Lynne Rees

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Poem: January

on December 29, 2019

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new year poem

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Haibun ~ clichés I keep living through

clichés I keep living through carpe diem, life is a learning curve, what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, time heals, be the change I want to see in the world , the exhausting relentlessness of trying to be motivated, generous, at peace, forgiving in the presence of things happening for a reason, and lemons and fucking lemonade, because sometimes I don’t care that it’s over and I just want to cry because it happened, so it’s a good thing I can throw the latch on a small door in the corner of my mind and say hello to Robert Frost and ask him to tell me, again, in three words, what he’s learned about life: it goes on , he says. things that happen when I least expect oak saplings

I won a Stylish Blogger Award...

... from the inspiring Angela Hirst at the good soup . I've been following Angela's blog since I first started The Hungry Writer project in October 2010. She's a cook, writer, researcher and teacher who completed her PhD, Eating the Other, Levinas's Ethical Encounter , in 2005. She says this about herself : I love to write. It feels like dragging myself out of bed from a very very deep sleep each time I do it, but once I start, I don’t want to stop. I love it when people cut through the romantic illusions of what makes a writer and tell it as it is. And I love writers who love to cook and eat! Because blogging is all about learning and sharing The Stylish Blogger Award requires me to pass on the award to 15 other blogs I admire (and because, as Angela says, my blog stands at the edge of an almost dimensionless sea of food blogs there will be a few blogs that are rather more loosely linked to food) and to share 7 things about myself. So: I hated to eat when I

Prose poem ~ When cats curl up in your heart and fall asleep there

It is strange how an absence of weight makes me feel heavier rather than lighter. Her warm, black-furred body, usually pressed against my hip all night, has been replaced by emptiness, weightlessness, when I reach out for her in the dark and fall into a depth of grieving I thought had passed. Perhaps that one small grief for a cat calls out to the others that are still sheltering in my heart. And maybe all they want to do is shake out their resting muscles for a while, take a walk around my bed. Still here, they say gently, proving to me, once again, that grief is the proof of great love. But this addition of a cat's life to the parade seems, for now, almost unbearable. This will pass, I know. We owe it to ourselves, the living, as well as to the memory of the dead, to turn our faces to the light of the world, remind ourselves of the joy we have gathered, the joy there is yet to be gathered.

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