Absence in Presence
Just before her flight left,
she came up
from the basement,
her cleaning tasks
complete,
and smiled at me.
In the background, music,
a Golden Oldie,
the Rolling Stones playing
‘This could be the last time.’
Present in her eyes,
and in my heart,
the thought,
more than a thought,
the knowledge
that those words
might actually be true.
Why do you blog?
Good question. And there’s no easy answer. I guess, in my case, that my computer and my teaching (I have been retired for 16 years) were closely linked. I used programs like Blackboard and WebCT to teach hybrid courses, online and in the classroom. The online factors – chat groups, info sharing, course analysis – backed up the in-class material and gave students a space in what was, back then, late 20th Century, a new, but rapidly developing teaching space and style.
I found the development of a web page allowed me to preserve course notes, to construct class material, to allow students to access material (in their own time and space) and many found this useful. I also encouraged students to build their own web pages (and this was in the twentieth century, remember!). I also told them that they would probably, long term, find the web page building more important than the material that I was teaching them, for my material, like that of many other teachers, had a limited shelf life, and was not carved in stone and everlasting. This was particularly true as rapidly changing times, methodologies, and students – often from different cultures and with different styles of learning and levels of knowledge – spelled the end of the single course outline imposed, top down, on all members of the class.
When I retired from teaching, I kept the web pages I had built. Then, some five or six years after retirement, I decided to start a blog, rather than just have a webpage. Now, blogging has become a habit. Not an incurable one – just this year I missed four months ‘blog time and space’ on this web page / blog of mine.
But is this web page of mine a blog? Not really. I don’t sell anything on it, rather I give my books away to friends who wish to read them. I don’t charge for accessing my ideas, my thoughts, my creativity, my poetry, my photos, my paintings, my philosophy. My oh my, look at all those ‘my -s’!
At this point in time I am wondering whether to continue blogging or not. I have been approached by many people who wish to enrich themselves by enriching my webpage so I can then enrich myself. But I neither want nor need that. Rather, I follow the philosophy of Miguel de Unamuno, the great Spanish philosopher. “If I can reach out and help just one person,” he said, “I will not have lived in vain. And I guess that’s why I blog – to reach out on the off-chance that one or two of my words will touch someone in a meaningful fashion and help them to understand the world a little bit better and even, maybe, to help reshape their lives.
Clepsydra 11
11
… gone too
that Raggedy Ann doll
held together
by her patchwork heart
cross-stitched lovingly
with needle and thread
the sluggish drip-drip
of her cotton blood
proving
she is still alive
neither mummified
nor rat-and-mouse-gnawed
in limbo perhaps
but not dancing
asleep maybe
dreaming in the museum’s oubliettes
with their closed doors
their cellars and attics
stuffed with memories
all dusty and worn
memories
that only come alive
at midnight
when the full moon
awakens the shadows
boys and girls
come out to play
and walk and dance once more
beneath liquid moonlight
the celestial lantern’s
liquescent flame …
9
… what lies behind this attic door
ready to spring out
at the slow push of my hands
cobwebbed
this world revealed
a universe of memories
waiting to be called
back into life
what life
the flickering half-life
of shadows on a wall
or the alternate reality
of planets that lost their way
and forgot how to dance
around their sun
do they still move
in rhythm to an unsung song
an unstrung guitar
music no one else can hear
played by a wandering star
lost the glimmer
of life’s candle
adrift on distant waters,
but never forgotten …
10
… nor seen
nor heard
I am amazed by the maze
wandering
among cluttered objects,
my world takes shape
in a mad hatter’s workshop
where things grow legs
walk this way that way
constantly getting lost
I can hear them
chittering chattering
but I can neither
see nor hold them
like so many bats
they roost upside-down
little children lost
in memory’s attic
where everything ages
slowly gathering dust …
Self-Portrait
I smell. I whiff. I gloriously stink.
My arms, my feet, my crotch, reek with beauty.
This is me. I am still alive. I’m rank.
The time has come, the Walrus said, to take
a shower. I strip. I weigh. I obey.
Hot water streams. Bathroom steams up. I draw
faces on grey glass, smiling, glum. Soft soap
works its miracle turning Japanese
nylon into a rough body cloth that
rubs and cajoles all putrid dirt away.
Butterfly from its chrysalis, I step
from the shower, sniff with caution, and stench
no more. I am clean. I no longer pong.
My body has been taken over by
perfumes no longer mine. Who am I now?
I am no more myself. I am no more
my own gorgeous underarm muscular
ripeness. I have left my odor circling
in the soap suds and drifting down the drain.
What a pain. It will take me a week or
more to start smelling like myself again.
8
… those other faces fading
drifting away
their smiles their frowns
melting away into the dark
where no star glows
they cannot return
nothing walks the woods
save a silence
where once they strode
empty the hand
once held out to help them
silent the prayer
emerging from pale lips
and unanswered
where are they now
those who walked
this way before us
glum ghosts
hushed their chorus
I promised
to remember them
but I forgot them
as one by one
they slipped away …
Clepsydra 6 & 7
6
… I say I walked alone
along a long lonely road
nobody could cross that threshold
nor enter that inner sanctum
where hungry metal monsters
lay in silent ambush waiting
nobody could share that sacrificial altar
the single bed with its iron frame
on which I lay on my own waiting
uniformed attendants
locked themselves
behind their concrete defences
away from the radiation
so dangerous
while I waited
for those circling stars
that would burn
and scar me
to descend …
7
… and single beds
were only meant for one
just me
strapped in
tied so tight
lying motionless
as I waited for
the bed to rise …
upwards
into that dark night of the soul
and I the sole sufferer
under a claustrophobic sky
behold my body
a mass of red and green striations
burned by pin-pricks of light
walking across my body
follow the red map
painted on my body
burns and blisters
body and mind scarred
scared by knowing
all this suffering
might be in vain
others walked this road before me
some never returned
empty places at breakfast
hushed whispers
faces turned away
when the tide turns
it brings with it
the joy of life
a spark of hope
life’s waters
resuming their flow …
Comment:
All that happened to me ten years ago – but the memories are still fresh in my mind. At night, I often watch those planets circling, closing in, those star ships, guns blazing, burning my skin. So many of us have walked that lonely path, lain on that bed, faced those demons. Holst’s Planets – it amazes me that the music still plays in my mind, the celestial dance still goes on in the ballroom of my head, and the memories refuse to fade, though the burns on the skin have vanished and are long gone.
Clepsydra 4 & 5
4
… candles and the clepsydra
marking time
witnessing
the transition
from day to night
drip-by-drop
falling water
flickering candle flames
less certain
than the monotonous
tick-tock
of a pendulum clock
time and tide
wait not
for ship nor man
though time is marked
on calendars
and prison walls
days passing into weeks
spring into summer into autumn
daylight lengthening
shortening
until bleak mid-winter
comes again …
5
… black midnight
all is lost
who now can count the cost
stiff upper lips
forget how to pray
fingers clasping
unclasping
never grasping
life’s simple flow
with silent steps
planets and stars
slowly turning
writing out our lives
sun by day
moon by night
the sky alight
with shimmering fires
midnight curtains
burning lights
crazy curtains
drawn in night’s sky
a lost dog hurls
his coyote cry
who on high
now listens to his call
not the planets
nor the Archer
nor the dog star
who never barks
anything
but summer’s flames
pity the poor dogs below
bitches in heat
waiting alone
for their lover’s paws
their welcome snuffles
locked and bolted
the door
heightened
the canicular heat …
Rock
You are the rock
on which I build
my life.
You are the fairy castle
planned in paradise
where the sun always shines
and stress is distant.
How often have I mapped
your inner islands,
traveled your well-known ways,
always discovering
new sacred spots
where I can immerse myself
in your inner serenity?
You are the fortress
within whose walls
I can forget my past
and create my future.
Candle Light
Candle light
softens your features
brings out the bone shape
makes me forget
the minor flaws
of ageing.
Bone shape,
rock shape,
land scape,
your face contours
traced by the flame,
counting the years,
like tree rings.
Beneath the surface
you are as you always were
and always will be.
When I look into your eyes,
I see your soul
dancing in the candle’s flame.
rogermoorepoet 