Bernadette Pamplin Art & Poetry
Ideas, projects, development, finished work
Even in the depths of low
When lights are dim,
When no one’s home,
When all is dark
When all is still
There could be nothing,
nothing at all
until
click
a flame
a match
a start
a small light flickers in the dark
I sit & write
Let words be my guide
to lead me through
this quiet night.
When all is still
I can hear my thoughts
I can reflect
take stock
I can change my course
This time is precious
So I must not waste
Moments spent in stillness
and not in haste.
The train wheels click, the carriage rocks in a lulling rhythm, soothing the stress of delays, of running later, of being behind, not on time, behind on bills, on money, in debt. Slowly sinking into my chair I close my eyes and drift away into a long sleep saved for the very tired.
Still, I must wake up, there is too much to do. Much to be done. I don’t just live for me, I have responsibility, mouths to feed that depend on me.
And no matter how deep I sink, I will always return for air, and the faces that await me there. Those beautiful smiles, silly giggles, bath time and cuddles. When we find just one moment in chaos of the day to touch, to rest my hand on yours so briefly. Sitting at the table, pulling faces and playing and forgetting to eat a meal that I’ve thought about all day. What’s the most I can make with the little that we have?
Enough. It will be enough.
She sleeps.
Rustling leaves, heaving hills
one eye open.
Breathe.
The great weight of earth spread
furrowed fields ploughed and sown
stretch the veil between here and home.
Seeds will grow and flowers bloom
Tree boughs sag low with glistening fruit
adorned like stars across the sky
connecting all that lives and dies.
All this to come, in summer deep.
But for now, she sleeps.
This is my favourite thing I’ve written for a while, inspired by the magic of nature, the turning of the wheel and the return of the seasons. This steady rhythm is something we can align with, like breathing along with the sea swash moving in and out, we can connect with nature in a way that resets our mind away from the bustle of a life full of stress, of challenges, of desires and distractions that pull us away from the beautiful simplicity of nature and the heady fertility of the earth.
I am working on a print. This poem came to me whilst meditating on the ideas behind the print, but was ready much sooner than I have been ready to finish cutting the block. I’ve included a snippet of the work in progress to serve as the cover pic for now. It will come soon enough and when it does I will share it here…I am sharing the poem now as I keep misplacing it in my many writers books so wanted to store it safe and sound and available to all.
Fresh, bright blue
of sea and sky.
Under currents swirl
winds whip and curl up
foaming white crests
that kiss the salty air
carrying the cries
of swooping swifts
who tell us
summer’s nearly here.
Like this poem? It was inspired by one of my prints. Seaside Swifts Poem was written to accompany my first handmade block print. I took inspiration from coastal life, and the beautiful event of the swifts returning each year. They appear out of nowhere, shrieking and swooping through the sign. It’s a wonderful sign that summer is round the corner. They return in their mating pairs to the same nests they return to every year. I wanted to capture the movement, and the freshness of blue sea and sky. In the background you can see the skyline around Portsmouth Harbour, with the Spinnaker Tower, Gunwharf and HMS Warrior. This is a limited edition run. Other than a sunset variation which I have in mind for the summer, this will be your only chance to own this print so if you want it, come and get it!
Slowly come, unfurling leaves
woken up by warming feet.
The sunshine strengthens
days linger on
life returns
now winter has gone.
When everything is moving
and nothing stays the same
we can only keep our footing
on what comes round again.
We reach forward into future
skyward promises of shoots
while we lament on days gone past
a history inherited through our roots.
2026
This Slowly Come Poem was written to accompany a print. Slowly Come was inspired by Imbolc and the early signs of spring. Brigid was said to walk the cold land, with the first shoots of spring appearing through the cold earth underneath her feet. It’s a beautiful story that inspired me to ponder on our ancient understanding of the earth and the seasons, and our deep connection with it all, so often forgotten in the modern world. There is a lot of power in taking a moment to reconnect. We are all capable of it.
I’ll write today
not fight today.
I’ll paint, compose, I’ll create today.
I’ll take the gloom and spin it into thread.
Gorgeous hues of greys and blues.
Take my mental loom and weave it
through and through
into something fresh and new.
Something colourful.
Something comfortable
that makes you just feel wonderful
cause greys and blues are beautiful
in another context.
So, what shall we make next?
What sadness shall we take?
What despair shall we remake?
Tears rolling down the cheeks turn to paint as we
dab, dab, dab away at our next work of art.
The numb void of grief becomes full of story
sharing tales of a loved one left
and keeping their memory in the room.
Anger fuels a sound that carries it far away
on the wings of cathartic release.
Then peace, for a while at least.
This poem was just pent up gloom
that started bouncing around the room
then boom
it’s channelled into something new.
And if that’s not magic
I don’t know what is then.
It’s inside each and every one of us
All we have to do is listen.
2025
This room
can only hold so many
bright lights
through fear of blinding.
Though we are bound,
our tethers may be destined
to only ever pass through walls,
preventing the collision,
of two sparks so bright
through fear of a flash
that would dim the heavens.
You are too powerful to exist together.
Never fear,
I will be your cord.
This tether will connect you
through story and song
shared memories,
photographs, anecdotes
pushing you so close
you can almost feel each others fingertips.
Almost.
2023
Dirty, blue bin.
Plastic top mottled by old cigarettes.
Scars left by those who hold their breath,
extinguishing the flame.
Lonely, blue bin.
Abandoned red flowers drop curling leaves.
Browning stems sagging,
time passing,
weighted with someone
pausing,
before stubbing out their love.
2023
Put It Out
I pick up a pen to write.
Not of lists, or notes
organisational tools
journaling, extracting sentences delicately under aesthetic for careful analysis under a highly focused lens.
No, not today
today I play with words
like a kitten with wool
or drunk lovers with a whole night ahead.
I simply enjoy.
Appreciate.
Take pleasure in experimenting
with structure, rhyme and form.
Breaking and rebuilding
stickle bricks
that save me from the grown up world
and reconnect me to that little girl
who once wrote stories every day.
2023
Beautiful butterflies.
I watch you hatch
grow large and fat.
And then you change.
You cocoon
and magic happens within you.
Your body is broken and reformed
into something new.
The process that you go through
reshapes you.
A new birth
becomes your beauty,
a new identity.
You spread your wings and embark on your new life.
Such wonder.
You are now a mother.
Alas,
I may stay a caterpillar.
2023
They heard the splash and turned from each other to see only ripples racing away from where it had fallen. It sunk underneath the surface; a promise to be made. They looked at each other. It was now or never.
Slipping through his clumsy, clasping fingers, he kept snatching at loose air in panic. The pace of time may slow, but so do we.
Desperately reaching into his damp pocket, moist from their walk in the rain, his stubby fingers delicately traced the elegant curve as she spoke words he would never forget. He took a deep breath.
She had been upset when he arrived and was unsure why they were walking at all. The weather was terrible and she wondered how any good could come from it. He held her close as if to protect her, but as far as she knew, he could never keep her dry.
He had tried to explain as she opened the door. She was so beautiful. Her hair was freshly washed and smelt of vanilla shampoo. It was all too much. Nerves had got the better of him so he suggested a stroll along the river. She reluctantly agreed. It was now or never.
She hated it when they fought over something much smaller than them and had spent almost ten minutes in contemplation of leaving him. She floated in the bath staring at the ceiling. He tried so hard, but she was unsure if they could ever be happy.
He put the phone down and looked at the ring. He thought of all he’d gone without this month to pay for it. She was worth it all. He took a deep breath and grinned in the mirror. Bashful, humble. It was now or never.
2016
“I’ve been on the streets for three years”, he said through chipped and blackened teeth. His eyes were blue, his hair matted and yellowing. His skin, grubby and porous, was chapped. It was broken around his bitten fingernails. His brown, stained coat smelt of old bookshops. I’d seen him and taken him a coffee. It was a cold day, it was Christmas Eve. “I can’t say the situation wasn’t my fault”. He lowered his eyes and remembered. He flashed back to when he lost his footing. “It’s just so hard to get back on track”. People scurried past us in their plagues; indifferent to their ignorance. Their arms strained under the weight of bags and boxes; toys and gadgets, perfumes and clothes. All of unnecessary value. I glanced down at his old, woollen hat. It was full. Full of moths, brown, speckled and dusty. Some were alive and still twitching. Some crawled over others to escape. They could not escape; their wings did not work. A child approached, reaching into her pocket. She produced a shiny chocolate coin. She dropped the coin into the hat. The old man nodded and the child ran back. Her mother hugged her, smiling proudly. The moths devoured the chocolate coin almost instantly. All that was left was the twisted scraps of foil. Scraps shining like gold in the bitter, winter sun.
2023
Bernadette Pamplin Art & Poetry 