Category: Uncategorized

This blog has moved to:

https://vocal.media/authors/hannah-kawira-hartwell

As I flew across the hills, a quaint, young chalet caught my eye.Brown wooden slats and a red-tiled roof- I couldn’t let it just pass me by.As I landed on the pea-green grass my fingers tingled as they often do,When my nymph’s seventh sense tells my eager soul that there is magic nearby to do.I closed my eyes and listened to the birds, whispering secrets through the trees,As the music of the mountains sang sweetly all around, carried by a fairytale’s breeze.The hollowed call of a cow summoned me to the top of a well worn farmer’s field,Where the brown and red chalet stood behind a painted gate, swinging open, exposed and unsealed.The cow’s low call ceased when my hand touched the gate, and a new song entered my ears,But this one was mournful, with dissonant chords, which tightened my heart in fear. “We can’t afford the rent anymore. I’m sorry. We have to move away. “”But where?” Amongst wimpers, a young girl’s voice cried. “Is there anywhere we don’t have to pay?””The mountains, the forests, the streams and the lakes. We’ll survive.” Was the old man’s reply.”I’ll be able to buy a proper house soon- I promise.” He said. “But until then, we’ll have to get by.”I turned around and ran, too distressed to use my wings, silver tears running rivers down my cheeks.Why does money tie this world in such fiercely bound knots?Why should it cost so much to set people free?I came to the edge of a cliff and stopped short,breath flooding in and out of my lungs,As I stared at the mountains, above and below-better dressed than any human in the lands.They don’t pay for their clothes of elegant flowers,nor their water and food from the earth,Yet they stand so proud and tall; so beautiful and pure,That it is clear they have the far supreme worth.My wings began once more to tingle, and I sensed in my soulthat the man and the girl were on the move. So I raised up my hand, and stroked a passing lark.It stroked me back, agreeing to create whatever I chose.The bird and I together began to to decorate the grassWith flowers – blue, red, orange, purple, pink, and white.Then a pair of storks brought forth branches,A family of swallows came with tools,And a picturesque cottage took flight.The mountains all around the new home watched with tender care,As a honey badger set to work carving an ornate wooden chair,from the forests came wild horses with bails of hay.And the squirrels dug a sand pit where the child could play.The faithful cow emerged from the trees,bringing milk hanging in pails around his girth.And from silver-winged ravens, soaring through the deep blue skies above,A patter of seeds rained across the hungry earth.They sprung to life in an instant, as if summoned by the winds,And budded berries, herbs, vegetables and fruit.Then, on the wide open door, I wrote a message with a pen,Crafted from a wise old tree’s erudite root.”From a guardian of the world, to someone in need.”Was all that I needed to sign.My work here was done, and I felt peace shroud my heart,As my wings lifted me up into the sky.

From high above the clouds, I travel onwards in my quest,

Over forests, fields, factories, farmland,

Towns of activity, hamlets of rest.

There are seas, and islands, and rivers and lakes, intertwining down below,

As merchants and kings, peasants and queens, are born, live their life, and then go,

To a place far away from this earth, people say, though others might question whether that’s true.

And suggest they are still here, under the lands and over the skies, guiding and watching over me and you.

A ship sails beneath me, not too far from the coast where the Danes carve their boats from the trees,

Its flag sways in the wind, a red and black raven laying regal claim to the seas.

As the winds start to rise, and the waters churn, each sailor takes a sharp intake of breath,

A storm spins around them, and the old captain clasps his hands to the locket on his chest.

He thinks of his wife, cooking over the fire, and his children playing games in their hut,

And prays to the great Holgar the Dane, who sleeps beneath Kronborg castle, promising security, protection, and luck.

I stop for a moment, and close my nymph’s eyes, feeling spirits and souls all around,

Joy and fear, worry and hope, but also unbreakable bonds of brotherhood prevailing beneath the dark clouds.

As each sailor remembers his loved ones, and holds their names in his heart, a calmness descends through the night.

And their Danish protector returns to his sleep, knowing that fellowship has made everything right.

I woke up this morning determined to do good.

To do something kind for everyone, no matter how important or insignificant

This hierarchical society perceives them to be.

 

My purpose is to bless.

But if someone is blessed, must another be cursed?

I was told I must choose one winner whose dreams would become reality.

 

I wondered, as my feet touched the stone cold castle floor,

What would happen if I didn’t choose the contestant who already had it all?

 

I stretched out my arms, and then my wings, then my fingers and my toes,

And felt nervous twinkles of fairy dust ripple through my bones.

 

Floating towards the window, I leant against the ledge,

And gazed out at the gardens, the flowers and trees laid out in a perfect spread.

The Coliseum decorated the horizon with an all too familiar sphere,

As people scurried through its harsh brick arches, with what they called ‘entertainment’ to prepare.

 

The tall, deathly walls stood abrasive and errect,

supervising their human slaves like a paranoid king with no power but somehow far too much control.

And my stomach churned tight as I thought about the light,

That would be sucked from the ‘loser’ I had to choose to enclose.

 

The Celestial Nymph must bless mankind,

Support their actions, good or bad.

But whom should I bless? The one with the sword?

Or the ones who will otherwise meet their end?

 

Above me, the sky was splattered with clouds,

Like ink blots on a page,

My shoulder blades tingled,

And my wings began to quiver,

It was time to end this game.

The celestial nymph must bless all of mankind,

She must support their actions, good or bad.

She looks out of her castle at the past, present and the future,

And holds the whole world in her hands.

When the sun shines, she is pouring her gold dust over the children,

Playing out in the parks and the streets.

And when it rains, the farmers thank her, from amid their fields of crops,

For helping them to sow and to reap.

But when one person wins, another must lose,

And our nymph has been diligently schooled,

To ignore the suffering of the small for the success of those in power,

It’s the way of the world. That’s her job. Those are the rules.

 

You are invited to enter into the tropical Kingdom.

But be careful as you approach this mystical world.

Respect the grand leaves which hang from branches up above you,

And tread lightly on the bracken that spreads beneath your toes.

In this kingdom, you will uncover secrets indescribable,

Never seen before, and never experienced again, in quite the same way.

Your deepest hopes, and wildest dreams are sewn into the orchid petals.

The gate is swinging open. Please do come inside.

There’s a secret language,
whistled and whispered high up in the mountains of Garonjay.
Somewhere between two continents and countless worlds.

In it’s prime, the tongue stood tall on the small subtropical island,
And pronounced it’s unique sound loud and clear, for the clouds to the sands, and all in between, to hear.

A whistle,
sharp, and strong and soulful,
and so imploring, it immediately heralded a reply;
High and shrill and excited
to speak, to laugh, to cry.

As more and more whistles came together,
the chorus of pitches, rhythms, intonations, and intensities,
chatted, discussed, conversed
on everything between the seas and the skies.

Creating inside jokes and memories
of the time one mispronounced a whistle and said something rather rude.

And when another lost his voice
And had to enscribe his sounds on the wall of a room.

But one day, a new language came to the island.
It sailed on the tongues of the ocean tides,
Landing with a thump on Gomera’s sandy shores.
The words blasted like a foghorn, loud, cruel, and fierce.
And the whistles withdrew, in fear of this intimidating new voice,

For years and years they hid themselves, concealed within the trees,
Until one day, a sole loud whistle, ballet-danced through the breeze.

“We have stories to tell, and words to say, if only you’ll stop and hear”.