healingwords: poetry for the soul

I am posting this poem again as I am in Brussels at the European Parliament preparing to present my petition tomorrow calling for the right to vote for all UK citizens, despite their country of residence or time away. If you follow my poetry blog you will know I did not have a vote in the Referendum that decided the UK should leave the European Union. This was despite the massive impact this decision has had and will have on my family life in Spain. Many campaigners have spent years fighting for the end of the 15 year rule which removes our right to vote in General Elections and referendums and my petition is one more attempt in this long campaign. If Brexit goes ahead and UK citizens become third country nationals in Spain or other member states, we lose our EU citizenship and along with it the right to vote in EU and local elections. We will end up with no right to vote anywhere. I hope tomorrow's hearing will get good support from the MEPs in the petitions committee and that...

When all is too much I climb the mountain or stand by the sea and let my worries fly away on the wind.  LOST IN THE WAVES Skin tight with salt sting, tangled hair whipped by wind’s frenzy, mind takes wing, thoughts dissolving, lost in enveloping spray, sea whirled skywards, mist swirling, like the circling gannets, black tips shadowing their glinting prey.  © 2018 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  

This poem is inspired by the women in Nepal who after generations of suffering from the monthly isolation of Chhaupadi are enacting the law prohibiting their nightly shutting away in Chhaupadi sheds during menstruation and actively tearing them down. The ending of this traditional practice is the result of campaigners fighting for Nepali  womens' right to safe and normal periods, in their own home with access to sanitary protection and healthcare. Freedom Kit Bags is a charity  providing such sanitary protection, along with education to end the practice of Chhaupadi and to educate Nepali men and women to respect and care for their reproductive health. This charity is doing important work to improve the lives of women and thereby families and whole communities and every donation is gratefully received towards this life changing work. Below is the link to the Freedom Kit Bag website where you can read more about the project and donate and a link to the news report on w...

Soon after my father died I spent a few days with dear friends in their hillside home near Carno in mid Wales. A beautiful place where surrounded by their love and nature I started healing. This poem was inspired by our walk in the Hafren Forest, by the river where trees, tears, childhood memories and myth combined.   HABREN'S TEARS Here in the now time, midst wooded familiar, etched stones of ancestors,  North people, brooding, in my blood, my bones. Walk in the Hafren,  glimpse ghost self, dancing through shadows of pine brushed ink strokes, plimsolls slipping on jewelled moss quilt. Consoling boardwalk, meditative step on step memories lapped by gurgling waters, skipping on slate, bubbles rising, the infant Sabren at play. Light fades into gloaming, damp enveloping, wrapped in mist shroud, melt into brume, bearded forest consumes. Caught tight in stillness;  sorrows drowned in Hab...

Spring is finally arriving in our corner of Spain, the breeze has changed from bracing to warm and birdsong and the buzzing of insects can be heard from the patios and rooftops. The ‘campo’ is greening and wild spring flowers colour the hillsides and olive and almond groves after the winter drought was broken with a few weeks of welcome rain. I appreciate being able to walk out and be amongst this natural beauty but find as so often my mind is drawn back to Warwickshire and my childhood haunts. I love the litany of flower names, recited on country walks with my mother. She loved flowers, both wild and in her garden and they live on in my memories.     FLOWERS - WALKING WITH MY MOTHER Buttercups held under chin, gold reflecting love of butter, melting on Sunday’s marmite toast. Puckered face concentrates as pearl nails pinch daisy stems, crowned on child’s tossed curls. Jump over marsh marigolds lining damp ditches, sticklebacks in jam jars ...

This poem celebrates my father’s birthday and the coming of Spring in the garden of my old family home. The garden saw many lives, a children’s playground, a mini allotment bringing vegetables and fruits to the table, a cottage garden with flowers, fishponds and dove cote, a mature garden loved by my parents who planted trees, grasses, shrubs and flowers to make a home for birds and wildlife. As they became elderly and less able the garden evolved once more, growing wild, a riotous overgrown jumble as nature took over, a space of wooded beauty in the middle of the city. I loved the garden, for its spirit and my memories and now my parents and the house are gone it lives on as part of me. It seems apt that the greening of Spring coincides with the day my father came into this world. SPRING GARDEN A year since I walked the cobbled path, winding from house to garden’s end, felt Winter loosening ice chains in season’s yearly dance. The great Oak bestrides the gar...

I recently spent a weekend in the Spanish city of Elche. I always knew Elche was famous for its palm groves but I had not imagined the trees being such an integral and visible part of the city landscape. Dating back to Moorish development of the city in the 7 th century when dates were an important food source for humans and livestock, there are now estimated to be up to 200,000 date palms in 97 orchards, protected as a world heritage site. From the 14 th century the palm leaves have been used to weave Palm Sunday decorations, an industry that still exists today. This poem was inspired by one of the hundreds of amazing trees I encountered in my visit to Elche, a beautiful city with a magical green heart. PALM HAND Elx palm stands among us, tree growth so unhurried we barely see the transformation, fixated as we are on the passing of our own youth. Silently, imperceptibly, elephant feet stabalise, deep roots penetrate dry earth, sap...

Today is International Women’s Day where in Spain women across the country are striking for our rights, the right to equal pay, to equal opportunities, to freedom from violence and harassment,  to equal sharing of childcare and domestic tasks. It is inspiring to see such solidarity from young to old, with the support of men who recognise that it is in all our interests that women’s rights are recognised. ‘HUELGA’ – INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S DAY Black iron curls like eyelashes adorning railings once designed to keep the raider out and the hidden women in. Now we claim the streets, our rightful place beside the suits and overalls, from factories to boardrooms. Progress made but not enough, still we fight for equal rights, still work more, earn less, still fear more than men. Today our labour is withdrawn, women absent from their posts, journalists silent, cleaners at rest, shops unmanned, Town Hall closed. ‘Huelga’ fuelled as pati...

Today I am posting a poem written for those of us who search for peace of mind in the midst of the storm. With love and gratitude to my dear friends. BECALMED In the eye of the storm, wearied by frenzied winds, tossed into quiet calm, momentary peace descends. Heavy lids close as head dips, hands unclench, fingers release, weight sinks into soft welcome, breath slows as soul is freed. Flying high over mountains, skimming spiked pine tops, swoop low over olive groves, gnarled gnomes trimmed with silver. Carried on citric valley breeze, funneled floating between sleeping giants guarding  passage  to bay curved in sand smile. Catch a rising warmth, sky flyer soaring, dazzled by healing light, sun mirrored on gilded sea. In flight find freedom, sea charge, strength renewed, mind calmed in balance, as voice carries and spirit flows. © 2018 Jacqueline Claire Knight.  All rights reserved. ...

This poem reflects an aspect of Spanish village life which remains unchanged since our arrival 28 years ago. In bars, squares and community centres men meet up in the afternoons to play cards and dominos, the seated players surrounded by standing observers, intent on the game. This winter scene is from the small, inland town of Pego in the Marina Alta area of the the Costa Blanca. CARD PLAYERS IN PEGO. Weekend afternoon, ‘paseo’ void of children and coffee drinkers, only ‘viejos’ staking their place, wooden slat table warmed with green felt, flat caps covering cool heads, bent low in concentration, time gnarled hands span hidden cards,   visible to the circled watchers, waiting, hawked like the booted eagle gliding low over the ‘Bodoix’, tension tightening, breath held as haunted lizard escapes hooked talons, released cry rises, cards slap in triumph, laughter floats into the ‘Pego’ sky, stark blueness framing ‘Platanus’ dappled trunks...

Today we say goodbye to our dear friend Jo who died in January after a long period of illness. Jo was an extraordinary woman, generous, funny, compassionate, great company, a good friend, a loving partner to Jim and dearly loved by all her family and friends.  She worked for many years as a nurse in intensive care, helping to save lives and sooth minds with her thoughtful, caring manner. She was also an amazing artist and I am fortunate to have a wonderful painting she did for us after a visit to Spain hanging in my living room. A week before Jo’s death, unaware that her condition had worsened, I was stuck with a bit of writing and found myself staring at the painting, as I so often do. I wrote this short poem about my thoughts and sent it off to Jo. She didn’t get to read the poem but I know she knew how much we loved her. Her art and our shared memories will keep her with us. I cannot be at Jo’s funeral today but send my love to all her family and her many friends. ...

Last winter I spent some weeks in Coventry emptying and selling our family home. This was a difficult time, saying goodbye not only to my parents but to my childhood and my link to England. This house remained my home, it was where we all returned to, where my own children and even my tiny grandchild stayed and visited, a special place for us all. Being at the house without my father, sorting through my parents belongings, knowing I would soon not be able to return, already missing the garden, I was overwhelmed with sadness.     This poem recalls the day I tried and failed to be cheerful, leaving my friends after helping to decorate the party room, knowing I was still set apart from normal life. Without thinking I stopped at the woods, alone in the dusk and after time with the trees and the silence, felt some sadness lift and float away into the night sky. I returned home lighter, with oak leaves in my pocket.   Grief is a process, there are days when I am still hit h...

On 1 st February the European Parliament held a hearing into citizen’s rights after Brexit where representatives of the 3 million EU citizens living in UK and the million UK residents of European member states gave evidence along with many others involved in the debate including MEPs and Commission representatives.  I was sorry not to be able to attend this hearing and am grateful to all who spoke of the disenfranchisement of UK citizens living in Europe (and beyond) who lose their vote after 15 years and thus had no vote in the referendum or the General Election. Despite years of promises neither the Government or opposition have put forward any new proposals to remedy this situation which is now even more urgent as the calls for a referendum on the final Brexit deal or the possibility of another General Election grow every day. In a situation where we are facing being stripped of our rights as European citizens it is even more unjust that we were given no say in ...

My last ten years in Spain have been dominated by politics both local and national. In 2007 I was elected as a Councillor  with the CDP in Parcent.  (Democratic coalition of Parcent). We gained control of the Town Hall just before the crisis, when the building boom in Spain was at its height. This had an impact in the building plans for the village which I have written about on this blog (Sierra de Carrascal) but speculative building projects were going ahead all over Spain. People were being encouraged to buy hugely overpriced properties on the promise it was an unfailing investment, lent money they could ill afford, put savings into unsecured share schemes that went bust with the banks. The Town Halls and Regional Governments were spending income they didn’t have, encouraging the building boom and profiting from it (both legally and illicitly) and building up massive levels of unsustainable debt. In 2007 we could see this happening, immediately acted to reduce our Town Hal...

Whilst coming to terms with my own stormy personality I find solace in the changing moods and seasons of nature. I empathise with the sadness of a cloudy, grey day and feel brightened by the bright, blue light of a Spanish sky. Wind moves me, both agitating and invigorating.  Rain refreshes, nurtures the baked ground and washes away my tears as it cleanses the dusty air.  Whilst we wait for the storms of winter to pass I retain the hope of longer days, flowering blooms, the coming of the light and lightening of mood. All things must pass, as in Seasons, life.  AFTER THE STORM The brooding sky darkens as  hostile clouds shroud the hills, snuffing out summer sun's last dance.  Wrathful winds howl their ire, in mournful seduction as field mice sneak through forgotten cracks seeking shelter in warm kitchens, a quiet refuge to while out the rage. As cleansing rains nurture the parched earth for winter's sleep we weather the storm,  ...