THE FIDDLE SERIES (2021):
The Fiddle Series is a collection of poetry inspired by the violin. As with most practical hobbies that I undertake, I write better than I play the violin!
Evolution She sleeps with an imaginary violin tucked beneath her left chin. In the morning her neck is redwood and after the camphor oil rub, she is a eucalypt on fire. Her hands too, are changing, Left hand cupped, each finger extended from The palm and not the joint. Wire printed fingertips calloused flat, feel nothing, In the quest to hear everything. And there’s the way she folds into its timbre Into the vibration where horsehair meets wire And there’s the way her bones calcify into bow, Her arm a branch bent slightly to catch the Light and beat. And there’s the way she would like to nestle into its hollow And after a minim, emerge transformed- beyond the captured staves, beyond the renaissance rules- to play reels beside the slowing river, beneath the buttress roots and shedding bark to beckon life back from forever death. Let her practice on a promise to the earth: Maybe, maybe we can change- Lift a key, raise an octave. Let us practice at humanity. Listen, the rhythm will come! Intonation scratchy then smooth then scratchy Then smooth until finally New muscle memory will form. Practice more. Practice better. Practice in the hollows where sound is born. Myfanwy Williams (2021)
The Devil’s Instrument Mostly she practices for the park pigeons, Who flock to her side and sit as brooding hens. Beneath her feet, concrete splattered with avian poop, Ciggie butts and iridescent phlegm But still she practices, Shoulders ablaze, her right arm a system of uncoiling springs Her mind also unfurling, idle and fertile for the devil himself. Her violin vibrates long after she has stopped playing. Let the rumours begin, of bartered souls And human gut strung taught as string What else could make the peasants dance and bring peace among the pigeons? Paganini’s mother sold his soul for a virtuoso son, And her own mother traded her for a leafy suburb and a Mrs before her name. In the capitalist wheel we are all bought and sold! The trick is style. Personal Branding 2.0! Suited men and winged apparitions are all the rage, How can hoofs and horns compete with such multi-level marketing? Being a woman and therefore degenerate, Being a novice fiddler, She makes all the deals with all the devils. Myfanwy Williams (2021)
Circus Human So, you want to make words that move, Scrawl sound upon the stratosphere And stop the earth from dimming in its fumes? So, dance circus human, dance. Let art be the boat that you drown in. Make art that tears muscles and breaks bones, Stitch syntax into skin and graffiti your mind With half formed ideas and A masterclass of madness. Dance so bone shoots from socket But shatter nicely girl. Make a nice sound, a nice shape, a nice story. Break and break again. Stretch viscera from pole to pole Birth life from your ribs and teach us to cry. Break circus human, break. Break nicely. Break utterly. Myfanwy Williams (2021)
FRIENDSHIP SERIES
Friendship is one of the purest forms of love out there, and I do write poetry for my close friends. A lot of those close friends are not aware of this, however! I will add more to the page as I get more courageous, but I have included a poem that I wrote to one of my closest and oldest friends, Mia. I have also included a foray into prose poetry- a poem written for a friend Luke, who took his life in 2018.
And when we are old (for Mia)
And when we are old, you and I
we will weave our fear into capes,
thread madness into teal and turquoise and lilac
and knit tendrils of light
which dance when we move.
And we will hold gnarled, arthritic hands
translucent with bold veins which
pulse all that is broken,
and
all that is wise in its brokenness.
People will laugh or scorn or taunt.
Or simply ignore us.
None of that matters.
Except we have made it. With our
feather grey hair held tight from the wind
by scarves or beanies and
maybe I will crown myself
with a tea cosy or fez
or baggy cotton knickers.
And you will wear blue as always.
And you and I will paint on houses
on cars and trees, on
the sky itself.
By then, we may know how
the sky works, how people work.
Or perhaps we will only know
how we ourselves work.
But none of that matters.
You and I, we will not be small.
Let fear be
someone else’s shroud and
madness their casket.
Our capes and our tea cosies and the world will be
our canvass.
And this is what matters:
We will wear our power boldly
with garish, unseemly laughter
we will hold brittle hands
when we are old, you and I.
And we will not be small.
Myfanwy Williams, 2018
For a dead man’s mother Your son will never draw again. Your son will never sculpt or paint again. He will not rise from his coffin and throw you his lopsided sandy grin and he will not laugh again, and he will not cry again and no, his lips will not touch a goon bag again and his record collection will grow discordant with disuse. And he will never again rage or sink into a non-light that reeks of yeast and sweat and you will not wake with a sense of urgency, a sense that this is the inevitable call that is years overdue. You will never again have to veil yourself in soft, soothing lies; the lies that work like fabric softener-the kind that leaves old clothes smelling sweet with bleach and lab grown lavender. Half lies, spoken at eulogies before someone plays the Beatles and strangers wander through the chapel to admire his art school sketches. Yes strangers, they are all strangers to you; they matter but they don’t because you will never see your son again and that makes them strangers who offer comfort, which in a certain pitch sounds like condemnation. Your son will never choose from a pack of quiet girls again-the kind of girls raised to nurture half-formed creatures, the kind of girls who have their own brand of fabric softener so that even clawing, empty, half formed creatures are fragrant with potential. And your son will never again crawl drunk and half-formed into bed with you, cradling your breasts because in his wine-soaked mind you are everywoman and anywoman and in his wine-soaked mind you are his woman. Your son will not and never. And all agains lie beneath that springtime bouquet offensive in its beauty and its promise, all agains are packed neatly in that wooden box. There are no do-overs and there are no agains and this is it, this is all of it done. Myfanwy Williams (2018)
Word upon Word 