I.
Once upon a time there was a girl who would only feel at peace with the world when she was on the highest roof top of her town.
From there she would sit and watch the hustle below her – people going in and out of shops, old ladies going for yet another cup of coffee with their friend, young people going for yet another takeaway together, toddlers in push chairs, mums looking lonely, builders fixing buildings and… birds.
Root yourself into the ground;
Like a tree.
Years after years after years
Roots grow deep.
What do you say to the country side,
when you come back after all these years?
The river in a hurry runs wild.
Bank swallows scheme and skim
over rising waters.
Bellies full of insects,
too soon they will gather.
Their departure grows near,
I miss them already.
as the sun disappeared
behind the horizon
the clouds make way, scattered
set the sky ablaze, sun.
This is...
a flashback,
slice of a previous life.
from a time way back
when I was around 10
sharing apricots
with dear lama Purtse.
Fairy tales are all man made.
Women wouldn’t write stories
portraying themselves as such
shallow, vain, fragile roses.
Happy May Day / Beltane everyone.
I hope that the light that spring brings will warm your hearts and bones.
XXX
Noémie.
On Christmas day, Thom got up at 3:20am,
ran downstairs to have a look under
the adorned fake plastic tree yonder
and ran back upstairs to tell me, excitedly:
We had to get up quickly!
these presents under the tree
were not going to open themselves.
So we had an early start that day… and I got my new bike.
If you happened to drive through East Grinstead town centre
in the very early hours on Christmas Day 2019,
you may have seen that crazy woman
riding her new bike in the dark
around a public car park…
That was me.
And I have really enjoyed cycling ever since.
Later on I found myself riding around that same car park:
full speed, just for the heck of it,
and it felt like being 10 again.
I had forgotten the cheer joy
of pointlessly riding a bike
around the block, outside my house,
without actually going anywhere.
I really enjoyed it, yet
something inside me was ordering me to stop.
Like an old lady shouting outside her window:
Telling me to just go home
and get on with all the things,
the very same things I do everyday
and that always need doing.
I often have this feeling, that when I’m enjoying myself,
I ought to stop. “Now”.
Like I shouldn’t be allowed,
for who am I to have fun?
I’m not worthy of that Joy.
Where does this feeling come from?
Time well spent is time spent doing
something productive instead.
Meanwhile, so many people
spend tons of money trying
to retrieve that long lost spark.
Adults don’t have fun.
they only pretend.
They think they like getting pissed
in a crowded pub on Saturday nights,
standing there, pretending to enjoy it.
But a lot of them have secret wild rides
in shopping trolleys after pub hours.
Adult fun needs a few pints,
and the cover of the night.
I thought I’d share with you this poem I wrote back in January, before Lock down. I guess I just wanted to remind you that this too shall pass and better times will come.
XOXO,
Noémie.
