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Somewhere Else Writers (SEW) May 22: Clare Finnimore

Clare Finnimore

Watching bees in her garden led this month’s poet, Clare Finnimore, on a research trail that took her via u-tube to tribes of Nepal, and a poem that pays tribute to the spirit of adventure and the courage of the men who risked their lives collecting wild mountain honey.

Clare said ‘I began by thinking about the power of small things and my research took me from Roman scholars and their appreciation of hexagonal structures that honeybees build to the world’s largest honeybees who produce hallucinogenic honey. The rituals and spiritual journeys of Gurung and other Nepali tribes is well captured in several films including ‘The Last Honey Hunter (Behind the Scenes) ft Renan Ozturk and Mark Synott and ‘Himalayan Giant Bee Honey Hunting in Nepal’.’

Clare has an MA in scriptwriting from Bath Spa University and in creative writing from the University of Gloucestershire. In a past life, she worked both in the NHS and local authorities as a project manager and occupational therapist.

You can read Clare’s poem ‘Wild Honey’ at cirenscene.com.

More work by local writers can be found at somewhere-else-writers.org.

Wild Honey

A spider’s web spun across Nepali cliffs
And the white monkey’s hand reaching down for his
Shows his inheritance as surely as the shaman said.
The long ropes
Woven from bamboo
The intricate knots on each step
To prevent side slip.

The father tells the boy his dream is
Portent – it’s how his life will be.
Clumsy at school, his classmates call him weak.
But Rongkemi spirit flames
His soul.
At 15 the first climb proves him a man.

A cold stone warning in his gut
when his first wife dies.
But he waits in calm
‘Til rhododendrons cover the mountainside,
the ripening season, and the journey begins.
Two days through dense jungle, discarded shoes
and quickening night,
the fire quenched at dawn.
Three sacrificial hens a blood memory.
Whilst he drank deep from the gourd.

Filtering light
Brightens as the canopy recedes.
They navigate in the sound of a crashing waterfall
The icy river
where now his feet clutch slippery stones.
The Tanje hunters
Move forward inexorably.

Above the clouds spirits watch
Wild honeybees unwilling to leave their nests
Parted by smoke and incense
Of burning leaves
Three hundred feet below.

Step by step the beckoning cliffs.
Machete and mask
his only aid.
Up and up.
And sheer,

Near the top an overhang
The ladder outswings
In mid air.

Far below his shouts were heard
And pulleys on the collecting basket
stay the spin.
His heart is beating fast
No monkey hand to reach for
And everywhere stung by angry bees
His face, his hands his eyes.

See the hexagonal stickiness
Worlds he will desecrate.
Hallucinogenic honey dripping from his hands.
Scooped into the basket
in a funnel of noise
Pivoting in a slipstream
Of fury.

No successor can be found
After his hunting years are spent
The bees and traders long gone
And the tribes unwilling
To be a spectacle.
The last of their kind.

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