The Ink Pods. Literary Podcast for The Blue Nib.

Anne Casey reads her own work, 'if i were to tell you'

April 03, 2020 Various
The Ink Pods. Literary Podcast for The Blue Nib.
Anne Casey reads her own work, 'if i were to tell you'
Chapters
The Ink Pods. Literary Podcast for The Blue Nib.
Anne Casey reads her own work, 'if i were to tell you'
Apr 03, 2020
Various

if i were to tell you 

when sunbeams stream over yellow underbelly a honeyeater feasting between gilding leaves i wish i could fly up there to sit for a while away from the pace and chaos of ordinary things that is where

when i spy the upturned cup of a ghost-moon plump in a deep blue pillowed afternoon i think i must call my Mum though i clasped her hand while she passed such a long time since as the tide rasped its shallow symphony over our last goodbye that is where 

when i stretch to parting-kiss the soft pink cheek of my son now twelve towering over me i feel again the wrench as they pulled him from my ruptured belly that is where

when breath of sea sends me sailing back to this rough hand gentle over mine my weathered trawler-captain father steering me away from jagged territory into calmer waters (still) sometimes against my will that is where

when i smell your neck to fall again over the handrail of our romantic balcony landing in the toy-scattered couch of our reality that is where

when i tumble on a crumpled butterfly ensnared once more by that man-boy-man who tore my wings (never mind i put them back together in time) on dark days you can still see the scars but on bright ones that is where

i would tell you that is where the light shines through the strongest


Support the show (https://thebluenib.com/donation/)

Show Notes

if i were to tell you 

when sunbeams stream over yellow underbelly a honeyeater feasting between gilding leaves i wish i could fly up there to sit for a while away from the pace and chaos of ordinary things that is where

when i spy the upturned cup of a ghost-moon plump in a deep blue pillowed afternoon i think i must call my Mum though i clasped her hand while she passed such a long time since as the tide rasped its shallow symphony over our last goodbye that is where 

when i stretch to parting-kiss the soft pink cheek of my son now twelve towering over me i feel again the wrench as they pulled him from my ruptured belly that is where

when breath of sea sends me sailing back to this rough hand gentle over mine my weathered trawler-captain father steering me away from jagged territory into calmer waters (still) sometimes against my will that is where

when i smell your neck to fall again over the handrail of our romantic balcony landing in the toy-scattered couch of our reality that is where

when i tumble on a crumpled butterfly ensnared once more by that man-boy-man who tore my wings (never mind i put them back together in time) on dark days you can still see the scars but on bright ones that is where

i would tell you that is where the light shines through the strongest


Support the show (https://thebluenib.com/donation/)