Little things that matter

There are two worlds, it would seem. There is the bigger world where all the news is bad, on a scale that we struggle to comprehend, let alone know what to do about, except protest. And there is the smaller world which is our individual life and the lives of those closest to us. And we struggle to deal with that too. And poetry takes on those struggles.

The struggles themselves are evoked, but always too, it seems, the clutching at something that could give hope. And those straws that are clutched at seem to be the little things - the touch of a hand, the texture of a rock, the sound of a bell, the smell and taste of food, the colours of a flower... so many possibilities.

But even these are ambivalent - because it can be the last touch of a hand, a rock that cuts, the bell that tolls, the food from a homeland long lost, a flower that is dying...

The daily rituals that provide some comfort can at the same time remind us of someone who is no longer with us to share those rituals. And nature, which everyone seems to turn to (or are, at least, encouraged to turn to), likewise holds sorrow as well as joy - the sea we used to walk to together, the erosion and destruction...

But so rarely does a poem seem to hold no hope. Despite the struggle, the feeling of powerlessness to change things, the losses, the poet seems to need something to hold onto - the moments, the little things that matter.

And when I'm trying to find something to hold onto:

blackbird's song at dawn

nature's continuity

blackbird's song at dusk

But even then...

in chill morning sun

grass sparkles; banks of purple

lift above the sea;

oystercatcher's distant call:

remember this was the dream

First published by Indigo Dreams Publishing

Later

You worry about what you've said to them,

then you wonder if they worry about what you've said to them,

then you worry about what they've said to you,

then you wonder if they worry about what they've said to you.

Then, years later, out of the blue,

they tell you they forgive you

for something you don't remember

you'd said to them.

Then, later still, you realise

you didn't tell them that you don't forgive them

for the things they don't remember

they'd said to you.

Sea star mass mortality event

The sunflower

tore off its petals,

the rainbow

slumped,

the pink and purple 

cut to white,

the morning sun

melted

and when night came

the stars

had lost their reflections.

 

First published by Fly on the Wall Press

Do you think this poem stands on its own (with title), or does it need a footnote with background info? Is there enough in the poem itself, or should there be more? I often wonder. It was published as is.