how to love a tired world.

i heard her — a real, live woman with a beating heart,

hidden

deep

inside her disappointment, say

what does it matter how i live, this world is hard, and why should i care about others, and don’t tell me to smile when nobody ever smiles at me.

and i said, i know, but look!

right here there is a field of orange

just for you,

and why don’t you lie down

in its green embrace and breathe.

just for a little bit.

and if you look up, far away, you will see millions of tiny water drops clinging to each other with sheer joy,

and yes,

i know they’re only clouds,

but soon they will pour their life out

all over this field, and

they won’t care about giving themselves away, and they won’t worry about tomorrow,

or whether the earth appreciates their

sacrifice, and

let

me

tell you a secret,

sometimes, love is messy.

but, i love anyway.

i give it away to everyone

who deserves it, and

especially to those who don’t.

because they are the hungriest, and they don’t know how to make it themselves, and

so i give it to them just like rain, with no expectation.

and really, it is so easy to let go of fear, and all the bits of what-will-they-think, that whisper in your ear, and

sometimes, they don’t want my smile, and they have walls that won’t let kindness through, and that’s ok.

i am not afraid of walls, because i have broken down my own from the inside out, and i know how hard it is to do.

but every now and then,

a word from my mouth flies right across a valley, and falls gently on a heart that hasn’t eaten kindness in weeks, and

it is like a rainstorm on a hot afternoon,

and the relief

when those clouds finally break,

is a living,

breathing

thing,

and i don’t think about the mess then, and

i’ll worry about that another day, and who really worries about cleaning when a tired heart blooms bright in front of your eyes, and all it needed was a bit of love?

so, come, leave your heart outside for a bit — right here with the flowers.

i think i smell rain in the air.

— how to love a tired a world.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by Surreyhills Wellness.

how to fight death.

almost half my faith ago,

when i was wide-eyed

and

fresh in my skin,

a man in a white coat said

i think this might be all

that you’ll get, and

then

there will be no more days left,

for you to chase

in wonder.

and the thought that dying

might be difficult,

climbed onto

my lap and

stayed

with

me.

but somehow i was given more, and

ever since then i have run after

every scrap of beauty

that has danced

past me, and

the feel of the ocean on my skin, and the way that yellow freesias smell like joy, and the taste of the first cup of coffee in the morning, and the curve of my son’s nose against my breast as he nestled to feed in the dark, and the smell of rain after a drought, and the

way that my heart can still make

room for more love, and

how much courage

it takes to trust,

again

and

again, and

every time that fear

told

me

to

sit down,

i said no,

and i stood up.

and this is how i came to know

that living,

is the more difficult thing

to do.

not everybody knows

that dying is easy.

we are all doing it,

right now,

without even trying.

but

do

you

know

how to look fear in the eye,

and

say,

how beautiful is this day,

and i think i shall

enjoy it

very

much

to be

alive,

if only for a little while

longer.

— how to fight death.

(for djs with all my love).

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by David Boca.

on mothering diabetes.

in my fridge,

in the shelf that is designed

to hold cheese,

there are vials of hope,

and an emergency kit

in bright orange,

remember, remember

in case you forget

how to breathe,

with pre-filled hormone,

so that when my fingers

fumble with fear

i have a needle

ready

to plunge deep into muscle,

to bring you back

if you should ever slip

too far away

from me.

i keep nocturnal vigils with foxes

and

other moon mothers

who have to keep on keeping on,

until

the

day

breaks

fresh

hope

over

me,

and how tired can a mother

be and still breathe?

i punch a calculator in my head with every meal,

and

i sing songs of

no, you cannot eat that now

and please,

you must drink this now,

or else…

and in this home

we know needles,

and

we

know

fear,

and we are the ones with

a yellow sharps container

on our kitchen counter

where

others

have no such things, and

we are intimately familiar

with the fear

that

can

slip

into

a word,

hypo

hyper

ketones

coma

death.

but, i also know this hope that lives in delicate glass vials,

where every drop

holds life

yours,

and also my heart, and

i promise you

that cells might forget

how to keep

you alive,

but i will not forget,

or

give up,

ever.

and

for you,

and for life,

i am grateful.

— on mothering diabetes.

© Liezel Graham 2018.

The 10th to the 16th of June is Diabetes Week.

This is a reworking of a poem that I wrote last year.

Many of you know that my son has T1 Diabetes (and autism) and in our home, we sing a different song and we fight a daily war that involves needles and insulin and fear — if I am honest.

But, we also know hope and we are grateful for the simple miracle of insulin.

And, for life.

#DiabetesWeek

#SeeDiabetesDifferently

#T1Diabetes.

the kiss.

summer’s light pulls me from my sleep earlier than i had hoped, but still i wake to silence in the house and quietly i rise, feet bare; limbs stretched out  a languid nod to the sun on the green of my mat and later, somewhere between midnight and now, i make breakfast and countless cups of hot assam tea. 

and as the hours slowly walk their way towards home, i teach a small boy how to do addition — if you take one and add it to another, just like this, see how well they fit together, then you have two. and this is how we find each other in the most ordinary of places.

and later, after lunch, i stare for a long while in silence, at the swollen thunderclouds making slate-grey rain fall down on theold kilpatrick hills, and i envy them their freedom to let go, and somehow, somewhere between the soft shell of my earlobe and the horizontal exclamation of my clavicle, my bruised skin remembers your mouth. 

and i wonder how to hide this, but my body will not listen, it never does, and the radio is softly playing that song, do you remember it, and i peel potatoes for dinner, and run hot bubble baths, and all i can do is blush. 

 the kiss.

somehow, i have kept a child alive in the dark and please don’t tell me how to be beautiful.

the light has woken me early, but the night that was only 380 broken minutes long, has left me tender and not yet ready for all these new hours that stretch lazily ahead of me, like a languid cat already seeking my attention, and i have pulled myself back from sleep 3 times in the name of all that is holy, so that i can put a needle into my sleeping son’s finger to check that there is enough glucose and insulin for him to wake again in the morning—not too much, and not too little, the porrige must be just right said the baby bear, and there was juice and a biscuit in the dark hours, sit up my boy and drink, you are too low, and with eyes closed he hears my voice and drinks, just like a long time ago, and still i manage to keep him alive, and isn’t this a miracle i whisper to myself, and just right is what the magazines say i must be, and not too hot (how dare she…) and not too cold (she’s really let herself go…) and there are women who were not even conceived yet, when i said yes, and they, these lovely, shiny, unlined and untested women, are telling me how to erase the gentle rise, and fall of my body’s topography, and that i should feel shame at the contour lines that snake over my womb, and someone with teeth as white as revelation is telling me how to pretend that my hips never held a heartbeat, and that my breasts were never a source of life, and this is how you shine if you want it all she says, and who doesn’t want that? but this morning i will settle for coffee and a slow-burning hope, and i unroll my yoga mat and i unfurl my limbs and my heart gently follows, and somehow i have kept a child alive in the dark—can you believe that? i ask the pretty girl—and please don’t tell me how to be beautiful.

just don’t.

and now the morning light has climbed in through my window like a bold, teenage lover, and it falls softly on my skin, and i can see all the pretty young women, and all the men who tell us how to be acceptable and everything they’ve ever dreamed of, and i can hear them as i fold my body down, down, down towards my feet, and i can hear their hunger, and it is no longer mine, and somehow i have kept a child alive in the dark, can you believe that? and this, is enough.

—somehow i have kept a child alive in the dark, and please don’t tell me how to be beautiful.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by Arthur Roman.

elizabeth.

did you know, she said, that i have been so hungry for so long, from birth, i think, that i have fed all the soft parts of me to a hundred, maybe more, and it is never enough when the light breaks, and i am never enough, and only one of us leaves with a full belly and it is never me.

it is never me who knows what it feels like to be enough, to be just right and not too much, or too little, and i don’t know how to get all my pieces back, how do i find myself again, and my heart needs them back, because these holes are too big now and the wind blows right through them, and late at night, when all those people are walking through my head with their hungry bellies and their dirty feet, i can’t sleep for the sound of the wind weeping through those holes, my holes, and right through me, and perhaps it is me, i don’t know anymore…

and all i could say was, i know.

i know.

me too.

— elizabeth.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by Dominika Roseclay.

Friend.

i am not afraid of your darkness or mine, and i have seen it all before, and my ears know the sound of fear all too well, and pain too, and i have walked this road in another life and even yesterday i stumbled over this same stone, and i can find my way out of here for both of us, and i see that you have run out of light? don’t worry—here, let me give you a bit of mine, and

i’ll just break a small piece off right here, and no—it doesn’t hurt at all, and it grows back so quickly and look! now you have some of me inside of you, and i think that means that we’re friends, and i see you, and you see me, and you are just what i have been searching for, come—let me show you the way out of here.

— friend.

© Liezel Graham 2019.

Photograph by Freestocks.

A freeform verse for a friend going through a hard time. xx