mindful: focusing ones awareness on the present moment
photograph by gregory munday (@newmunday)
gregory munday is a photographer, physicist, surfer and musician based near oxford. as a ‘golden hour’ addict he loves working with natural light, and with both people and places. He can usually be found @newmunday, @sleeperserviceuk, or chasing waves around cold Cornish beaches.
to my granddaughter, on rainfall
(a spoken word poem transcribed)
my granddaughter will stumble across it in a book.
scrunched and screwed,
her nose will tell the tale of a toddler’s frustration.
what is it?
this brave new word.
her fledgling tongue will trip
and trying desperately,
she’ll fall on phonetics:
r - a - i - n
rain
i’ll say.
close your eyes.
(a spoken word poem transcribed)
my granddaughter will stumble across it in a book.
scrunched and screwed,
her nose will tell the tale of a toddler’s frustration.
what is it?
this brave new word.
her fledgling tongue will trip
and trying desperately,
she’ll fall on phonetics:
r - a - i - n
rain
i’ll say.
close your eyes.
It’s cold, I’ll say,
and wet and damp
and yet sometimes warm, and sticky, and humid
and she’ll point to the shower, giggling like I’m stupid,
Yes - I’ll say - But from the sky!
Sometimes tiny drops, sometimes floods -
like when you cry,
you know how sometimes you’re just a little upset?
But sometimes it pours and pours, and it won’t letup.
I’ll say, look up,
and copying me, she’ll stick out her tongue,
and we’ll play “catching raindrops” until she’s done,
and drowsy and drooping, she’ll fight to hold up her head,
and staring into my eyes she’ll ask
“Why is rain dead?”
and wet and damp
and yet sometimes warm, and sticky, and humid
and she’ll point to the shower, giggling like I’m stupid,
Yes - I’ll say - But from the sky!
Sometimes tiny drops, sometimes floods -
like when you cry,
you know how sometimes you’re just a little upset?
But sometimes it pours and pours, and it won’t letup.
I’ll say, look up,
and copying me, she’ll stick out her tongue,
and we’ll play “catching raindrops” until she’s done,
and drowsy and drooping, she’ll fight to hold up her head,
and staring into my eyes she’ll ask
“Why is rain dead?”
and instead of rain, silence will fall.
I wonder how old she will be before I am able to meet her gaze?
To tell her the truth,
of how this looking away was ingrained in our skin,
of how we covered our ears to the scream that shook the ground we stood on,
of how we buried our heads alive in the lies we wanted to hear:
the age-old deception that after rain comes a rainbow -
even though we knew, in a tantrum that playtime was over,
we’d grabbed all the colours and scrubbed them blunt.
I wonder how old she will be before I am able to meet her gaze?
To tell her the truth,
of how this looking away was ingrained in our skin,
of how we covered our ears to the scream that shook the ground we stood on,
of how we buried our heads alive in the lies we wanted to hear:
the age-old deception that after rain comes a rainbow -
even though we knew, in a tantrum that playtime was over,
we’d grabbed all the colours and scrubbed them blunt.
poem by níamh marie smith (@niamhmariesmith)
níamh is a writer, actor and director trying to make rent (and occasionally art) in london. her recent work includes projects with national youth theatre and pleasance theatre. at the beginning of her poetry path, she is delighted to be sharing her first published works. she can be found telling stories at @niamhmariesmith on Instagram.
níamh is a writer, actor and director trying to make rent (and occasionally art) in london. her recent work includes projects with national youth theatre and pleasance theatre. at the beginning of her poetry path, she is delighted to be sharing her first published works. she can be found telling stories at @niamhmariesmith on Instagram.