healingwords: poetry for the soul

 I wrote this poem with love and thanks, in celebration of friendship.  ANAM CARA Blessed I am to have shared my life with others. Friends who crossed my path when most needed. Some to stay for all time, quietly there, in my heart, others dipping in and out as years move our lives together and apart, gone when others’ needs were greater. Blessed I am to have friends who know me better than I know myself. Soul friends, teachers, wise ones, healers, forgiving, giving, sharing their best with me, finding the best in me, uplifting my spirit when darkness surrounds. Blessed I am to share friends ’ lives, the circle expanding as our children grow in harmony. Walking in cool woods, by flowing rivers, discovering new places, laughing round a table of food cooked with love, lying together under the stars. © 2018 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  

San Juan is celebrated in Spain with bonfires on the beach. People take a picnic, eat together and then jump over the flames and splash in the waves. Your troubles are said to be consumed by the fire, some people write down what they wish to leave behind and throw the paper in the flames.  Bathing in the sea is to drive away evil, bringing good luck for the rest of the year. Many people make a wish as they jump the waves.  The date is closely linked to the Summer solstice, San Juan also being a celebration of Summer. The Pagan and Christian rituals both emphasise renewal with the combination of fire and water. This poem describes a special evening of San Juan on a beach near Denia when the weather played its part in the magic.  NIGHT OF SAN JUAN Sifting sand through fingers, mind floating, evening sun warms milk pale legs, summers first unveiling. Propped on boned elbow, watch busy children splashing, castles raising, wet skin glistening. ...

On every   visit back to my Coventry home I would find time to walk around Kenilworth Castle. I cycled there with my childhood friends, a daring 5 miles for today's children but it seemed normal then. I ran free in the Castle's shadow with my parents and brothers, enacting mock battles as imaginary Knights. In later years it was a more leisurely stroll, arm in arm with my mother. My own children joined me on our visits back from Spain, keen to share both the historical treasure and my memories and it was always a favourite walk with beloved friends, usually ending in the nearby cafe for tea and cake. I hope it will not be too long now before I return. CASTLE WALK Long have I walked the Castle walls, biking the lanes to picnic on damp grass,  arms though my mothers like linking chain,  returning from exile with my growing flock, an abiding place of peaceful pilgrimage. Crisscrossing the marsh, boots sucked mud wards, retreating to the high...

This is the view from the El Carrascal hillside, looking over the valley towards the Mediterranean Sea. The sun warmed the damp earth after the nights cleansing rains. The air smelt of pine and vibrated with birdsong.  AFTER THE RAIN   In Southern country, where arid desert creeps, rains fall brings shock of raging storm violence. Woken by light strobing hills, thunder’s drum crashing, rolling round 'Pop' valley like Fiesta’s fireworks flare. Rain comes, sudden, urgent drumming, drilling on tiles bouncing off terracotta, storming from gutter to street. Rush to batten down old shutters, pitch pine split from harsh sun, wind thrashing, driving lashing rain, spilling onto cold floors. Wired night of fitful sleep, broken in anxious unease, drifting between squalls until dawn breaks through breathing cloud. New day, blessed with warming light, tarmac sparkles on washed streets, refreshed earth drinks in liquid life, ...

This poem and photograph are inspired by the wedding of my eldest daughter this week in our Valencian village, at the foot of the 'El Carrascal' mountain.  It was a magical, beautiful celebration bringing together the best of Spanish and Northern traditions (jamon and wine, tea and cake topped off with Irish music), uplifted by the love of family and friends.  LOVE IN THE AIR Under El Carrascal’s gaze sunlight dripped gold through silvered olive leaves, gilding blooms in wicker, greening tumbling ivy, casting dancing garlands on crisp blades of woven grass. Gnarled boughs embracing, bear witness to love’s union, groom serene, bride radiant, red curls crowned with flowers, gauze brushed with gold dust as puffs of white fairy fluff float skywards on May breeze. © 2018 Jacqueline Knight Cotterill.  All rights reserved.  

An additional consequence to the loss of my parents has been the end of my regular visits to England. I am torn between missing my cool, green North country and the warmth of my friends and the inevitable sadness of returning with no family home and parents to welcome me. As so often my mind returns to the garden, where nature and love combined to make a treasured space. In this poem I can now look back with pleasure and less sadness.  I hope next Spring I will return, the garden is gone but the woods and the bluebells await. MISSING BLUEBELLS I have missed the bluebells, the spring renewal of sky painting, brushing the warming earth, shaking sleep from Oak woods. Unable to return, still afraid to face the step into a country where roots are now cut, where another walks the garden. Sweeping fallen oak leaves, bare branches greening, wood pigeons cooing from twigged woven nests. Surprised by waking flowers, nooks of shy snowdrops, spiked ...

ALTAMIRA Through narrow arch to enter  the domed rotunda, overseeing Elx, swaying with sky skimming palms,  sandstone walls illuminate  as sun streams golden fire through the ankh arrow loop. Startled by a white flutter as dove flies in panicked flight,  brushing herring boned walls,  to settle still on the bright ledge watchful of her egg lined nest, in wait for intruder’s retreat. Step out blinking in solar glare, footsteps echo from citadel walls, ghost guards of  the Aragon King, as pairing 'palomas' oblivious, bill and coo, bill and coo, in love’s courting dance. 

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. ...