Writings About Home

Hello dear friends.

Below is a series of writings, spanning the last decade, about homesickness and identity. One is a poem, one is song lyrics. The others I can't quite call poetry, but they're also not standard prose. Poetic prose? Yes, that works.

A little context...

I moved from Canada to England when I was 11 years old. A huge shift. I came to love my life in England, but growing up in a new country that was remarkably culturally different was sometimes very hard. I felt torn in two between the home that was my present and the home that was my past.

And Newfoundland is not an easy place to forget. It stayed in my bones. It left a lingering wildness in me. Its weather carved and shaped me.

I missed it, ferociously. And so I wrote about it.

I. STAR

Beloved star,

You track my veins, leaving marks of cold, welling metal.

You break my wrists.

Bright morning star,

You waste my lungs with love and bite tatters through the velvet.

Gossamer fume, heartless stone, you strain my heart and take me home, across the sea.

Sightless star,

You spread eagle like a drunk and eat night dust.

The morning bird trills and you shine, shine, shine.

II. ROAD

(A summer back in Newfoundland when I was 21)

This summer has been a blue, dappled sunbeam. A red itch that claws me out of my skin and pitches me out to deep lows, canyon lows, whirlpool lows, where dark escapes the sun and throws heavy shrouds.

But this summer has soared as gannets seen on these cliffs; as guillemots, sea skating; as slick skinned seals and friendly stickle backs in the hollows of my hands. I have scored my feet clean, drawn blood in the wax, drawn blood in my heart. I’ve gripped the sail of a blooming day, floundered in the heat mist, dove into water, bright, steel-blue silk.

This summer has been a green blur drive, behind glass smeared with handprints. I’ve talked tongues from a memory, fought with hard, cold nerves in dim lighting. And the swooping, screaming birds are all around us. The rocky haven, burnt white, while they somersault through silk, career the wind into a stupor. There I was tolerated, like the murrs by the sea, babies paddling wild.

This summer has been a cool, wet kiss. Coffee stops on highways; bleached sky and clean, grey lines and rose print on the stools. Date squares in paper. A tent on dirt, while the rain it poured and poured and poured…and we’re safe with our books under canvas.

This summer has been snapped nerves and misdirection; a square of theatre, a whining radio, a pillar of wisdom and the drenching wonder of miracle. I’ve reached for clarification, for comfort, and only read the patterns in the black of my eyelids and maybe that is where the kernel of direction lies. And in that green and blue, red and white, pearl and grey; in the sub continents of feeling and the breath of a new day.

III. HOME

When I die bury me under your ribs.

When I die scatter me from your cliffs.

Fill my mouth with blue green drink and let me sink,

Under your ancient wing.

IV. B'Y*

You were big, you grew strong from a seed by windy shore where the sea birds scream.

You were lied to as children seem to be and in between my days were shaky.

You were the one, two shoes in the ditch; seemed far more fun, when the weeds were dry and the day was done.

You were big and you were strong, by windy shore, helped pull the capelin in.

Mite of a child with arms so thin but you heaved and laughed and made them grin, when the day was done.

Maybe we'll find a place that speaks another language.

Maybe we'll race 'til we fall by the river.

Mint in my mouth and the cliffs at my fingertips, nothing can change this.

I'm stretched across this sea but nothing can change this.

*-- "B'y" (pronounced 'bye') is a Newfoundland dialect word. A form of address, a term of camaraderie, or used to emphasise a statement of shock or joy. "Yes, b'y!" Go look up more Newfoundland English. You'll have a fantastic time. --

Check out this video by Newfoundland musician Tim Baker. A gorgeous snap shot of Newfoundland in all her quirky glory.

- Tim Baker, "All Hands"