I always dreamt of flight

In an immediate sense I have my mother to thank for the inspiration for the poem below. It was her mention of the theme "flight" for a poetry group that set me to thinking about different meanings of the word flight and putting pen to paper (or more accurately cursor to screen) to create this.

I am sure she won't mind me saying though, that beyond that initial word, the real inspiration for this comes from my contact with my students at St Chad's Sanctuary: people who, have known the worst nightmares of flight, but who, I hope, can still dream of soaring with the birds. Once again, I trust that they will excuse my attempts to speak of an experience I can not begin to imagine.

I always dreamt of flight

Lying

On grass, or concrete, or sandy beach

Pressed

Against the solid ground beneath

But

Eyes open

Squinting from the sun

Or closed

Turned inwards on a dream

I always dreamt of flight

I knew

That I could soar and circle with the birds

And drift like wispy clouds

Across a bright blue sky

Laughing

In childhood games of fantasy

Gazing skywards

Dreaming of infinity

If I could ask

A granted wish of just one thing

My chosen super power

I would not hesitate

Because

I always dreamt of flight

I knew

That I would swoop and swerve and dive

And glide with silent majesty

Across a deep blue sky

And as I grew

I knew

Never would I soar and circle

Like the birds

Nor swoop and swerve and dive

But Still

Alone in quiet moments

Looking up

To the endless realm of skies

I sometimes dreamt

Of flight

To drift like wispy clouds

And glide with silent majesty

To hide from this reality

In an infinity of blue

Until

As skies flare red

And thick black smoke

Obscures

The fragile wings of birds

Their hallowed, haunting song

Replaced

By metal monsters

Who hum a tune of

Death

The longed-for, dreamt-of, promised

Flight

Discovered

In the urgency of anguish

Amid the acrid fear which clings

With unforgiving tenacity

To bloodied feet 

And to hidden memories

No soaring wings or deep blue skies

In this my flight

Which did not match

The patterns 

which not so very long ago

Had swirled before 

My childish eyes

No swooping free, no swirling dives

No soaring, circling paradise

No hiding

From this

The harsh reality of our lives

Flight

This childhood dream

Which found a strange fulfilment

In a living nightmare

As huddled, shivering,

I cannot help but wonder

Is this some kind of irony?

When

I had always dreamt of flight

A Question of Audience

So once again my blog has sat neglected for almost a month. Amongst other distractions, this time round, are several blog posts for another blog to which I contribute. http://putdownthesword.wordpress.com/blog/

I call them blog posts, but the one I wish to reflect on was not originally written as such. It started life as a letter.  I was against military action in Iraq (no surprise there, then) and horrified that Archbishop Justin Welby spoke out in favour in the House of Lords. So I wrote to him.

As an afterthought, (and partly because it said on his website that he probably wouldn't read it), I posted it online. I was initially unsure whether it was a good idea but have since decided it was probably more effective as a blog post than as a letter. It certainly generated more reflective responses; and with something like 18 shares on facebook, it was the closest I have ever come to going viral.

It created an interesting perspective for the ongoing correspondence.

My original letter was definitely written with the Archbishop, or at the very least his secretaries, in mind. It was addressed to him and intended for him. The reply, from his secretary was also written without a wider audience in mind: but having shared the letter, it seemed only fair to share the reply.

But that isn't the end of the story: I knew I wanted to challenge the reply: but in writing back, this time I was acutely aware of a dual audience. Yes, I was addressing the correspondence secretary to the Archbishop of Canterbury, but I could no longer pretend that I wasn't also writing to those who had read my first letter. Even if by now, they had drifted off to other concerns, theoretically at least I was writing for an audience other than the one I was directly addressing. Whether or not they read it, is secondary to my knowing that they might.

It left me reflecting on the question of audience: who do we write and speak for, and how often is there a duality in our intended audience? What changes when the message we are writing / speaking is not intended for those we are addressing directly, but for others who might overhear? Is there a difference if the wider audience is intended at the time of writing, or only thought about afterwards? What happens when something that is genuinely intended for one audience is read or heard out of context by another?

Is writing a blog post about writing blog posts a bit weird? Probably. But this experience also left me thinking about this blog, about what I write and why I write it.

I think, primarily, I write it for me. I have never been any good at keeping a diary, but since beginning this venture I have found it a useful way to distil some of my thoughts, to reflect on experiences in a way I think is both helpful and healthy.

But to say it is entirely personal wouldn't be completely honest. The knowledge of its potentially public nature certainly effects some of what I write and how I write it; and although I think I am mainly doing it for myself, I have to admit I would be disappointed if I knew I was my own only reader and I genuinely appreciate occasional comments which suggest it is not just for me. This blog has a dual audience too.

So please keep reading. It is written for me, but also for you.