I have discovered Svaroopa Yoga. It's amazing. It gives me a safe, nurturing way to release my deep core tensions without requiring impossible gymnastic feats. I would recommend it to anyone and everyone - you'll go home feeling so much better in touch with the 'bliss of your being' (which is what 'Svaroopa' means). Especially good for people with chronic pain, or anxiety/past abuse issues.
Check out the video to get an idea of what it's all about.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Poetry - 'The Last One to Know'
The Last One to Know
by Barbara Whittaker
If only you had told her when
the last time was the last
From five into her forties the child in her lay waiting
to feel again that easy scoop
that stole her from her bed and
placed her bleary eyed and trusting
amongst her father’s tools
and the sawhorse where
you draped her
If she had known that was the last
she could have slept without the dread
She need not have bunged on such a turn
when they rearranged the room and
made her sleep right near the door -
somehow in her kindergarten head
she thought the distance from it might have kept her safe -
but knew no words to verbalize her fear
of unspeakable things
If she had known,
she could have played out in the yard
instead of tangled in her shoes
in the wardrobe
with the door closed
except for just a crack
Such irony that even after you had died -
when drinking and disease laid you both cold in the ground
her fears, disconnected from their source
thrived on unchecked
incestuously feeding on the damage in your wake
A child cannot breathe such impossible betrayal
alongside the faith she craves like air
that those who are nearest
are the dearest
She cannot colour such brutality
alongside lavender hibiscus and
yellow allamanda
She cannot register the torture of your touch
with flesh that barely knows
the meaning of itself
Her wordless stories – hers and yours –
sank into a sheltered darkness
And with the sinking disconnected
fragments of herself
As time went on
all she saw were uncles
tinkering, talking parts,
boots propped on a sawhorse,
sharing jokes she didn’t understand
Then at night recurring monsters did their
dark insistent work
scooping her from dream to dream
for decades yet to come
because still she didn’t know
that the last time was the last time.
by Barbara Whittaker
If only you had told her when
the last time was the last
From five into her forties the child in her lay waiting
to feel again that easy scoop
that stole her from her bed and
placed her bleary eyed and trusting
amongst her father’s tools
and the sawhorse where
you draped her
If she had known that was the last
she could have slept without the dread
She need not have bunged on such a turn
when they rearranged the room and
made her sleep right near the door -
somehow in her kindergarten head
she thought the distance from it might have kept her safe -
but knew no words to verbalize her fear
of unspeakable things
If she had known,
she could have played out in the yard
instead of tangled in her shoes
in the wardrobe
with the door closed
except for just a crack
Such irony that even after you had died -
when drinking and disease laid you both cold in the ground
her fears, disconnected from their source
thrived on unchecked
incestuously feeding on the damage in your wake
A child cannot breathe such impossible betrayal
alongside the faith she craves like air
that those who are nearest
are the dearest
She cannot colour such brutality
alongside lavender hibiscus and
yellow allamanda
She cannot register the torture of your touch
with flesh that barely knows
the meaning of itself
Her wordless stories – hers and yours –
sank into a sheltered darkness
And with the sinking disconnected
fragments of herself
As time went on
all she saw were uncles
tinkering, talking parts,
boots propped on a sawhorse,
sharing jokes she didn’t understand
Then at night recurring monsters did their
dark insistent work
scooping her from dream to dream
for decades yet to come
because still she didn’t know
that the last time was the last time.
Poetry - 'First Cutting'
First Cutting
by Barbara Whittaker
Forbidden blades meet awkwardly
catching cloth in gathered folds
lacerating tiny seismic peaks
Equally material,
arm or leg or plaited hair would
just as unconcernedly have
borne the biting steel
- private vassal
- effigy of self
- only object under her control
Perhaps the doll seemed more disposed to
calculated injury
Perhaps it proffered something
less finite
But even with the cutting,
insult adds to injury the
emblematic threads of
scars unseen,
unravelling where
any eye might see
- irreversible hurt
- unforgivable sin
- inconsolable despair in place of balm
the gash a lasting testament to shame
Bewildered mother’s hurried needle
roughly tacks the dolly’s dress
only salting fresh dismay
with ugly telling stitches
The reason for the cutting
left unremedied
The motive for the vengeance
left unpaid
by Barbara Whittaker
Forbidden blades meet awkwardly
catching cloth in gathered folds
lacerating tiny seismic peaks
Equally material,
arm or leg or plaited hair would
just as unconcernedly have
borne the biting steel
- private vassal
- effigy of self
- only object under her control
Perhaps the doll seemed more disposed to
calculated injury
Perhaps it proffered something
less finite
But even with the cutting,
insult adds to injury the
emblematic threads of
scars unseen,
unravelling where
any eye might see
- irreversible hurt
- unforgivable sin
- inconsolable despair in place of balm
the gash a lasting testament to shame
Bewildered mother’s hurried needle
roughly tacks the dolly’s dress
only salting fresh dismay
with ugly telling stitches
The reason for the cutting
left unremedied
The motive for the vengeance
left unpaid
Poetry - 'Unschooled'
Unschooled
by Barbara Whittaker
A shining handful of years
breathlessly welcomes the novel restraint
of rigid school shoe leather
Twirling, parading on feet unacquainted with
imminent calls to attention
is assessed in inches of blue gabardine
all the time dancing through measuring tapes,
buttons, elastic and pins
Smalt saucers tire at the calendar
drag of days weighted by journey to come
succumbs for a time to afternoon’s call
as sleep softly overtakes dreams
So marks the end of a childhood
silently stolen – mutely replaced,
new shoes buckled awry on her feet
no words to define the offences
Evidence finds its own voice
Mother’s cries, child
in a doorway
hushed
She looks okay. I’m sure she’s okay.
Quiet now.
So flows the water of the past and
school must be the bridge
Positioned in class
no first day tears to blur the will
of one already in adulthood –
only disdain for squalling classmates clinging
to mothers who know nothing.
by Barbara Whittaker
A shining handful of years
breathlessly welcomes the novel restraint
of rigid school shoe leather
Twirling, parading on feet unacquainted with
imminent calls to attention
is assessed in inches of blue gabardine
all the time dancing through measuring tapes,
buttons, elastic and pins
Smalt saucers tire at the calendar
drag of days weighted by journey to come
succumbs for a time to afternoon’s call
as sleep softly overtakes dreams
So marks the end of a childhood
silently stolen – mutely replaced,
new shoes buckled awry on her feet
no words to define the offences
Evidence finds its own voice
Mother’s cries, child
in a doorway
hushed
She looks okay. I’m sure she’s okay.
Quiet now.
So flows the water of the past and
school must be the bridge
Positioned in class
no first day tears to blur the will
of one already in adulthood –
only disdain for squalling classmates clinging
to mothers who know nothing.
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