Month: July 2023

Interesting Times

Daily writing prompt
List 10 things you know to be absolutely certain.
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Interesting Times

“May you live in interesting times.” This phrase, be it a blessing or a curse, it has been called both, is rapidly becoming a cliché. So, are we living in ‘interesting times’? Good question, and I have no answer to it, not one that I would publish anyway.

As to listing 10 things that I know to be absolutely certain, I can’t. And that may be the first thing I am certain about. The other thing about which I have a certain amount of certainty is uncertainty itself. I am certain that yes, we are indeed living in times of uncertainty. Well, most of us are anyway. The other thing that I am fairly certain about, well, 100% certain about really, is that death will come to us all, sooner or later, don’t know where, don’t know when, don’t know how.

So, perhaps I can manage to achieve three certainties – 1. The certainty of death, to quote Dylan Thomas, ‘for all poor creatures born to die’. 2. The certainty of uncertainty itself, to quote Stéphane Mallarmé, in my own translation, ‘a roll of the dice will never eliminate chance’. 3. The certainty that I cannot find seven more things about which I am certain.

That said, I am not all that certain about what I have just written

Are you seeking security or adventure?

Daily writing prompt
Are you seeking security or adventure?
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Are you seeking security or adventure?

Well, what a strange question. In the first place what on earth does ‘are you seeking’ mean and to what does it refer? Some examples of what it might refer to include – shopping, investments, playing sports, dining out, preparing your own food, going on holiday, choosing a pair of shoes, or a new shirt, driving to work in the morning, parking the car. In each case, your answer will change according to the exact thing you are doing and what you are seeking when you do it.

Security or adventure – does it have to be one or the other? Rock climbing or mountaineering can be an adventure. But if security measures are neglected, then the adventure exposes the foolhardiness of the neglecting of security measures. You could say the same thing about driving to work. In the race to achieve access to a decent parking spot, do you go for ‘adventure’, drive fast, take risks, weave your way through traffic, honk your horn, and drive other drivers, would be parkers in your spot, off the road? Or do you set out early, drive carefully, obey the traffic rules, and seek the security of the knowledge that, with an early departure, the parking spot you desire will be there, without the rush of the madcap adventure?

When you combine security with adventure, and there is no reason why you shouldn’t for they are both compatible, then you have the best of both worlds. You can be secure in your adventuring and adventurous in your security. Think ‘Titanic’ – and you will realize that recent events have shown that adventure without total security is not the sort of risk that any sane person, in their right mind, wants to run.

And look at that painting, the one above that leads the post, is it ‘secure art’ or ‘adventurous art’ or is it even art at all? Accept nothing at face value. Think carefully before you answer those questions too.

My Dinner Invites

Daily writing prompt
If you could host a dinner and anyone you invite was sure to come, who would you invite?
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My Dinner Invites

Why stop at one dinner? I want more than one. And I want to keep the guest list small, so that the guests can enjoy themselves and get to know each other. Four guests then, but who will prepare the dinner and where will it be held? At my house – small, cozy, comfortable, and if they are sure to come, they can make their own way here, from across the sea. And I will do the cooking, with the help of my beloved. She and I will make the numbers up to six per session.

Guest List for My English Dinner – Oscar Wilde, G. K. Chesterton, Virginia Woolf, Christina Rosetti. A mixture of poetry and prose, humor and seriousness, men and women all balanced. It is sure to be fun. Language – English.

Guest List for My French Dinner – Albert Camus, Simone de Beauvoir, Jacques Prevert, Helene Cixous. A nice blend of philosophy, wit, humor, and intelligence, with a touch of the absurd thrown in for good measure. Language – French.

Guests for my Spanish Dinner – This will be an all-male affair, and it will concentrate on poetry and philosophy, with some music and art thrown in. Antonio Machado, Miguel de Unamuno, Federico Garcia Lorca, Jose Hierro. That promises to be a riotous evening. Language – Spanish.

My Characters Dinner – well, you said anybody I invited was sure to come, so why not some of my favourite literary characters? Madame Bovary, Dona Perfecta, Lazarillo de Tormes, D’Artagnan. What a wonderful mix. I would have serve as interpreter – and that would be even funnier. Great entertainment!

And more ideas for dinners – A Welsh Dinner, A Cricketing Dinner, A Rugby Dinner, An Absent Friends Dinner, A Family Dinner – for all those who have left and wish to return. Now that would be a very large dinner, maybe held elsewhere, at a large, luxury hotel – and I wonder who would be paying for that?

Situations

Situations

I am sitting at my desk, typing to you.
Many thoughts are running through my head.

I am checking the weather regularly –
high winds and rain are due soon.

Clare has just walked past the window.
She waved at me, but didn’t ask for any help.

The washing is almost dry and needs folding.
 We need to tie down the umbrella and porch chairs.

The cat has just walked across my keyboard.
I correct her footprints. They have typed false words.
 
Now she has discovered the dried blood on the floor.
It soaked into the boards when I cut my arm last night.

I meant to clean it up this morning, but I forgot.
I can hear her tongue rasping as she licks it up.  

The Art of Ageing

Daily writing prompt
What do you think gets better with age?
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Cheese and wine, good brandy. Not much else. Bodies break down. Relationships suffer from breaking down bodies and the necessity to survive. Some books age well, but many don’t. Road surfaces, bridges, infrastructures, they all need repairing. And roofs and windows. Even Stonehenge needs a face lift. And look at Raglan Castle, the White tower of Gwent, “one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit.” And my socks have holes in them, and need darning. And my shirt collars are worn and need turning. My faithful jeans have started to fade, grow thin and tear. And my skin is wrinkling, my hands are spotted, and I’m losing my hair. Age and ageing – a time of despair. Even this old earth is beginning to look worse for wear.

Real People

Real People

They lie there, lifeless, in their little black coffins.
They refuse to pick up their beds and walk.
Powerful as you are, you are powerless now.
You are unable to grace them with the gift of life.

Listless, disappointed, you turn away. Don’t look,
but now, while you are not watching them, they move.
A gesture here, a wink of the eye, a tiny smile,
a broken tooth, a scar from a dog bite, and they come alive.

Now they stand before you, dressed in the clothes
you wove for them, from their own words.
When you listened, they spoke. They didn’t want
to be forced into falsehoods, forged from your fake words.

True to their own natures, they now walk and talk,
naturally, in the words you heard when you let them speak.

Window Pain

Window Pain

I live in a world beyond the material world.
At night, I swim, a silver fish, among the stars.
Constellations net me in their glistening hair.

By day I wander along a piano’s keys.
I replay life’s golden dreams again and again,
its quartets, concertos, and its symphonies.

A harmonious blacksmith, I no longer know
who, or what, I am. I only know I exist right here,
at my desk, looking out through my window,

a window in my mind, that serves as a mirror,
reflecting all I was, and am, and ever will be.
Sometimes, the sun shines. Often the rain

falls cold against that window pane, and I press
my nose against cold glass, and feel again the pain.

Hiraeth

Hiraeth

If only the impossible could become possible.
I think we all experience these longings.
Maybe not everyone, but I certainly do.

I wish I could go back.
Back in time to a slower world—
Back to Highway 81.

Back to that warm feeling of innocence.
Back to the safety of my dreaming days
when wishes were made on stars each night,
when the skies were clear and stars were bright,
and fireflies were imprisoned in mason jars
with holes in the lids to allow them to breathe.

When was the last time I saw a firefly?
Or heard a mocking bird’s song?
How long ago since the nights were so clear
we could lie on our backs under the sky
and count each star twinkling above.

Remember the days of watching the clouds
that chased across the afternoon sky,
Forever changing as we named each one?
“Look, it’s a kitten, or puppy or sometimes even a cow!”

We lived in the country and knew every shape
from our hours of work and play
back in the day when children were children
even as teenagers
and guns were only for bringing home our supper.

I even miss the party line in those days 
when it meant four families
sharing the same telephone line.

“Hang up Miss Lockie, it’s private”
was always the first thing we said.
It never worked, she always listened
especially when we were talking with boys!

Ah, Miss Lockie, the party line snoop,
and the bane of children and parents alike.

If only–sad words indeed.
If only I could go back for a day
a week, a month.

All the things I would appreciate more,
the dreams I would rethink and change
to realistic wishes.

But for now the only impossible dream I have
is to return to the slow days of my youth.
Hiraeth!

Comment: A poem from my long-time friend, and fellow poet, Angela Wink, that I am so happy and proud to post on my blog. Great poem, Angela. Thank you for giving me permission to post it.

Bone Fire Night

Bone Fire Night

Sometimes the sun’s too bright
and we are best, at night, by moonlight,
when shadows flicker and we seize,
in the shimmering half-light,
half-truths glowing in the dark.

In the full light of day, these ideas
take forms, flesh themselves out,
grow skin and bone, flesh and blood,
their skeletal beings standing,
fully-clothed, beside us.

They take on match-stick bodies,
twisted, pipe-cleaner shapes,
or stick their stakes into the ground,
hold out their arms, and turn into
scarecrows that scare away the truth

Do they bring us release from our
darkest yearnings, or are they those
self-same cravings, hankering after
their day of glory, that precious moment
when they stand upright in the sun?

With the advent of bone fire night,
we stack them into wheelbarrows,
place them on the gathering pile
of outmoded thoughts and ideas,
light a match, and watch them burn.

A Game of Chance

A Game of Chance

You make me think of the road not walked,
the path untaken, the bay around the headland
where we never swam, the cliffs on the Gower
that we never had the time to climb.

Who knows which path is right or wrong
when we throw the dice and stake our future
on a single moment of time when, thinking done,
we come to a decision and take that first step.

The more I know, the more I realize that I know
so little and am surrounded by a world
not only unknown, but totally unknowable,
and me with my life dangling from a frail thread.

Sometimes, I dig deep into bottled sunshine,
But find no answers there, just the same questions
swirling round the glass, and the glass filled with
the same uncertainties and lack of knowledge.

I really don’t know where to go, or how to get there.
And then I remember that, if I don’t know where to go,
any path I take will lead me there. That is when I shuffle
the cards, breathe deep, and give the dice a throw.