The Dance

Welcome to A Wild Green Heart. Thanks for dropping in - it's so good to have you here.

The body of today's offering is a poem that was magically given to me, or divinely downloaded through me, or which emerged from my hidden depths. I suspect all of those notions are true, to some extent.

As one of only a handful of poems that have come through me without my conscious involvement, I consider it an unreserved gift to the world. I will always make it freely available, and I would encourage you to share it with anyone you think might like it.

It's a poem that emerged for a gathered setting and is intended to be heard rather than read from the page, and though both are available here I would love it if those of you who usually read rather than listen would go to the audio today, if only for the poem itself, which is about five and a half minutes in.

"Welcoming everything that comes to us is the challenge. This is the secret to being fully alive."

- Francis Weller

First, a bit of the story surrounding the poem. Cast your mind back in time five years to January 2020.

The world had barely heard of Coronavirus. It was just about making the far corners of the news as it spread around parts of China. Within three months it would be re-shaping lives around most of the world, and making formerly unheard phrases like “lockdown” and “social distancing” commonplace.

It was in this month five years ago that I attended an event that has been a regular feature in my life since 2015. It's a glorious gathering of souls around issues of land and ecology, food and foraging, creativity and theology. ¹

I wasn't particularly well that year, but I managed to get a lift there, which made it possible to attend. I had half promised to rustle up a poem for the closing circle on the Sunday morning, having done something similar the previous year. By the end of Saturday night I felt fatigued and empty, and was telling a friend, with a sense of resignation, that I would be attending the final session without a poem to offer.

“Oh, go on,” she responded, in her glorious north of Ireland accent, “I'm sure ye've a little something brewing away, don't ye?” “No,” I assured her. “I feel utterly uninspired and I'm fatigued as hell. I'm off to bed.” Rather than simply bid me goodnight, she responded by placing her hand on my shoulder and saying, “ah, well I'm sure there's something in there. You've just got to find it.” She gave me a final squeeze, as if seeking to impart some germ of an idea into my body. Whatever it was, it was certainly nowhere near my conscious mind.

I retired to my room in a frustrated mood. Can't people understand that when a poet says there's no poem, there's no fucking poem. Write it yourself if you want one that badly. Hmph.

However, I could not sleep, and decided to sit at the tiny desk in the room for a few minutes by way of honouring another human’s belief in me. Well, sitting led to writing, and writing led to a sudden upwelling of words, and before I knew it, I'd written the poem I'm going to share today. Actually, like I said, it's closer to the truth to say that it wrote itself through me.

What part my friend played is equally a mystery. Were her words prophetic? Or magical? Or simply enough of a provocation to prevent me from sleeping? Whatever the case, I always make a point of giving her at least some of the credit for what emerged. Thanks Emma.

It's probably also fair to say that I likely had these words from Kahlil Gibran’s book “The Prophet” somewhere in the back of my mind when I sat to write:

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

I've held onto these words since first reading them many years ago, and find them a great source of comfort.

I should also note that, while this poem seemed complete as it emerged, its last line felt very specific to a season of my life that is now past. So I've re-written the final few lines for this sharing, and I'm happier with it now. Here it is…

For those of you reading rather than listening to this post, here's a reminder that I would encourage you at this point to go to the audio and listen to the poem, if possible, rather than read it. The poem starts at around five and a half minutes into the audio.

The Dance

Joy and Sorrow were an unlikely pair,
so said not only the gossips and the whisperers,
but also the priests, pint-pullers and policemen,
the go-to-gurus and the go-getters,
the shopkeepers, street-sweepers and schoolteachers,
and even the well-wishers and the wedding guests agreed.

But wed they were,
and what a dance they held that night!
Not only the first, slow number,
but the whole damn disco:
the jive, the foxtrot and the Charleston,
the rumba, salsa, bossa nova,
until one by one their guests keeled over,
sat down for a drink or two and a chat,
eventually nodding off
and heading back
to nearby hotel rooms
and the sleep of reason…

But Joy and Sorrow
were not reasonable folk:
nor did they know moderation,
modesty or half measures,
only the dance,
the everlasting dance
and all its steps and moves;
each rapid swing and long embrace.

Having outlasted all their guests,
the newlyweds lay down at dawn,
their fateful night’s communion
fulfilled now with a fruitful union.

That autumn, she began to show;
throughout the winter months the bump would grow
to what became an unreasonable size by spring,
and then, the long and frightful labour,
giving birth at last to twins.

The first, who cried the moment he was out,
and rarely quieted from then, they called Despair.
His sister, who lingered in the womb so long
they thought her to have died,
came silent into the world,
a startled look in her bewildered eyes.
And she… they called her Hope.

The twins were inseparable from one another,
though seldom did they seem alike.
And sure enough, the gossips and the whisperers,
the midwives and the moguls,
the uncles, aunts and godparents all began
to murmur that they seemed a peculiar pair indeed.

But then they remembered the dance,
and the look in the eyes of the parents,
and their stomachs turned somersaults,
and soon their souls followed suit,
and instead, they watched the twins:
Despair, with his big brown eyes aflow with tears;
and Hope, with her big, brown eyes open wide in awe.

They observed them,
and they wondered,
and with time,
began to see,
and feel,
and learn their own, faltering steps through life,
each requiring the partnered balance
of another, unlike themselves in every way but one.

~

Oh… are you wanting a lesson?
This is all I'll share:

If it's Hope that you desire
you will find her with Despair;

If you’re needing to find Faith
then you’d best seek Disbelief;

And if it's Love you're looking for, well,
you should prepare your heart for Grief.

That's all for today. Next weekend I'll be returning to that same gathering. This time I've been invited in the role of artist, and I'll be hosting a room that will hold a second iteration of my “Becoming Pomona” work. The room is rather larger than the one I hired for my initial show, so I've had some extra prints made. I'm also in the process of writing and recording an audio track that people will be able to access via headphones in the space.

The audio will contain some of the events that happened at Pomona during 2024, and my poetic responses to them. My intention is to make that available here as next week's post, along with some of the images from the event.

I'm excited to be there in a new capacity. I'll also, assuming my health allows it, be hosting a couple of conversations in the Becoming Pomona space as part of the bigger event. The theme this year is friendship, and I'm delighted that my ongoing friendship with this beautiful, wild place is being acknowledged as a valuable thread in that wider conversation.

Please wish me well - I'm going to need far more than my usual January levels of energy to prepare for and offer all this, and to do it justice!

As always, the comments are open, and I'd especially love to hear any responses you have to The Dance. This can be a thought or feeling you had while listening, a bodily sensation, a memory, another piece of writing or art it reminded you of… anything at all that feeds the poem. It's not about literary criticism and you certainly don't need to be a writer or poet to respond! Thank you in advance for your offerings.

1. It's an event that doesn't have an online presence and invitations are spread by word of mouth via relational connections. If you're intrigued enough to want to know more, send me a message.