How To Get To The Other Side

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Go find someone who knows.

A woman, your mother,

your grandmother.

They will show you how to begin.

 

Cast on. This is not easy.

It involves loops. Relax.

Tension flows in, twists and knots.

Breathe.

 

Feel the warmth of the wool.

Allow the click of needles,

the rhythm of the stitches

to knit you calm.

 

It is not grief that shapes our days,

but peace. Console yourself

and as you knit,

death will not come close, but lies,

its belly to the fire to warm its fur.

poem and photograph Rose Cook

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7 thoughts on “How To Get To The Other Side

  1. Morningsoft autumn rain first brown tinges of the leaves;squirrels scurry mightily. This autumn of the heart, a time for re-collection:nights draw in dreams drip into daylight retains its summer sheen fleetingly, in patches, dappled, cold. Listen!! the thud of conkers landing amid these fallen leaves.

  2. The days of stormy autumn come mother, child, brother, son, memories, like dust, infect my eyes,  i turn and turn again, swirling, like the clouds above, like water under wind, mixing greys and blacks and whites,tussling these monochromes into the piebald heavens above.  In these streets of Salford children play; girls in their mucky summer dresses, boys so far away from school, unruly mothers counting pennies, making do fathers whollu absent, except in those dreams, where all the day’s shadows come and hide. September’s BlackBerrying another casualty of time, languorous lanes lead only to this:dance again with winter’s handmaiden, freeze the ice crystals of your mind; strip your words back, bare like trees, all thought gone of what this human heart endures.

  3. i really like your image of death as a curled wolf in front of the fire, eyes a-glaze, staring at nothing, waiting, waiting…for the velvet underground….?

  4. I’ve just read the poem again. Like all good poems it lives and connects in the memory. After envying the calm of the click clack of my grandmother’s needles I realised that the gothic image indicates mere postponement. The final image put me in mind of Yeats’ terrifying poem ‘The Second Coming’:

    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

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