Sarah de Nordwall blog

Reductionists and sadistsGet the same thrillsThey’re only really happy whenThe spirit-blood spills. Sarah de Nordwall 1997

There is a place Where standardised thoughtWill lead, if you care to go.Why so few see, where the path leads onIs hard to say, or know. The road takes little effortAs it slopes and twists and winds,But when you arrive, you’ll know the place;The container of abandoned minds. Its walls are sheer consensusTheir surface, entirely…

Since we seem to be in the era of crumbling dictatorships..it might be the moment for Certain Susan.Certain SusanSwiftly rousedHad a causeWhich she espoused And she knewThat she was rightAnd God help thoseWho chose to fight. Those desperately seeking certaintySought certain Susan out And came to her with pens in handTo write her sayings out….

The cocoon is a small restricted placeThat hangs from a perilous thread,It looks like a white sarcophagusAnd appears to contain the dead. I, caterpillar, I refuse the cocoon.Why should I submit?To trust a thin and silken yarn,And reduce my self to an “it”? I’ve heard the tales of fantasistsWho dream by the light of the…

And now I close myself in. That’s itThe door is closing like irrevocable rock. The last sight sound experience has been tastedAnd the darkness closes in. Like the Pied Piper When the crippled childWas left outside Like the Bridegroom When the Foolish virgins criedFor the door was locked When they returnedWith oil for unlit lamps….

For Elaine and David who run the Arts in the Community Charity ‘Pilgrim Hearts’ (not forgetting David’s passion for Gliding) on the occasion of their joint 117th birthday!You’ve been gliding through the yearsFrom east to west you’ve traded placesHelping folks to face their fears. How well deserved are all these cheersThe admiration on these facesYou’ve…

Slowly and kindlyThat’s how to grow With heart and eyes openAs gently you go, Then if, at the last They say, ‘Look where you could be!’,Just say, ‘Here I am; And the going’s been goodly.’

My heart is heavy with the weight of complicity And I will weave no more Where the weft is warped so darkly And the straw we would have spun to goldIs straw still at the lastAnd breaks in my hand And cuts my fingers till they bleed. I will go out now And I will…

I put out my poems on my handsLike food for the birds. I listen out for their coming,For their wings against the sky. I hear them first and close my eyes. Sometimes the sound of their flutteringMakes me afraid, but I stand firm and I hold up my armsAgainst the dark and their mysterious coming….