To him I was the Other, yet he fed me when I hungered, gave water when I ran dry.
I fell ill and he cared for me, nursed me back to health.
He taught me his language, culture, history, and skills.
He loved me, never forced me to forget myself and become something I could never be.
He made me what I am today: a believer in humanity, not man’s inhumanity to man.
Commentary:
Words for a divided world where man’s inhumanity to man sometimes seems to over-ride man’s humanity. Sometimes I am afraid to publish poems like these. Self-censorship is the worst form of censorship because it bottles things up until they rot inside you. Somebody has to speak out. Somebody has to stand up. So many, myself included, are afraid to do so.
Moo asked me to use his painting for this one. “Yours,” he told me, “is a cri de coeur, a cry from the heart. It must be heard. I’ll stand by you, side by side, and support you with this painting. It’s a Golden Oldie, but it’s good.”
I turned to thank Moo, but when I looked, he had gone. So much for shoulder to shoulder and side by side. Never mind. The poem’s not mine really. It belongs to others, many others. The start is from the Bible – The Good Samaritan. The ending is from Robbie Burns, changed slightly. There – now I have people who will stand beside me and echo my cri de coeur. And wow, look, here’s Moo, back again.
Wonderful. Now we can stand together. Should to shoulder. Side by Side. With no walls to divide us (Billy Bragg).
No, Moo. Sorry. I don’t have twenty dollars to lend you. Oh dear. There he goes again. Once more I am the monarch of all I survey and shoulder to shoulder with Alexander Selkirk I ask that other question – “Oh solitude, where are thy charms?” He ought to know if anyone did for he too made his cri de coeur from another horrible place.
What does the kettle whistle to the grandfather clock and why does its pendulum call the kettle black?
A chime in time saves the cuckoo just before it flies before our eyes … and in August, fly it must.
Does anyone know how thyme tells the time and whether or not the dandelion clock will learn how and when to chime?
Deep in a Gower Cave, a woolly rhinoceros weaves a web of time on his mother’s knitting needles.
Beside him, in the rock, a neolithic clock is fast asleep. Was it Bill Haley put that rock around the clock?
“You’ll never know,” rings the sea-bell tolling on its tidal surge, “and I don’t have the urge to tell.”
Commentary:
Moo loves a riddle – that is why he fills his paintings with some many strange half people and animals that look out and King Lear at you. Mad as a hatter, is our Moo, especially when he’s feeling Moo-dy Blue. Moo is visually strange and now he is encouraging me to be verbally strange. So I took up the gauntlet, accepted the challenge, and road Nexus, my old dobbin, down to the end of the jousting lists, up with my lance and shield, and off I go.
Luckily Moo doesn’t know what I am talking about and he doesn’t have a dobbin anyway, let alone a lance. So, there he is, sitting on the sidelines, flicking paint at me with his paint brush. “The brush is mightier than the last,” he said. “Here’s mud in your eye!” And he must have been to PEI, because the mud was all red.
Alas, the Field Marshal thought I was bleeding, so he waved the white handkerchief and told me to leave the field of combat before PEI was swept away and vanished under a tide of big red mud along with Bud the Spud. And that made Stompin’ Tom stomping mad. “He might at least have used ketchup,” he cried, “because ketchup loves potatoes.” I found out, a lot later, that he had actually betted some money on me and was furious because he lost it.
“Never mind, Tom,” I told him. “Jousting isn’t the best game out there, and not every day does the best knight win.” “Hmmm,” said the Man from Skinner’s Pond. “I guess I could write a song about that. I think I’ll call it The Good Old Nexus Game. Nope. Doesn’t sound write. Jousting game? Nope. Hockey – that’s it – I’ll just go off, get my guitar, and tune up the old stompin’ bored.”
I see a face in the foliage. The Green Man of Wye stares out at me.
A light breeze moves his lips – what can he be saying? Sweat breaks on his brow – thin, drizzling rain.
Now I see other faces, all a myriad shades of green – young / old, male / female, sometimes somewhere in between.
They welcome this rain, fearing heat, as I do, parching them, making them thirst, and drying out the woods.
I sense their fear and I know how they fear that first spark of fire the worst.
Commentary
It has been a cold, damp spring and summer’s promised heat has not yet arrived. The result is a garden tinged with a thousand shades and hues of green. To many slight variations in color for my vocabulary to name them. Better by far this damp than last year’s raging heat that gave us the hottest summer ever with wild fires raging closer, ever closer.
They gave our subdivision a new name and placed us in a new area under new management. Early last year, before the heat really began, we received a booklet from our now community – What to do in case of forest fires. The first chapters provided some comfort – how to prepare three weeks ahead, one week ahead, three days ahead. But fear spreads s quickly as wild fires when we read – Evacuation – Three hours’ notice – Two hours’ notice – One hour’s notice.
It is amazing how little you can pack into one small car when you have only an hour in which to prepare and gather your things. Frightening. Very frightening. How much can you take? What must you leave behind? Which are your safe exits? Do you actually have an exit?
It is hard to shed the skin and skin once shed can never be worn again
Yesterday is gone today slips slowly by
Tomorrow always comes but never arrives
Who and what am I this child who thrives on sorrow and on a sadness that grinds bones to dust and soft silk ash
Tell me if you know what will arrive for this child tomorrow if and when it comes
Comment:
Moo is back painting and I am sure everybody is happy to hear that. Mind you, he’s a little bit on the Moo-dy side, if you know what I mean, as you can see from this painting. He calls it Moody Moo and he says it’s a Moo-d painting. He swears there’s a Moo Cow in it, but search as I have, I cannot see a Mrs. Moo. Let me know if you find one. Usual route – unless you have a drone of one sort or another. They have the road up leading into town and we had to wait a long time yesterday at the roadside while little men in yellow hats stood in front of the cars and wouldn’t let them move.
It was so bad, I put Pete Seeger on the disc player and turned the volume up full. “No pasarán, no pasarán, sang the Abraham Lincoln Brigade.” I thought it was rather funny. The person holding the placard that said STOP didn’t seem to be amused. I don’t if it was the volume. Maybe he spoke Spanish and knew all about the Spanish Civil War and how the Abraham Lincoln Brigade stopped Franco’s troops and wouldn’t let them pass! No pasarán, no pasarán – those yellow hatted road buccaneers certainly closed down the narrow straits that led to our house and they wouldn’t let anyone through. No pasarán, no pasarán.
Meanwhile, old Welsh logic – tomorrow never comes, because by the time it gets here, its today. “Good one,” says Moo, checking the way I have reproduced his painting. Oh yes, the original is for sale, Moo says – going cheap for a five figure sum. And that’s not counting the two zeros after the dot! I think Moo is really asking too much. OW! He just kicked me. Sorry, Moo. That’s a very fair price. Now he seems happy. But I don’t think you’ll get it. Now he seems sad – oh dear, just like I said – “Moody Moo”!
I’d better be careful, or he will be doing some Blue Moo paintings next, and he’ll be turning the air blue while he’s painting them. Meanwhile, speaking of AI – here’s the news that’s rolling round the rock at Island View. There’s a new book on the market. A limited Edition. Only 50 copies. Keep your eyes open. They will soon be a collector’s item. In fact, they already are. Go for it -Don Roger and Don Ryan. Oh yes. Moo did the cover painting for that one too. But he’s not selling it – he’s already given it away to another friend.
white blossoms on the mountain ash sunshine hidden within this cloud
not quite a snow storm this pollen drifting
Comment:
So, Moo’s taken to reading the poetry of Lorca. This is his second green painting from Lorca’s Verde, que te quiero verde. Funny – I speak a little bit of Spanish, but I didn’t know that Moo did. I didn’t even know he could read, let alone read Spanish. I know – that’s a little bit mean. That’s the problem with being neuro-diverse and a split personality – you never know which half your speaking to or from.
I guess that’s why Moo paints. So many things come out in color and shape that have no need of words. Such a strange thing, literacy. What a blessing it is to have the ability to read and write. Color and shape double or quadruple the quality of creation that a person can engender. Taking a line for a walk or making meaning out of color and shape is so very different from the careful reproduction of vowels and consonants in the correct order.
And who is to say what the correct order is? I have known people who have claimed that their fifth grade teacher taught them everything they know about writing. Really? Alas, I never went to grade school, so North American. I don’t know what grade a five education is or means. But ‘everything about writing’ – wow! I am 82 and still learning. I guess I am just a slow learner, perhaps that’s why I have always been a low earner too. Still, penny wise, pound foolish. Or should that be scent wise, smell foolish Or cent wise, dollar foolish. Or dollar foolish, cent wise.
Okay – so what is the correct word order? I guess I had better enroll in grade five and find out. Unless one of you out there can enlighten me. Mule? Dog sled? Drone? Your choice. They are digging up the road at the end of our road and I am not going into town until the tarmac’s back down. “And when will that be,” sing the bells out at Battersea. “I do not know,” booms the great bell of Bowe. Or you could send it by Bowe Street Runner aka the chasqui. Now that will sift you out! I bet they don’t teach that in grade five.
lights in the new house we haven’t met them yet we’ve seen them clearing the lot digging basement and well setting up the tile field
children playing riding bikes bouncing on a trampoline swinging on swings their shrill voices breaking the brooding silence of trees
sooner or later we’ll meet it will be neat to put names to faces and decipher the stick shadows seen in the distance shifting dancing changing shape
a new generation of hope turned into neighbors
Commentary:
“The olde order changeth, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.” Idylls of the King – Tennyson.
We have been here in this house for 37 years. We planted trees, and watched them grow. We watched lots being sold, developed, turned into houses. Many of those who were here when we arrived downsized, moved away, or in some cases, simply passed away and died.
We have seen families move in, and then move on. Some became very good friends, and we miss them dearly. Others were mere nodding acquaintances. Some spoke our language, others didn’t. We met many of them and their children at Hallowe’en until Covid arrived and spooked even the spooks. As an event, it ghosted out of our lives.
Soon it will be our turn to move. Our house will belong to somebody else. Our house? We are restless souls inhabiting a changing planet. We own nothing. We merely borrow, use, and pass it on to someone else who, in their own turn, will eventually pass it on.
So – what exactly do I own? What do I control? Only this single moment of time, this tiny particle of time when I raise my fingers, choose which keys I will type and in what order. And sometimes, even that is incorect / incorrect, for i / I make misteaks / mistakes, fale / fail to corekt / correct them, place the wrng wrong finger on the wrong key. A single slip of the finger – a bright red button – sometimes I wonder how it will all end.
My poem, The Dancers and the Dance, refers both to the danzantes and to Monte Albán. Monte Albán was the capital of the Zapotecs and the principal city in the Oaxaca Valley (Mexico) between its foundation in approximately 500 BCE and its abandonment in approximately 750 CE. The White Mountain, thus named by the Spanish conquistadores, is justly famous for its temples, its tombs, and its carvings.
Two natural phenomena affected Monte Albán and its population. The first was drought and the dried earth with its brown and yellow tinges is clearly visible in these photos. The second natural problem came from earthquakes, for this is indeed an earthquake zone with active volcanoes causing tremors at regular intervals. The temples, even today, sometimes need repairing as earthquakes have been known to destroy even the reconstructed temples.
In fact, the abandonment of Monte Albán may well have been caused by an earthquake that cracked the enormous natural cistern in which the population’s water supply was stored.
The Danzantes are strange, grimacing characters that have been carved into prisons of stone. They may be captured warriors awaiting sacrifice or the chieftains of conquered tribes humiliated, perhaps tortured, and then flash frozen into stone photographs where for centuries they have danced out their torment. Whoever and whatever they may be, they still dance on Monte Albán.
My poem, The Dancers and the Dance, captures a different form of dancing. It is taken from my book Sun and Moon: Poems from Oaxaca (2000) and contains echoes of the vibrant folkloric culture that thrives to this day both in the city of Oaxaca and in the Oaxaca Valley. Here, traditions are remembered and relived. Each year, on the Day of the Dead, for example, families place food and drink alongside photos of the dearly departed on altars inside their houses and their doors are thrown open to welcome their deceased family members as they return along the marigold paths that lead to their former homes.
The Dancer and the Dance
1
she comes here to dance for me only for me does she dress this way she shows me her dreams unfolding them one by one silk and cotton garments drawn fresh from her scented closet thin copper bracelets carved wooden mask only her eyes reveal subversive flesh and blood
2
she orchestrates her story skin drum rattle of seeds in a sun-dried pod single violin string stretched across an armadillo’s shell I too am tense like an instrument waiting to be played the bones of my love reach out towards her
3
when she makes her music familiar spirits return to the earth dancing in a sash of moonlight she recreates an ancient spell gold letters plucked from dark scrolls no wands no words just water’s purity flicked fresh across lips and face she binds me with the string of notes she undoes with her hair our bodies form an open altar we worship with mysterious offerings drawn from wells set deep within us
4
Rain falls from the sky Moon turns his face away suddenly in darkened alleys clouds hold hands and dance dense streamers of light dangle from street lamps shadows remember their forgotten steps gently she draws me to her I try to follow frail whirlpools of withered leaves fragment weak sunshine in light’s watery pool
5
her magic grows I take my first step an unmapped journey into desert space we move to old rhythms across moon flecked clouds raindrops fall more slowly faltering drum beat diminishing water
6
high above us the ghost of a melody shaking its head wringing its hands we return at last to light and air the moon’s vacant face scowls in an empty field someone has plucked the stars one by one and threaded them like a chain of daisies now there are no sky flowers to adorn the night
7
noche de rábanos someone has taken a knife and peeled an enormous radish this cartoon moon face this full skull hanging from nothing this lantern lighting from above now my lover sculpts time and space into small chunks each sacrifice a jewel between her fingers I pin to my chest three small notes and a skeleton of words
8
inside my dancing head the fires have gone out without her hands to guide me my feet have turned clumsy scars layer my wrists and ankles star crossed bindings cutting against the grain I gather a harvest of stars she holds them in her eyes her fingers are grasshoppers making love in my hair when she kisses my fingernails one by one we both know our bodies will never be the same
9
together we weave a slender cage she cuts out my heart with her tongue placing it on an altar inside the bars she locks the tiny door a silvery key wrought from moonstone my fluttering heart grows miniature wings next time the door is opened my wings will fly me to her lips my heart is a caged bird on a tiny perch it chirrups a love song its image in the mirror answers back breathless it scrapes its wings on the moon its body striving upwards to the stars
10
on Monte Albán the danzantes sway to soft music their shadows dance in and on stone as they have danced for centuries wind rustles the grass moon casts sharp shapes darkness ascends the temple steps huge fingers grasping upwards an owl’s feathers clutching at the skies at dawn tomorrow the sun will rise beneath our feet we will squint down on its majesty we will pluck the ripeness of its orange in our outstretched hands
11
our last night together I pluck a blossom from the tulipán tree a final offering of my love she gives it back I place it in the pocket of flesh where I once kept my heart tomorrow when the flower breaks it will stain my shirt a damp splash of blood no longer running in my veins the scent of our happiness will cling forever to my fingers
I stare at nothing and nothing do I see nothingness is the state for me
for me anonymity no name no form and shapeless I will be
shapeless yes hopeless no for this I know – eternity has sown its seeds in me
ashes to ashes dust to dust my spirit will eternal be
my death will set it free free to fly – free to roam free to find my forever home
Comment:
Moo is bring stroppy. He has started painting again, but he refuses to sign his paintings. “Three little letters,” I told him. I won’t tell you what he told me to do. little bit embarrassing, and I am not that flexible in my old age.
Never mind. When nobody was looking, I promised him one of KTJ’s world famous Peanut Butter Balls. Well, they would be world famous if I let them out of my fridge in Island View, and I certainly don’t intend doing that. Then I asked him for a title and he went as crazy as Cuckoo Spit. He told me he was Going Bodmin Again, just like in Doc Martin. I told him he wasn’t in Doc Martin. “How do you know,” he asked, “you always fall asleep in front of the telly.”
He thinks he was hugging that great big squirrel, as mad as a hatter, as crazy as a loon, as loony as a man in a loony bin. So, why does a lunatic sleep under the bed. Answer – because he’s a little potty of course.
Does anybody read this junk I write? I can’t imagine that they would. However, if you are reading it, please send a recipe for maple fudge by mule train via the lower Andes. I think it is quicker than snail mail, or the dog sled via the North Pole. Every time a dog lies down for a rest, those sleds get a flat tire.
They told me that one day my feet would be up in the air, and the next they would be stuck on the ground.
A roundabout, they said, a merry-go-round, with all the fun of whatever fair happens to be around that day.
Someone, not me, flicks a switch, music plays, the carousel horses move up and down, slowly at first, then faster and faster as day, music, and horses all gather pace.
There are no reins. If there were, I would heave those horses back towards whatever reality I left.
But what is reality now? These hot flashes that warm my flesh? Those cold flushes that make me shiver, then turn up the heat until I am sweating again?
Shadows grow. I pull less strongly on the swing boat’s ropes. My journey slows. The showman raises the bar beneath the wooden hull.
Wish it or not, my time is nearly up. With a bumpety-thump, my journey grinds to its inevitable end.
Comment
Moo is having a bad hair day. Somebody glued all his paint brushes together and he hasn’t painted anything for a long time. The painting above dates back to April. Oh dear. Poor Moo. I shall shed a little tear for him, when he is not looking. I wouldn’t want him to know I care, so please don’t tell him. I wish I could unclog his paint brushed for him. but I am not very good at that sort of thing. In fact, I don’t think I am particularly good at anything right now.
Everyday is an adventure now. Every day something happens. Sometimes for the better, more often for the worse. Like a knocked my morning cup of coffee over. Like I burned the toast and the fire alarm went off. Like I squeezed the orange and the juice went all over the table cloth to join the wine stains that I made when I reached for the salt and I knocked that over s well. And don’t let’s talk about filling my fountain pens and leaking ink everywhere.
So – look on the bright side of things. Every cloud has a silver lining. Hooray. Down every rabbit hole, there is a little rabbit. Dig deep and you will find it. Or not. If not, then find another rabbit hole or buy your own rabbit, stuff it down the hole, then dig it out again.
Never surrender. Never give up hope. And look – there’s a rabbit, just going down it’s rabbit hole. Don’t go away. I’ll be back in a little while, as soon as I have caught it. Welsh recipe for rabbit pie – “First, catch your rabbit.” And watch out for those fleas. “Little bunnies have tiny fleas upon their backs to bite them. And lesser fleas have smaller fleas, and so ad infinitum.”
My AI investigation tells me that Augustus De Morgan (1872): The 19th-century mathematician popularized the rhyming couplet known as Siphonaptera (the biological order of fleas):
Great fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite ’em, And little fleas have lesser fleas, and so ad infinitum.
rogermoorepoet 