whinbush

Whinbush

Cursed to the margins. Tarred and scorned by the
landlord as troublesome weed; your refuge
a dusty lane by the back field’s hedgerow.

Scourge of landscape and classed as a vagrant
upon your native soil; you foil death plots
by sprouting pin-sharp spikes in self-defence.

Foolish men proclaim you look depressed - not
me! The only gloom I see round you is
bleakness of winter you burst forth from.

Whinbush, you are my sweet Colleen, who shines
against the cracked black bog; heralding spring
the sun kisses your face, as you unfurl
a yellow blanket of sweet-scented flowers.

Jonny Watson
March 2008

Manly Hug

The first time we met we did not embrace;
Though the stiff handshake and a knowing nod
Over time evolved to frigid clasp, with
Steely arms, averted eyes and awkward hips.

As a rock’s sharp edges slowly soften
when waves grow familiar with the shore line,
A cast iron hug became malleable
And our contours found a safe congruence.


Jonathan Watson
February 2008

RUST

Rust

When the painted veil becomes corroded,

An imprint of rust shows seasons turning.

And a threshold of choice gently unfolds.

Hide your fragility, cover your cracks.

Or risk it all and let nature's finger,

Slowly expose your authentic beauty.

Jonny Watson

Jan 2008

A PRAYER - DOORS OF LIFE

Lord, Part of who I am is because of the decisionsI have made.
I have approached many walls with multiple doors.
Each door represents a choice.
Some choices have led into chambers flooded with light and some have led into darkness,
But always they lead to more doors and more choices.
As I emerge from today's shadowed corridor.
Help me choose the right door that will help me be who I am meant to be.
Give me the courage to face whatever is at the other side of the right door for me.

Jonny Watson

Hoop dreams

I was walking in Castlewellan today and saw this hoop stuck in a tree. It must have been thrown up there because it was too high for it to have been blown up by the wind. Two narritives came to mind. Was this hoop.

a) the pride and joy of a young child who was playing with too much vigour and energy and the hoop got stuck up the tree.

or

b) was it one of many identical hoops from a set of hoops that were on a day out from a dusty church hall and it's owners don't know or even care that it is missing.

I hope the wind brings it down and it finds a new and worthy owner.

Am I Racist or Rivalrous

I find myself anxiously approaching the world cup final. I am concerned England will win. Why is it that I can't accept this possibility. England have played some solid rugby and deserve to be in the final after beating France and Australia - yet I find it hard to support them. Is it home nations rivalry, jealousy, unresloved - unrequited love with an English women or pure unadulterated racism.

I am holding onto my somewhat tenuous links with South Africa from seven years ago as my raison d'etre....

Photo taken on Divis Mountain December 2007 - Jonny Watson

I hope you enjoy this poem!

The Invitation
by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.