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BE MORE JAGUAR (Episode 57)

BE MORE JAGUAR 

 


This morning the air seems to hold the scent of violets. Like last week’s scent, I am unsure where this comes from, but I find myself and enjoying the fact that I have been breathing the Monday morning air and noting its smell for 57 weeks.

 

Last night brought immersion in words and the company of good poets at a visit to Port Sunlight for the Wirral Poetry Festival. It was good to listen to some poems I had heard or read before and enjoyed as well as many that were new to me. Five poets at two events, time to talk with like-minded people, news of events I might enjoy, and a jar of honey. I loved hearing Martin Figura and Helen Ivory referred to as 'the king and queen of poetry'. And I loved being there for their superb readings.

 

Alt text is not offering me a suggestion for this week’s photo montage. I say it is four photos, two of the head of a beautiful black jaguar and two of Jarvis, my sister’s cat. The jaguar is entering a space and looks intent. Jarvis is thoughtful and relaxed in one picture with paws outstretched, and perhaps curious in the other.

 

The idea for a photo montage came from my most recent coaching session. During exploration of my goal I found myself describing it as being like planting seeds and finding myself in a period of waiting. I described wanting to see shoots and to know that the roots were established. This led to an exploration of patience. I quickly realised that I am actually adept at waiting, that I have learnt not to want the process of growth to be quicker than it can. I also know that pulling things up to find out if there are roots or even giving a little tug is not the best idea! This then brought me to the real metaphor to explore. When to be more jaguar. When to move from playful, curious cat to entering a space with presence. This was exactly what I needed to think about because it wasn’t about the seeds it was about being active on other things while that growth was happening. Just like how my goal last year to read my poetry out loud in a room of people was not really about the reading of the poetry it was about having the confidence to start well and deliver well.

 

Great coaches coach great coaches and they hold the space with you while you get to where you need to go with your thoughts. They ask great questions that you might not ask yourself. I was lucky to have that time and space with a great coach. I was able to see when being more jaguar would be useful. And my coach encouraged me to consider if and when it could be too much. I don’t think I would have thought about that side of it even if I had reached the analogy on my own.

 

My thoughts about jaguars reminds me of happy time spent watching Goshi at Chester Zoo and of being inspired by Pascale Petit’s writing and workshops. I have a poem about a jaguar in my first poetry collection ‘Magnifying Glass’ but I will leave that one on the page for now and instead share ‘Barn Owl Tattoo’. This poem was recently published by Frazzled Lit. Like my jaguar poem, it started life in a poetry workshop with Pascale Petit. Its final drafting was completed in a church whilst listening to a concert rehearsal and I liked crafting the small lines in such a tall space. There is plenty to enjoy in Frazzled Lit and it includes stories as well as poems so I have included the link here.

 

 

BARN OWL TATTOO

 

The deep musk of night was still on her skin

as she shifted her body to morning.

The scent of damp threaded leaves and aging

pine lifted in the air. The shower would help –

sprayed water and soap to begin to

lather the cling of damp forest away.

And if you’ve ever closed your eyes there

to feel only the gentle smooth of washing

you too will be aware of that moment

when you open them again, think you’re ready

to finish now and towel dry.

 

But tell me you have not stepped out

wanting to be clean skinned, fresh for the day

only to find your whole body tattooed

with the head of a barn owl.

Three on each arm. Two askew on your breasts.

And stamped over and over again on

belly and legs.

Tell me you’ve never turned

to find that print in brown,

all haunting eyes and hollow

between your shoulder blades,

tracking your spine.

One on each calf

strangely purpled by your varicose veins.

 

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