The writers group I belong to suggested we write something inspired by the familiar life around the kitchen table. I mused on that a while, and realised that after my family emigrated from Denmark to colonial Rhodesia we didn’t really have a kitchen table we could sit around…. that lead to further musings and memories and the following prose poem.

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Kitchen table

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I left the kitchen table when I was only seven years old

The plastic table cloth was rolled up one last time, and Mother served no more pancakes

The equality of the Nordic kitchen was replaced by a short dark man called Adam

who cooked meals for our family and served platters and dishes at a long dining table

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People came to the dining room, hands behind their backs, to speak to my father

There were no more farmhands teasing sleepy children over late eggy breakfasts

Our father grew distant at the far end of the table and we kept stories at our end

We learned to eat baked beans and bacon, and then it was time for boarding school

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I’m back in Dhaka after a lovely summer in Denmark – back without the rest of the family as the boys have started school in Denmark and Torben will stay with them for a while. The house seems empty and I feel I am needed elsewhere… taking up my Dhaka life again requires some effort. I try to express something of what I feel in this poem:

Reality

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I was so there, so rooted,

Feet firm, running, laughing, loving

With them… and them, and him, and her

And you; it was so right and so real

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Here now, the ground is not quite stable

Reality has pulled on different robes

I hear the story end, but missed its starting

I laugh too, but I didn’t share the joke

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Tomorrow brings new tales, I’ll join the laughing

Days pass and walk securely on the ground

Dull aches replace the sharper pains of missing,

Adjusting expectations; I will be here

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As summer draws to an end, the poems I have written and put on this blog as my week’s poem are all gathered under the section on Places we love, the link to ‘Denmark’. It has definitely been a summer devoted to family and nature. At our home in Amtoft I felt totally welcomed home by family and by the nature of the place. After a few weeks there circumstances forced a move to Fyn. Here we stayed in a lovely summer house by the sea; going for runs and walks and bike rides, and the occasional dip in the icy water. It has been wonderful, and best of all has been the nearby forest where Torben and I have spent many happy hours walking and exploring. Although we have lived for years near some of Africa’s mightiest game parks, the sight of a deer silently watching us as we walk in the forest is still a thing to inspire awe.

It’s those woods again…

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Forest poem

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I claim this hour for poetry,

those whispered words of tyranny.

The glade enclosing sun and breeze

while wind is tearing at high trees.

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I claim these woods for poetry,

the quiet sounds of mystery.

A word that will not let you rest,

a hatchling falling from the nest.

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You come across them trembling still,

sharp gazes held by force of will.

A flicker at the edge of thinking,

sweet phrase with shadows interlinking.

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Beneath the forests streams of light

 – quiet,

and then sudden flight.

You tense, heart waiting, watching breath,

the earthy smell of life and death.

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The intertwining mysteries of words and states of mind

The thumping hooves, the hollow bark  – the roebuck and the hind

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This time and place for poetry,

the pleasure and the agony

A memory you won’t forget,

the solid and the silhouette

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I settle upstairs with my tea to the angry buzz of lawn mowers whipping grass into shape for autumn…

Inspired by a morning walk, in which I strayed into a forest near the summer house where we are staying.

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Forest

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No adjectives strong enough to describe

The shadow of a single leaf

On a single branch

On a tree

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No words to describe

The majesty

The eternity

The green

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To die here

 Rain washed remains

Absorbed by searching roots

No awe more awesome than that of forest

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