Squashed Mosquito Poetry

By Alli Sinclair

I first “met” Alys Titchener through a mutual friend when my daughter was very ill. Through the kindness of her heart, Alys wrote a beautiful poem and sent a blessed crystal to help in my daughter’s healing process. You can read the story here. The poem sits in a frame next to my daughter’s bed and even now, six years later, it still brings tears to my eyes. I hope one day Alys and I will meet in person so I can give her a massive hug and thank her for the kindness and love she showed people who were (once) complete strangers.

Alys is the author of the poetry blog Squashed Mosquito;

(http://squashedmosquitopoetry.com) sharing poetry that traverses the landscapes

of her emotions and spirit. Alys is a freelance writer, with a commitment to

writing from the heart of direct experience. She can also be read on The Yoga

Lunchbox at http://theyogalunchbox.co.nz/author/squashedmosquito/

Traveling

I am here, I am in this moment

breathe

life's little pause

suspend me

in this place

now and forever

only to move on

  restless

  wanting

  contentment

life's little joys

bought by me

at a price

---

you speak of truth

you speak of truth

like someone had written it

on the back of your hand

I wish I could draw the galaxy there

so you would know truth

is not a set of words

but the space between

every cell and star

as they rest

---

silence

silence

it is an escape

like a drowning ocean

and it is a new world

  born into colour

it is resisted

  and harboured

esteemed

  and dulled to a froth

  of noise

it is pocketed by nature

in between raindrops

and clearly invisible

next to valleys

  or mountain tops

and sometimes it is

  indistinguishable

from the still wind

  or a falling leaf

   destined

---

I hear the mother's heartbeat

I hear the mother's heartbeat

it is the background noise of every life

and with us always

I hear the mother's heartbeat

it is the birth space, the lush embrace

the fecund warm breath

I hear the mother's heartbeat

it is ochre, it is sunset,

it is marigold, desert, Uluru, the red planet

I hear the mother's heartbeat

the tribal drums, the call to hunt

the prey offering itself, the knowing

the acknowledging, the sacrifice

I hear the mother's heartbeat

her serenity, her surrender, her dignity,

her grace

I hear the mother's heartbeat

when her own death is felt

before she dies

I hear the mother's heartbeat

she is the still point in every night sky

she is the nowhere to go

she is the ceasing fluctuations of mind

she is quiet ... she is quiet

she is ever more

she is ever-present

her love is her death

her fragile opening

her tender watering

her love is her body

her home in darkness

her fingers touching the almost in her life

her love is the offering

offering her best

back to heaven

the pre-born said she would

depart before she arrived

now she is the mother's heartbeat

it is the mother that holds you and me

she is that background

beat

that pushes us back into life

--

Upside down

this new heaven

bumpy and accelerated

white frothy isobars

changing like my moods

this new ocean grey and calm

or moody, what sits beneath

is above and

I forgot to let the ladder fall

land hovers

ungrounded

accumulations

waiting for gravity

to adjust

---

Shifts

I turned up full

of sleeping butterflies

and one took flight

and another

and another

deep in my belly

the birds are flying

in my mind

and they have lost

the vast sonic space to navigate

the vast sonic space to hear

home

the whale that kept me company

can't come up for air

and her calf

and her calf

lost her milk in a stormy

rocky bay

I am the poles shifting

true north

true south

they don't exist like they once did

something broke

something spoke

I am the prickling rain clouds

I am the new dark moon

I am the moment before dawn

where rainbows don't exist

where rainbows don't exist

---

the whole person

I am not ever a known

(that's a whole lot of exploring

and exposing to agitate) and

while some visibility might suit me

it really is a distraction

to seek to be known

I am not even a known

my ideas are not clever

my words not particularly

special, though a sentiment

climbs out the basement

and someone somewhere claims;

  hey, that's my shadow!

I am not ever a known

even when a seed of me

can be harvested in your life

like a random affirmation

of good timing

even then when you think you

know me, it is only because it is you

  you see

I am not even a known

my quality and form are shaped

like yours, two eyes, a nose

a mouth, words of an English

sound between two lips like any

and it is only because a blue print

'worked like magic' that an alien

can appear not so dissimilar

I am not ever a known

and you would injure me

if you said you knew me

  inside out

because then I would have to substitute

that into my being

wearing an idea that I thought sounded pleasing

---

Universe

in a boundary, in a border

in crossing a time zone

in stamping a passport

there is nothing left to call

mine, nothing left

in a flag on top of a mountain

in a gold medal ceremony

in a race to the moon

there is nothing left to call

home, nothing left

in a spinning top, in a rotating globe

in an aurora blue sky, in a fireworks parade

in a heavenly constellation moving, in a line on your palm

there is nothing left to say

in words, nothing left

as above, so below

so within, as with out

here and now, as in every where and when

there is nothing left

to say, there is nothing

left