15.5.11

thinking of margaret atwood 5.30am 


Mother's Day
5.30am 
the soft light filtering through the window
begins to give shape and form to her world
together - in this still fuzzy dawn
we begin the daily practice 
of answering the enthusiastically questioning finger
so keen to make real 
'that is the window'
'that is the curtain'
'beyond is the sky - and the sun
it is round - it is morning'
'dante' - 
'mamma'
'that is a toy - your toy'
'this is your hand'
'this is your hand'

my mind is thumbing back through time
'this is your hand'
scratching at the past for similar words
read - but not fully recalled
then grasped -  for but a moment
i am thinking of margaret atwood
and her poem 
how does it begin ?


later we sit 
under trees 
by a swiftly flowing river 
water such as you have never seen
you are surrounded by rounded stones
your hands stroking their smoothness 
attempting their weight
you are just passing your first year 
and already eager to reveal the mysteries of the world


later you will come to understand
the beauty in the stone left unturned




















you begin
[margaret atwood]




You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.
This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.


Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only 
the colors of these nine crayons.


This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
You are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.


Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word 
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word 
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word 
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word 
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word hand anchors
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.

This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.

It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.


This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.


It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.


This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.


It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.


This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.


It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.


This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.


It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.