Inspired by a recent post from LilyPetal, I’m thinking about moments of beauty that have stirred me to write. Happiness breeds happiness, and words can shine from one writer to one reader. What are the moments that shine?
Once, there was a girl who said ‘I love you’ and she whispered it, and she knew it; children played in between the jets of fountain sprays, on the huge display of metal squarely put down, on a plinth, at the airport; a winter morning burned the frost from the fence panels, up in slow graceful coils; at the back of the Greyhound bus (like Kerouac, I told myself), spiderwriting bouncing along, one Sunday, sliding into Manhattan, looking up at the silvertooth-tipped Chrysler building, thinking ‘this is easily the most beautiful building I have ever seen’; two kittens tumbled over one another, up the stairs, sat on the bed where one swiped the other, distracted, sneaky as it was; those places where we sat and talked, or the places where we just sat and looked at one another because words were impossible, or unnecessary, or too dull — on the beach; in your small kitchen where your children darted around like fish between our feet; in the field, years before, which I later wrote as an ocean, where you kissed me because that was all that we could do, under the sea; that delicious closeness, that dangerous proximity, with you, another you, on that bus in a foreign country, waiting, waiting, we both knew; earlier, your body sang, you stretched but not because you were tired; that short small letter, mis-spelt as children sometimes tend towards, pressed into my hand, that evening in the garden when we said goodbye, and this was how you said ‘I will miss you’, sadly but beautifully now; one evening, once, before you called me ‘love’, or words to say not ‘Love’ but ‘I see you’, I walked in and you stood there, your hands together at your thighs, and you smiled and I knew about you there and then; a mother took her child to the rose beds and there they smelled the flowers — she bent one down for the girl to press her nose to; one man stopped me on the street, saying ‘I’m the street poet, let me give you poetry’; a child, who didn’t talk, stood with me in the garden of the nursery, and we looked down for time that may have been all day, perhaps, looked down, smiling, laughing, the two of us, at the cracks between the paving slabs . . .
All of this and more. Everything that shines embeds itself inside, is love of its own accord, becomes a story in itself: each finds its own form. I tell the stories time and time again.