M2 Musings: Wind and Wasps in September

If you’re new to my little M2 Musings project, click here to read the original post, and here to read the rest of the M2 poems, if you want to!

-Andrea

“Grandfather Sea has new eyes now”

The water is a mirror, I’m scared to break the surface,
but our boat just glides through the waves like it owns the place.
On the sea surrounded by sleepy gulls and my grandmother’s handwriting was not where I thought I’d spend my evening, but I’m glad I’m here.
My grandad is steering, like he always is.

Grandfather sea, the saltwater man.
I’ve written poems about him before, said he is like the ocean he grew up next to;
only now do I understand how right I was.

He’s not made of salt water so much as shaped of it,
unpredictable and stormy, wondrous and wild.

I look at how he grips the steering wheel, trained hands that know how to navigate rocks and isles and deep velvet oceans.
It is in his fingers, his eyes, his back,
like riding a bicycle is in my legs.

I used to compare him to the sea;

His heart forceful like the waves, voice quick like sea foam, all excitement and loud words and dark coffee spluttering in a coffee maker.
Now I see the ocean in him, in the pull of the currents towards his home.
I see the sea in how he glides through the ripples, I see the waves in his mind as tension in his hands.

He looks at old horizons with new eyes, navigates charted waters without her telling him where to go.

The water is a mirror, I’m scared I’ll break the surface,
but his surface is one i’m just starting to chip away at.

I went out for a little trip on the fjord with my grandad the other day, and had some time to reflect as we were … driving? We talked about stuff you can only talk about when there is water all around you, and we sat in comfortable silence, silence that felt like home. It all made me think of a poem I wrote about my grandad in my first year of uni, and how both my voice and his focus has changed a lot during the course of those three years, and especially this last year; a year filled with permanent changes that have affected all of us. All of this reflection resulted in this work-in-progress poem! I hope you like it!

Have a wonderful day,

-Andrea

Journal #8

Shakespeare wrote about a Midsummer night’s dream, and on June 23rd (in Norway, at least) we celebrate midsummer night’s eve. Not the longest day of the year as I’ve always believed, but one day past the sun turning; when the night is one minute longer than it was the day before. We celebrated yesterday the same way we’ve always done, and I spent the day pondering how traditions stay the same, how we appreciate the things we’ve always done; my own midsummer night’s dream.

I dream of what I’ve always seen on an evening like this, of bonfires and burnt popcorn, of dogs off their leads and children learning to swim. I dream of grey haired locals playing saxophone from the back of a truck and gulls swooping down to peck at waffle crumbs left on the ground. I dream of shoes put away to dip our feet in the water and the taste in your mouth of knowing that you have all of summer in front of you, endless possibilities for tan lines and sun burns and morning teas on the veranda. I dream of post cards sent and letters received, breakfasts with the ones I love and skype calls with the ones I miss. My midsummer night’s dream is of those nights that never end; when you bring blankets and lanterns and candle light out into the garden, to watch sun sets and sun rise, when you watch the bats soar and smell the jasmine flowers, when life is floating and there is nowhere you need to be.

Midsummer’s night is a night when you remind yourself of how strong nature’s forces are, that we’re all part of nature, and in later years, that we can’t control it no matter how hard we try. On midsummer night’s eve we gather our families and celebrate that we’re out of the cold winter months and that we’ve got all of summer ahead of us. We sing songs passed down to remember that those we have lost are always with us, in the wind and the trees and the stars.
It’s a day where you pick wildflowers and put them under your pillow and where you’re grateful for what you have, what you’ve lost and what you’ve yet to gain.

We are a family of four, and my favourite time of all, is all of us together around the table outside. Yesterday, we sat there for the better part of three hours. There was tea, there were blankets being shared, words floating through the air. There is nothing you can’t talk about when it’s past midnight and it’s warm enough to never go to bed.
My midsummer night’s dream is a wish for many more eternal light like this one.

-Andrea

Journal #7

Norwegian translation below the picture x 

The house is quiet. I let my eyes follow specks of dust dancing lazily in the sun and I’ve got my hands around an elephant mug filled to the brim with blueberry tea. The steam swirling out of the mug paints roses in the air. I’ve never liked waking up early, but I’ve always loved being awake, morning’s early hours; the silence before anyone else wakes up. It’s just my book and me and the soft and distant whirr of the world outside. I think about the people I miss as I let my fingers play with the steam. As the steam looks like dragon’s breath, I think about all the people I haven’t met yet, and I think about the places I want to go, the things I want to write, as the steam slowly settles down. I also think about how many different “me”s there are, and that since I rarely get up this early, this “me” isn’t one I get to explore a lot. It’s like the rest of the world isn’t existing yet, in my little hour of the morning. Soon there will be breakfast and chatter and the people I care about, and I can’t wait. But right now it’s just me. I’m just here. It’s gonna be a good day.

IMG_0022.JPG

Det er stille i huset. Jeg lar øynene følge støvet som danser i late solstråler, mens jeg har hendene rundt en kopp breddfull av blåbær-te. Dampen leker, maler roser i lufta. Jeg har aldri likt å stå opp  tidlig, men det å være våken tidlig, det setter jeg pris på. Jeg elsker morgentimene, stillheten før noen andre våkner. Det er bare boka mi og jeg nå, og den myke, men fjerne, lyden av verden utafor. Jeg tenker på de jeg savner mens jeg lar fingrene spille igjennom dampen. Mens dampen snor seg som varm pust i kuldegrader, tenker jeg på alle de jeg ikke har møtt enda og jeg tenker på alle steder jeg vil se, alt jeg vil skrive, når dampen endelig legger seg. Jeg tenker også på alle de forskjellige “meg”ene som finnes, og siden jeg sjelden er oppe så tidlig som dette, er dette en “meg” jeg ikke opplever særlig ofte. Det er som om verden ikke er til ennå, i denne lille timen jeg sitter her. Snart blir det frokost og småsnakk og de jeg bryr meg mest om i hele verden, og jeg gleder meg. Men akkurat nå er det bare meg. Jeg er bare her. Dette blir en god dag.

-Andrea