The Pearls or

'Near Cantre'r Gwaelod'. This poem is about a coastal path in Wales, but the name eludes me. Not at Cantre'r Gwaelod quite, but I do not know if it is Borth...I need to go stare. I'll know it as soon as I see it.

A ship ran aground near here
with its cargo of pearls
for a queen grown crookt as a yew

Ropes of white silver
Pleased her hair and neck
She forgave the wild coast of her losses

The seaweed held her gifts
rockpool children thought
they were eggs or eyes of fishes

But the villagers called them lucky
pressing them into
walls worn and broken

Gleaming they lit
a way home for lost folk
by the shingle roads

On Seithennin’s stair,
moon's true revealing
sunken lands, wave-hidden.

Long since the queen passed
the sea-stones sing
of this her unknown country

©Debbie Gallagher copyright and all rights reserved 6th march 2015

Pff. Bad editing and bad writing and just...

Just not doing my work very well.

Maybe it's about tonight. I didn't sleep brilliantly. I want to make tonight work for my friend's sake, but I don't feel particularly sparkling, in fact quite the reverse. Yesterday another chum and I went to some little place on the heath called the Cote Brasserie; it looked nicer than it was. My stomach's have been unruly ever since.

Ugh. Going to lie down. But this will not do for long.

The Song

In the time of purification
In the city of the many-handed gods
Incense, kerosene and chickens
falling out of a crashed tuktuk.
find a golden kiosk to the God
Om sri Ganeshaya Namah!
Ring the bell as you pass
Go to him and ask
What god is there but kindness?

In the time of meditation
On the hill of the eyes of Buddha
flags fluttering prayer wheels wonder
She sees your face
Bread in your hands
the wild she-eagle lands
calling you, calling
Go to her and ask
What god is there but kindness?

©Debbie Gallagher copyright and all rights reserved 7th March 2015

Annoyed with myself

Huh.

A poem was in my head, I wrote it out. Then I had to get on with the major body of work. I have done very little, and what there is is no good. Even with a storyboard I still have to go back and re-write something to lead into something else. Because I can't organise my headspace to save my life.

It really is important that I don't stay overnight in Tooting. I need to get up tomorrow, be fresh,and sort out the pigs eardom before me.

Oh, and Obama. Man, they really want to sink him don't they?