Clare Lewtas Poet

Journal excerpt #5

My baby grabs at my pen, getting the lid which she places on her thumb and then her finger and stares, as pleased as anything while, at the same time, lifting herself up onto her legs and standing for up to a minute or two at a time.

Journal excerpt #6

I felt unwrapped by Christmas until I was left cold and raw as the bare rocks that show their faces from the gushing white of the waterfall across the lake. The snow above; the clouds, like baskets of light, moving across the horizon.
Another layer has come off, 2023 has tumbled me about, strengthening me like a Shaolin monk. There have been surprise developments and a need for a fine, utmost patience, as if walking on eggshells were leading me to the church of my own faith; my own self.

Journal excerpt #7

It’s a sleek, silent entrance into the new year... like an otter slipping into a stream. The stars dimmed behind passing clouds. The morning breaking in pink and yellow…

I’m taken by the under-paw softness of everything; the brave, persistent leaves of the geranium dreaming of geometry, the bloom of the exotic cactus, the condensation diffusing the weather outside. The snow on the mountain evaporating into steam and rising with the sun.
My parents’ gentle busyness in slippered feet, shredding paper, washing up, bringing another kettle to the boil.

The rain crosses the Dunlewey bog plain, like ghosts

I stand at the door, baby on my hip, watching

We are who we are

Family land, and fly, in a murmur

We are who we are

The wind whistles an open response

I lie on the bed, baby suckling my breast

We are who we are

The wind whispers this

Journal excerpt #4

A lady wanders the lonely slates of the esplanada, confused, she thinks today is Sunday when in actuality it is Tuesday... the cold has squeezed her out of her house like an ice cube, her memories frozen.
Why not let it be Sunday then, let the streets have under-pavement heating. Should she return for a second coffee within the next hour, let it taste like the first one in weeks.
The graffiti on the gable of the post office frames the retired President as he climbs into his red pick-up in a cloud of vapour and smoke. To her he may be her President still; her old school friend. Somedays these are the streets of Mozambique, lined with such fruits; become as ordinary as flowers.

Journal excerpt #3

Oh it’s such a day, one where the thoughts of others makes my simple existence more interesting. The possibilities, the encounters, the unknown. Nobody really knows what is going to happen in 2024. I’ve heard whispers of revolution, of new live space for experimental existence. There will be exhibitions and less inhibitions. In this valley there are lots of new babies on the way. A boom; a bloom...
if that is possible: the miracle of life, then everything else must be…
the future feels secret, more mysterious and, like winter; in a state of incubation.
With less confidence in tired structures comes less certainty, but with that, perhaps trust will regain its integral position at the core.

Journal excerpt #2

I let her suckle my breast until she fell into another, light, dreamy sleep. I put her on top of the two duvets and then put pillows over her, and a hat gently resting on her head. She sleeps, still making suckling movements with her lips; contented, peaceful.

Outside the bird song reminds me not to feel miserable about the rain… and the same old car engine sound reassures me that everything is moving at a steady pace. It’s is getting nearer to the solstice. The weightier clouds and evenings make me feel closer to the earth; more held, more rooted.
There is a light murmur of ladies conversing outside the nursing home next door.

The ginko biloba leaves fan the ground, like positive thoughts, they will feed it in the spring..
and that willow is not weeping, only admiring its reflection in the river, with which it is in love..only bowing down gracefully in worship, while like a bastion of vigour; holding its own.
The man disappears behind the thick trunk of the plane tree for a moment while he turns his bicycle around and a woman appears on a bike checking to see if the Post Office is open. She didn't know that it's a bank holiday, in celebration of the immaculate conception.
The sun beats down on my coated back. A yellow wagtail's breast glows yellow like a lemon before it disappears behind the river wall, and a black and white wagtail appears in almost exactly the same place, like a magic trick.
Two visitors cross the bridge; one with beard, one without.
It's amazing how much the volume of the river increases after one night of rain.

Fresh apartment, fresh shelves, fresh reading material 👌

Stretched next to me, sleeps my baby daughter
slipping into dream, like an otter in water

She chuckles often in her other world
as if sweet clams she's found, lined with pearls

How I cherish her flush-cheeked bliss
on her little forehead I place a kiss

The leaf floats lazily down in my imagination but in real life things could be much more still, if they weren't already infused with the charge of change. Internal and external. All visible and irrevocable. It's not just the seasons this time. It's the epoch, the eon, the great cycle; as big and vast as the Milky Way. Who are we to begin to understand this great phenomena. How lucky we were to ever think we had it all in our grasp.

Shade pockets
tell autumn

birds trill sharp in branches

Gardens cannot contain
the roses
who are reaching for the river

A dog's bark makes me think
of a big, warm, traditional kitchen
for some reason;

the filling of baskets and jars
with summer

I saw a white chicken tentatively
walking, in a garden of marguerites
and cabbages, in equal measure

I'm not sure she was supposed to be there

Someone told me they are angels,
those people who come to help
you when you're lost...

often on travels

they were telling me to drink water
this time

Two elderly ladies at different stages
of the same journey

drink water and travel and be independent
was the message

at a time when travel was difficult
and independence not the ultimate

I happened to look up the first lady on Google
as she has a very unique name

her stories were longer than the bus journey
and elaborate enough for the tabloids

The part of the soul that connects,
guides and loves in adversity

that's the bit with feathers

no need to pin it

The second lady, sitting in the bus station waiting area in Lisbon
had eyes like my Grandmother
and was carrying more water than luggage

a messenger only;
self sufficient,
wearing a rainbow scarf

The feist is rising
I'd almost forgotten
the feeling
Sticking its eyes
above the clot-grey
greedy cruor

Glancing excitedly
it swims
like one of my best friends
I just don't even know
what effect
this metamorphosis
will have

I watch the prevailing
roll off
its thick back

The feist
with mutinous eyes
emerging into
the vestal troposphere

All we've known ever
agape with surprise

My new book!! 😊

A collection of poems written between Dec 2019 and Sep 21. Looking at the experience of liberation from an unworkable marriage and the restrictions of a global pandemic..
I am very pleased with how it turned out and think you will enjoy

(poems are in both English and Portuguese)

€10 plus €4.99 postage and packaging

PayPal.Me/ClareLewtasPoet

Monica 💛
Django and Sofia's aunty who died of breast cancer two years ago. It has taken me quite a few months since her Mum asked me to paint this as I didn't feel I could handle the sadness. But after time it's easier. I shed a few tears but mostly was glad to be reminded of Monica's beautiful spirit and some of the colourful times we shared together.

Toivo and Fen 💞

Tyra 💛

It was a pleasure to spend time painting this little bubba. Message me if you would like me to interpret one of your favourite photos in paint.. xX

Bethan 💛

A five minute sketch of Sofia.

Sometimes I listen
to death metal
to give my nerves a bath,
It's highly unlikely
that angels
light my path

We walk on dust
fallen from the wings
of moths;
in nothing we hide

Scrambled patterns
will reform us,

Life ressurected in our eyes

Paulo 💖

RESET

Scattered sheep,

dispersing clouds,

lady of the meadow flowers,

Time's clatter absorbed

in lichen and moss

mounds,

where I sit

indefinite,

in confidence

with the mountain.

The morning
has something
to tell me;
air weighted
with the folds of day,

Petal soft
in muted embryo,
vibrating grains,

Something to tell,
Something to say,

From the mountain peak,
far out to sea..

ORCHESTRA

The moon wrote
and writes still,
what the earth conducts;
the repeated thrill

Jellyfish flesh, proud;
a painted messenger of
the free-falling crowd

The earth conducts us,
with strings of seaweed;
coincidental harmony
among symboled sheets

Seamlessly entering
a trumpet of flowers

The dip of the seagull's wing
can resonate for hours

They thought they had to pull

diamonds from the earth

To build towers that scrape the sky

They thought they had to kill each other

and that they should not cry

They thought they had to split the atom

To cross the widest Sea

To place a pole into the ice..

to impress me

To simulate a world

inside a computer box

To walk upon the moon

To hunt the wild fox

They thought they had to win the match

To run the fastest race

To tell the greatest story

To earn their place

But what they didn't realise

and that I'm beginning to see

is that the bravest act of all

is simply to love me.

📷 James O'Donnell Photography

Miniscule marks suggest the ant had walked across the honey drips before eventually getting stuck to the page, it had been a good attempt at mind over matter, in the end though, the material existed and overpowered the spirit of the hapless little thing; pulling its shell to the page to be pressed shut in shelves.. preserved in paper.. a long time now, before it returns to the earth.

As for me? I will make samosas tomorrow, again... now I sit on a fresh towel in the fresh grass in the fresh sun, making up stories about dead ants, when in actual fact there is a vigorous baby cricket, golden and aerodynamic, bouncing off the white cotton of my towel. A miniature green beetle has also been drawn toward the garish light and crawls, ever-so-slightly through this bleached, prefab forest.

Nature is to explore whatever arrives on the path. Whether over, under, up or around; nature turns over the exaggerated constructions we plonk and protrude, sculpt and exude.
Like stones in the gizzard of geese, nature rolls us slowly through a procession of process, grinding at our corners, our formulas, spreading its roots its bacteria, its herds of wandering insects. Dropping its seeds into our seemingly impenetrable fortresses, as easily as seasoning,
as far fetched as reason.

PORTO

To enter Porto is to leave your s**t behind and dive into meandering streets rainbowed in the love of the sun.
The city moves at it's own pace in a permaculture kind of way, bits fall down and are demolished here, bits are built shiny and modern there.
Tall, thin colourful houses lean over the river catching the first fish. Bridges like fishnets, too stretch the giant river; the first strides of modernity caught and put to work to demonstrate again and again engineered practicality, the imprint of human motion grinding away at the tarmac, the polished pavement, peeling tiles and bent iron.
Boats crane their necks forward to try and quicken the pace but they are weighed down with port and 'pasteis'.
It's o.k. to crumble Porto says, it's good to hold onto your flamboyant past. Your ornate front should be presented proudly until it can no longer stand. Then let it fall; make beauty out of its falling like cascading stairs...
Paint murals over the darkest corners and sell glossy cherries from the smallest shops. Let the parks grow so wild that the scented herbs run amok and the signs no longer make sense.
The streets roll down so easily from the filligreed belt of churches and the floral lines of buildings like the billowing sleeves of an untucked shirt are clasped with a train station at the breast...
One leaves the platform
saturated; blessed.

(James O'Donnell Photography)