stones for the writing of poetry. I recognise myself as one of those people who "sees artistically, decorating my descriptions, turning everything into a simile". Beneath all that I glimpse the thought beneath it, the longing. Look at this pretty thing I did. Please admire me for it. Offering shiny trinkets to be liked and accepted. How hard it is to just see, to offer simply what is there. How hard it is not to change it into something “better”.

~

Here are some examples from today, where I have tried to stick to observation without decoration or interpretation:

my toddler follows me into the bathroom
I turn around
he throws up his arms
I pick him up
his arms circle my neck
his head rests on my shoulder
I kiss his smooth cheek
inhaling the unexpected scent of Vicks

~

the chemist with a fluffy head of hair
whistles “I believe in angels”
as he hands me Jake’s medicine

16th January ~ a stone for the river

a break in the clouds
the sky earth’s camera
the sun released
in a long, slow exposure
illumination
printing warmth
on my skin

I close my eyes
and turn my face
to the light

my eyelids
a burnt orange screen
flickering to rows
of tall sunflowers
facing the same way

nostalgia stirs
from winter sleep
longing for summers
gone
and those yet to come

the shutter falls
the screen goes dark
light retreats to its cloud-cushioned place

I open my eyes
It is today again

15th January ~ a stone for the river

the clock ticks
my heart beats
I am here

14th January ~ a stone for the river

rain falling on puddles

a dance of grey O’s
mouths open on the surface
then disappear

13th January ~ a stone for the river (on word-exhaustion)

the words are tired


they protest that they
have been working too hard
looking too hard
peering and squinting too much

their vision is blurred

they run around in my head
have to be dragged to my fingertips

on the way
they kick out
scattering sparks behind my eyelids

they want a break
or they will go on strike for good

just you try and do this without us
they say

and yet

I cannot not do this
I cannot fail
I cannot fall silent