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...