 From birth I was rejected, as God had left his mark.
A lesion on my forehead, mother’s shock, quite stark. So little time to suckle, so soon upon the bottle. Forever sat upon the pot, so scared I was to puddle. Quickly I began to learn, to be nice boy, quiet, timid. To fit in with parental kin, keep lid on, know my limit. Such ingrained conditioning, I soon was lamb to slaughter. At mercy to my friend or peer, bully, thug or father’s daughter. At school I came to realise, the suffering and the pain. Of muddied shoes and spitting foes, pushed down banks in solid rain. And then there was a locking arm, closed taught around my neck. To the unforgiving floor I fell, and wondered what the heck. Off to head of year I was, returning from the black. To resolve this issue, once for all, to get some existence back. More difficult though it seemed to be, as formed I was, the walnut. Tight within the shell I lived, no thought to shape, or being hermit. For when one bully disappeared, another came at once. More dangerous than the one before, more tyranny, more months. Punching arms and kicking legs, left just holding thread. To the last day of the term, where I was wished plain dead. A pattern had been formed, to college and to work. Every oppressor I could meet, to administer any hurt. So attractive I seemed to be, a wondrous bully magnet. My life led to others rule, criticised, controlled, their pet. At the heart of me however, was one undying firm belief. That another way was possible, to bring ultimate relief. To a counsellor I would go, eventually to reach out. A thought to gamble all, win big or leave with nowt. Gatekeeper to another world, porter to the door. Where I could spot a realm of flight, where I could rise and soar. The path was being shown to me, the runway to take off. To leave the caterpillar way behind, greet butterfly and that of moth. And so it was to seventeen, not age but turns of wheel. To drop all facades that were fake, to live life that more real. Where many members of my clan, Lepidoptera of great power. Would give me teachings, learnings, prose, of nature and the flower. For stag to come, and gift masculine to the bone. For tiger, wolf, panther to arrive, to start to bring me home. For condor to appear, and raven, that of owl. To be blessed with healing arts, for me to cry and howl. For here I was beginning, to find myself at last. Animals supporting me, ensuring such a blast. Working with me hand in hand, to be trusted without fail. To assist me in supporting you, as me, myself, swallowtail. By Simon Blackler Copyright © Simon Blackler 2020 If you care to comment on this poem at all please feel free to do so below.
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 Running about the garden, with my little yellow net.
Tottering in and out of borders, wondering what life I’d met. Chasing fellow brethren, through flowers and the veg. Pulling wings off Cabbage White, avenging atrocities of the dead. Then one moment that did change, you appeared above the hedge. A power came to greet me, placing love in heart, in wedge. So vibrant in your colour, yellow, magenta, cyan, black. Shining well beyond that of mine, I could never now look back. What pleasure had you brought to me, in one mere fleeting glimpse. Little did I know then, how long before meeting hence. Three decades flew by, plus a year or two besides. Travel needed to foreign lands, different times and tides. But there again you were, in garden, bobbing through the bush. My pulse began a racing, to a beat I could hardly hush. For here you brought an energy, like which I had never felt. Throbbing up my vertebrae, my body began to melt. A tingle and a rush of blood, my head was all a swoon. Giddy with delight on seeing you, one moment not too soon. All ablaze in sunshine, of daffodil in hue. A dream to be together again, just that of me and you. But what about the purpose, connection thirty years apart. A thought I must just ponder on, not knowing where to start. And so a journey then began, of peak and then of trough. Of looking for my life and path, before spirit cried enough. A dozen dances of the wheel, had come and gone by then. Camped within Druid valley, awash with poetry and of pen. Nights spent under canvas, daytime in and out of lodge. A training in completion, no false identity to dodge. Here I was in element, to nature in just keeping. Touched so deeply by the land, tears continued on the weeping. And so it was upon the vale, where swallows kept a coming. Swooping low and fast, bringing messages of becoming. Darting here and darting there, a gilding and a sail. A flish, a flash, a loop or two, one glorious coloured tail. Whispering ever so quietly, each one they said the same. My mirror that of Swallowtail, I’d found my medicine name. By Simon Blackler Copyright © Simon Blackler 2020 If you care to comment on this poem at all please feel free to do so below. |
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