January 23, 2020

Today is a day of butterflies but how can I
write of such things for people in cities, caught
in human closeness. If I ever thought
that they could care that all the air of my
garden is crowded with light uplifting
colour and whiteness, wafting, shifting,
I only need to remember the traffic clanking
and think of the feet on the pavement spanking,
clipping and shuffling, and voices merging,
decibels surging and iron screeching,
thumping and thudding and Muzak reaching
into the buildings where lovers are lunching,
people are buying and selling, munching
something in paper, and rushing and crossing,
pissing and bossing and talking and meeting:
I and my butterflies are retreating.
Once I was part of the clutter and clatter.
I mixed and I struggled and joined the chatter
and oh, how I loved it, the smells and the fashions,
the colour and movement, the joy and passion.
Here with the butterflies in my garden
I bless the living and ask their pardon.

Janet Kenny


November 19, 2019

Books don’t offer real escape, but they can stop a mind scratching itself raw.

David Mitchell
Cloud Atlas


October 12, 2019

Her rooms were filled with Bonsai trees. It was her hobby, creating those miniature oaks, elms and maples. She trimmed their roots and crowns keeping the trees small to meet her exacting aesthetic standards.

‘It is an artform,’ she said. ‘They need care and attention – sunlight, water and occasional fertilizing. My next project is to refashion a man. Create a living Bonsai man.’

‘Surely that’s not possible,’ I said, smiling.

‘Yes, it is. Bonsai symbolizes harmony, peace and balance. I will create such a man. He will need much careful trimming to begin, regular pruning. But I can do it. I will do it -’

‘No man would allow himself to be used in such a way,’ I said. ‘Surely you’re joking?’

‘No joke. Consent is not required. Training will take around two to three years, I imagine. And you are already here, bound to my bed. You are a man who pays to visit a professional dominatrix. A man full of unwholesome desires and needs. A man drowning in imperfections. A perfect subject for my experiment…’

Her laughter sounds not quite sane.

‘You must untie me,’ I said.

‘Must I?’ She held up a coil of copper wire in a leather gloved hand. ‘This will assist in bending your limbs into the desired shape. This will all take time of course. But you will experience a great sense of pride, I’m certain, as the first of a new type of man. Bonsai man…’

the Fairy of Dreams

September 30, 2019

The wall is silence, the grass is sleep,
Tall trees of peace their vigil keep,
And the Fairy of Dreams with moth-wings furled
Plays soft on her flute to the drowsy world.

Ida Rentoul Outhwaite

Light and reflections by Andrea Moore

Poems, even when narrative, do not resemble stories. All stories are about battles, of one kind or another, which end in victory or defeat. Everything moves towards the end, when the outcome will be known.

Poems, regardless of any outcome, cross the battlefields, tending the wounded, listening to the wild monologues of the triumphant or the fearful. They bring a kind of peace. Not by anaesthesia or easy reassurance, but by recognition and the promise that what has been experienced cannot disappear as if it had never been. Yet the promise is not of a monument. (Who, still on a battlefield, wants monuments?) The promise is that language has acknowledged, has given shelter, to the experience which demanded, which cried out.

John Berger
And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos


October 27, 2018

I like misty autumn mornings,
And cold snowy winter nights.
Rainstorms bring me inner peace,
Thunder sets my soul alight.
I care not for summer days –
Too long, the heavy heat.
Give me candlelit evenings,
Early darkness, a silent street.

Natalia Crow


I am always between two worlds, always in conflict. I would like sometimes to rest, to be at peace, to choose a nook, make a final choice, but I can’t. Some nameless, indescribable fear and anxiety keeps me on the move. On certain evenings like this, I would like to feel whole. Only a half of me is sitting by the fire.

Anaïs Nin
The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934

Loss Prelude

March 31, 2018

after Op. 28, No. 13

This lake is, in part, us. It hoards our stones,
our faces after we have gone. This blue
reflection stains and ghosts its soft scales through
the dirt beneath our nails. We are but bones.

The boat, like grief or a collapsed lung, groans.
We call it our Chopin. We bend it to
our will with hands that shake. We throw a shoe
to hear the thud in different undertones.

Each note vibrates its emptiness. We hold
this fishnet to the moon – in doing so,
we find the holes that we were made to keep.

This music is a thread, a thirst, an old
belief destined to die the way we know
the lake is waiting to be put to sleep.

Arlene Ang

Hey, Moth, Come Eat the Flame

November 19, 2016


Diary 19th November

Fact is unstable by its very nature.


Visit to T yesterday. We spent Samhain at her enchanting home with its menagerie of dogs, cats and chickens. Trees surrounding the house were finally turning to the russet colours of autumn – and so near the end of November, too. It’s very peaceful here. And T is probably the maddest, but most contained woman I have ever met. She works such incredible magic. She is totally at one with her world and the people in it.

She points to a white feather on the ground beneath a chestnut tree. ‘That,’ she says, her voice gentle but totally sincere, ‘is an angel’s feather. It means good luck to us here today.’

And I feel she really believes this feather is fallen from an angel, not from the back of a near albino chicken clucking about in the undergrowth.

How I envy her the simplicity of her chosen lifestyle…

Two years ago her aunt was diagnosed with inoperable cancer. T concentrated single-mindedly on her aunt’s recovery day-in, day-out, for a period of four months. She said at the time, ‘I don’t know if it’ll do any good. These thing are either meant to be or not. We can only try to intervene. It’s all we can do…’

Her aunt’s doctors at Derriford hospital were astonished when a scan showed the cancer in remission. Within two months the cancer had gone and the aunt had made a full recovery. I cannot explain it, but T is convinced her “magic” worked – as it has done many other times in the past.


I have kept notebooks since my twelfth year. During periods of creative sterility, I look back across the years for ‘fresh’ inspiration. Like Dylan Thomas whose mature poems were plagiarised from his much younger self.

What, I wonder, would have been in Shakespeare’s notebook in the years leading up to Macbeth? It take no Oedipus to guess. Cats and toads as familiars to witches, rats without tails that gnaw holes in the bottoms of ships, mariners spell-bound for nine times nine weeks, the vaporous drop on the tip of the moon, plants the roots of which deprive us of reason, air-drawn daggers with gouts of blood, maddened horses that devour each other, charms of all sorts, from the sweltering venom of the toad to grease from a murderer’s gibbet, the strange phenomena of somnambulism, ghost-lore, the behavior of owls. And that is as nothin to the farrago of the notebook which might have preceded Lear!


Gillian Rogers was my first love. I remember still her kisses in the recreation ground after school, fiery things they were, that tasted incredibly of aniseed balls and chocolate, the taste of innocent sin…


November 16, 2015


To bring peace after a stressful day or to relief anxieties.
You will need the following items for this spell:

• 4 Blue Candles
• A Blue marker pen
• A piece of paper
• A quiet place

Set up the candles in a circle. On the piece of paper write in blue ink the word peace.

Sit down in the middle of the circle and place the piece of paper in front of you and stare at it until you have it in your mind’s eye once you close your eyes. Focus on this word.

Focus on the letters flowing off the paper and surrounding you.
See the word become the air around you, and the ground under.

Focus on the word, let it roll on your tongue. Let it be you.
Picture in your mind a peaceful place, gives peace now a body form. Sit with peace, sing with peace, dine with peace.

Let peace guide you along the stone paths, let peace walk you up the steps of a temple.

Ask peace to stay with you, to guide you in life while awake and asleep. Ask peace to join you in your realm.

Take peace’s hand and open your eyes.

Do not personify Peace as someone you know.

Source HERE.