"Thaw made me feel as though there are others just as broken as me, maybe many others, and that gave me hope and comfort even as it made me cry."
Nicole from Books and Bards
I write for many reasons.
I write because my characters turn up in my head and ask me to write their story.
I write because it helps me to pay attention to the world, and there is nothing more important than paying attention.
I write because I love the feel of words in my mouth and the look of words on the page - their glorious music. I like playing with them, as a child would delight in building blocks.
But most of all, I write because I hope that my words will be helpful to someone. Maybe they'll raise a chuckle, or help them to make sense of something. And maybe, just maybe, they'll hold a mirror up to someone, as they did to Nicole, and make them feel less alone.
This poem, from the glorious whiskey river (who deserves many medals) is for the darkest parts of Ruth, and Nicole, and me, and all of you.
Try to praise the mutilated world
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the grey feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishesand returns.
translated by Clare Cavanagh
Causes Fiona Robyn Supports