affirmation

Silent Light

Silent Light

Silent light,
          breaking soundless,
dispelling night’s mists,
          lighting up flowers,
so graceful,
          when decked out in light.

At night,
          the moon turns into a mirror,
a silver boat
          suspended in space.

Silent,
          its light enlightening
the heart’s dusky craters,
          the mind’s gloomy shafts,
where hidden treasures hide,
          waiting for the light.

The Value of Space

Space, round an object,
     reveals its aura,
its implicit innocence.

Consider the shimmer –
          a sunlit orange
basking in its basket.

Observe
          the pride of the cat,
nestled on cushions,
          its coat prickling
with sunlight.

Space
          surrounds us.
We walk within it,
          live because of it.

Space
           fills us.
Water
          in our body’s sponge
a part of us,
          as we become
a part of it.

Author’s Notes

We crave the space around us, the silence between words, but invasive noise destroys us, body and soul. We must seek the sanctity of silent light and space.

What does freedom mean to you?

Daily writing prompt
What does freedom mean to you?
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What does freedom mean to you?

When I look at that one word, alone on the page, I think, above all, of the multiple meanings attached to such a word, then I think of how it can be twisted in so many ways to make it mean whatever the speaker wants it to mean. So, let me begin by asking, what does freedom mean, in general, not in my own specific case.

Freedom – “the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint.” Interesting – no mention here of right or wrong, of truth or lies, of harassment or of perjury. Freedom – speech with no hindrance or restraint.

Freedom – the “absence of subjection to foreign domination or despotic government.” Wow! The first is very interesting but the second is extremely problematic. We need a definition of despotic and of government. We also need further clarification as to who decides what governmental despotism means. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder and if there is no arguing about taste, is the definition of despotism purely subjective? Who shall guard the guards? Does a despot consider himself or herself to be despotic? Do his or her followers? Or is it only the people who suffer and become victims of the despot’s hands, feet, orders, laws, commands, bullies, or general conduct?

Freedom – “the state of not being imprisoned or enslaved.” This is certainly much clearer. Thank you.

But consider where this very brief analysis has led us. And we haven’t even started on the Biblical meanings of freedom – “freedom from sin” – “and the truth shall set you free” – and here we are only scratching the surface of the possible religious and philosophical meanings of what the Spaniards call libre albedri’o, or free will.

What does freedom mean to you?

And now we move into the personal and the personal circumstances will change for each one of us. In my own case, freedom is my new Nexus 3 Rollator. It allows me to put aside my canes and walk around the block, something I have been unable to do for several years now. Wow – freedom to walk on my own, just leaning on my wheeled walker. Freedom to talk to my old friends, many of whom I have not seen or spoken to for a long time. Freedom to meet and talk to new neighbors, many with their lovely children and wonderful dogs. Freedom to breathe in the fresh air of early spring and to visit the flowers as they start to grow. Freedom, for me, is also the ability to see with my own eyes. Last month, I had my lenses laser-polished and now I can see again with 20/20 vision. Wow – that is really freedom, to to be able to read all but the tiniest print, without needing to use glasses. Freedom, for me, is also the ability to be able to cook, shop, move, live, without excessive pain. My new powers of walking have helped me with that. Long may it continue. It is also the good fortune to have enough money and strength to live in my own house and not to need a care home or regular home help.

Freedom – Such a magic word – such a powerful word – such a personal word. The freedom to choose to be myself, dependent on nobody else – and long may that freedom continue.

What public figure do you disagree with the most?

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What public figure do you disagree with the most?
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What public figure do you disagree with the most?

Some definitions please. What is a public figure? There are several statues in my local park. Are these public figures? If they are, how do you, or I, disagree with them when they can’t reply to our questions? Their mere presence, is that enough? Their historical past? Their figures now cast in bronze or stone? The crimes they committed (in our current opinion) from a time in which they did good (their society’s position)? “Judge not lest ye be judged!” We are all walking on thin ice and I do not wish to be the one who casts the first stone.

What is a public figure? A politician – provincial, regional, national, international? A TV personality? A film star? A rapper? A musician? A teacher? A preacher? A newscaster? A hockey player? A baseball star?

And how do you define disagreement? How do you disagree, and in what ways, with Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony and the Song of Joy, even if you are a Beatle and can sing “Roll over Beethoven” or mimic it on a Tuesday night in the local bar at a Karaoke show?

How do you define the most without defining the category and nature of disagreement? Mozart vs Bach vs Beethoven vs Vaughan Williams? Wordsworth vs Byron vs Donne vs Dylan Thomas? So let us go back to the beginning, and ask again “What is a public figure?” “How do you define disagreement? And how do you categorize “the most”?

Goya vs Velasquez vs Turner vs Dali vs Picasso?

“What’s the definition of Baroque?” “When you’re out of Monet.” Come on, you’re joking, aren’t you. “You’re having me on, aren’t you? You’re having me on.” “Pull the other leg. It’s got bells on.”

And I offer a nod of gratitude to The Two Ronnies and my good friend, Moo, who painted the painting that leads into this blog. He called it “In search of enlightenment.”

And no, I don’t disagree with him. But is he a public figure? Or just a figment of my imagination? And if he is a figment of my imagination, what, dear reader, are you?

A Broken Heart

A Broken Heart

What does a broken heart look like? Good question – and I, for one, don’t know. Maybe my artist friend, Moo, does. He painted this image of a Fragmented Heart the other day. Not that his heart was broken. He told me he was interpreting the words and feelings of a close friend (who shall remain nameless) who has been having the feelings associated with a heart that was actually breaking. Tough times, eh?

Rejections get me down and annoy me, but they don’t break my heart. I submitted a short story to a magazine on January 4, 2023 and got a rejection letter yesterday, May 6, 2024. It was a form letter, 16 months after submission, just to say “no”!

Of course, the few acceptances that I actually do get make up for the many rejections, as is always the case. However, there seem to be fewer of these acceptances as my thoughts look inwards and I turn from ‘poetry of play to poetry that expresses the authenticity of being‘ (Johannes Pfeiffer). In this day and age, I fear that readers seek entertainment and distraction and prefer the light-hearted to the heavy hand of deep thought and poetic authenticity. And remember, I do not distinguish between poetry and prose, as many do. For me, poetry is writing, be it in poetry or prose.

But back to the theme of the broken heart. Here are three linked poems.

Old Wounds

“The slow wound
deepens with the years
and brings no healing.”

The Minister by R. S. Thomas

How deep time’s wounds
have cut and carved,
not just in flesh and bone,
but in the embers
of that slow-burn fire
 they call the heart.

Memory and mind
have also played their part.

Some days, those wounds
don’t ache at all.

But there’s no real healing,
and a moment of madness
or a knife-edged finger nail,
careless, in the dark,
opens them up again
to bleed afresh
and remind us
of the frailty of the flesh.

I Remember

“I remember so well how it was back then.
I was lonely, my heart so broken I couldn’t
count the pieces, nor put the puzzle together,
 although I tried so hard to make it whole again.

I still bear scars, trenches dug so deep,
lines gouged into my body. I can’t always sleep.
Nightmares pave a crooked, cobbled way to day.

Some nights, I wake up suddenly from a dream
and scream the way that stuck pigs scream
when, hot, their blood comes steaming out.
Other nights, in pain and panic, at shadows I shout.

I search for someone to care for me. I want them
to understand my grief and help me forget the thief
who stole my joy and left me this life of disbelief.”

Signs of Age

What is pain, but the knowledge
that we are alive, and relatively well,
and still on the green side of the grass.

Long may it last. For when the pain is gone,
we shall soon follow. And this is age,
and age is this pain, and the painful
knowledge that we are no longer young,
can no longer bend the way we bent,
or touch our toes, or even see our toes,
some of us. The golden arrow pierces
the heart. Fierce is the pain. But when
that arrow is withdrawn and the heart
no longer feels alive, why, how we miss
that pain, how we weep to find it gone,
perhaps never to come back again.

Pain, like rain, an essential part of the cycle
of the seasons, of the days and the weeks,
and all the months and years that walk us
around the circadian circle, in time with the earth
and its desire to open its arms, and welcome us,
and greet us, and bring us our rest, from pain.

So much wisdom sewn into the wrinkled skin,
the gap-filled grin that glows with humor,
the crow’s foot signals of old age,
or merely those we associate with ageing,
and the knowledge that, yes, many
have walked this wobbly way before,
and many more will follow in our footsteps.

Take your pick – ‘poetry of play to poetry that expresses the authenticity of being‘ – but I know which I prefer and ‘still I live in hopes to see poems of authenticity.”

In Place of Grief

In Place of Grief

A double meaning of course / wrth gwrs. (a) to be in a place of grief and (b) to do something in place of grief i.e. instead of grief. Take your pick. One of my close friends immediately called it Chains. I replied – Ray Charles – “Take these chains from my heart and set me free.” Sometimes, with a great effort, we can do that ourselves. But, if the hole we have dug for ourselves, or that has been dug for us, is too deep, then we may need help.

Creativity is always a help. Painting and poetry, for me. And sometimes the hand of friendship, reaching out from the anonymity of hyperspace – the space beyond the space in which I live and with which I hold my Bakhtinian Dialog what he calls my chronotopos – my dialog with my time and place. Alas, sometimes it is a monolog – and then, when I get not reply, either from time nor from place, I feel an existential grief.

Door

A door slammed shut
          in my heart.

That closed door
          left me outside,
shivering in the cold.

Now I no longer know
          who or what I am.

The shadow of nothingness
          wraps its black shroud
around my shoulders.

Dark night of the heart,
          and me alone,
walking an unlit road
          with no end in sight.

(a) The shadow of nothingness is Meister Eickhard’s Umbra Nihili. A reference to the medieval philosopher.

(b) The dark night of the heart is a reference to St. John of the Cross’s dark night of the soul, part of the Via Purgativa, the mysterious road walked by the Mystics.

Hope Springs Eternal

Hope Springs Eternal

Easter Sunday and the world is reborn. Early, this year, yes. March 31. But all too often in April we see the snow disappear and look out on watch for the geese. Some have flown through, just a few. We search for the flowers, and one or two are pushing upwards in the garden beneath our window. I see a green fuzz on the crab apple trees on our front lawn and the same sign of green around the tops of the tallest birch trees. The crows are flying in pairs, sharing the same branch, and huddling shoulder to shoulder. And yes, the world feels good. Our world. The little world of Island View.

There’s something special about the Equinox. We can feel it in our bones and in the bones of Old Mother Earth. The standing stones of Stonehenge have measured the Equinox for thousands of years, as have the stone circles that can be found all over the British Isles. Even in our garden, in Island View, we know when and where the sun will rise above the ridge as, each morning, we predict the kind of day.

But, when I look to the world beyond my world, the signs of spring are few and far between. I remember swimming in the sea at Pwll Ddu every Easter, on Easter Sunday. When I look at the news, the beaches of my Gower childhood are now polluted. Signs – Caution – Do not enter the water – abound. The boat race took place a day or two ago (depending on when you are reading this). For the first time in 190 years, the winning team was told NOT to throw their coxswain into the water, nor to enter the water themselves in that glorious after-splash of famous victory. The waters of the Thames are so polluted that serious illness might occur. “Oh Thames, flow gently while I sing my song.”

“Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.” I don’t know who said that, but I echo those words. Where are we going? Why are we going there? What can we do about it?

I look at the Easter Message – Northern Hemisphere – the spring rebirth. The world reborn in flowers. I look at the news – or do I? I no longer want to look at the news. I no longer want to read about the shipping disasters, the environmental catastrophes, the mass shootings, the road rage, long term Covid, misinformation and disinformation, fake news, wars and rumor of wars.

I love the Spanish word – ensimismado meaning to go into oneself. So, I go into my little world, into myself. I retreat into poetry and painting. I try to recreate my childhood world as I knew it, as I still want it to be – full of love, trust, goodness, kindness, softness, beauty, and, above all, faith, charity, and hope.

Marx once said “Workers of the world, unite.” But fewer and fewer people are working. A song of the sixties said “You alone know what is right, lovers of the world, unite.” Now I put out my own cry – “Creatives of the world, unite.” Let us join together to creatively build a better world and to fill it with joy, light, faith, hope, and charity. And the greatest of these, my dear friends, is charity.

What is the last thing you learned?

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What is the last thing you learned?
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What is the last thing you learned?

I watched Doc Martin last night, Season 1, Episode 1 – Going Bodmin. And here’s the painting of the excellent state of Bodminism. Offers of less than $10,000 for the original will be turned down. As for me, I think I am slowly going Bodmin. And why shouldn’t I? A merry road, a mazy road, that night when we did tread, all the way to Bodmin Moor, by way of Beachy Head.

So, what is the last thing that I learned? That I too am “Going Bodmin” – slowly, bit by bit, and having such great fun along the way. I have drawn the portraits of some of my fellow Bodminists whom I meet along the way. Maybe you can recognize one or two of them.

I guess going Bodmin is like going on a pilgrimage, to Santiago de Compostela, say, or like the Medieval Trip to Jerusalem. This modern pilgrimage can start anywhere in the UK as long as it ends in Nottingham, in one of Olde England’s oldest pubs, a spider-web-filled cavern known, of course, as The Trip to Jerusalem. This was, once upon a time, the start of the pilgrimage to the Holy City. Now it is the end of the pilgrimage from Bristol City.

Well, that was the road I ran back in 1966 when we ran a road relay from Bristol University Students’ Union to Stamford Bridge, down to Hastings, and back to Bristol. King Harold Marched from Stamford Bridge (where he defeated Harold Hard Loki) to Hastings (where he was conquered by Willy the Conker) in 1066. Alas, I don’t think the Trip to Jerusalem was open then, so he couldn’t stop in for a quick one on the way down. Might’ve won the battle if he had. Caught looking up to see where the spider webs were, I guess.

So, the last thing I learned was that I am going Bodmin! Did you learn anything from this blog? If you did, let me know what it was, and remember, it’s a long way to Tip-a-rary, but it’s a merry road and a mazy road when you’re heading for Bodmin Moor.

Happy Giving Birth Day!

Happy Giving Birth day!

It was our daughter’s birthday today. I have lost count how many, and luckily, so has she. She lives 1500 kms away and was unable to come home for a celebration. We celebrated on the telephone. So much better than nothing.

I wanted to have a proper celebration, and so did my beloved, her mother. We bought special foods, special wines, sat at the table … in spite of the sparkle and the candles, something was missing. And it wasn’t just our daughter.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s make this a very special day. It’s just you and me. Let’s make it your Happy Giving Birth Day. After all, there were two of you involved and I think you deserve some credit.”

So here we are – as of now February 4 is Happy Giving Birth Day. It is open to all mothers. And each of you can celebrate it on the day you gave birth to your babies. Some of them do not wish to acknowledge how old they are … [don’t ask!].

But you, the unacknowledged for so long party, you can finally stand up, centre stage, and say “YES, this is also my day! It is my Happy Giving Birth Day!”

It doesn’t have to be on February 4, as my beloved’s is. It is on the day it happened, when it happened, and you know exactly when that is.

I don’t know you, but permit me to embrace you, and allow me to welcome you to the Happy Giving Birth Day Club. May you enjoy your achievement(s) for ever.

Ice Flow

Ice Flow

Free fall, then scree on the road
to Wolastoq. with the fresh air
speaking to the rock face
in a long-forgotten tongue,
broken words metamorphosing
into fragmented scree at rock-foot.

Just for a moment we glimpse
the ancient water in the stone,
catch the flow of winter words.

The January sun, low in our eyes,
heavenly glory glancing off rock
to give earthly joy, golden beams
highlight damp, glistening slate.

Afternoon frost, water and rock,
polished into ice-maiden tears
that dance their sparkling way
and are held for a moment
in a vision that will last forever.

Comment:
Such beauty in silent things, ice, rock, sky. But learn to listen and perhaps you will hear them talking, one to the other. One day, you too may share their words of wisdom.

Joy of Words

Joy of Words

If the words won’t come, don’t worry.
Sooner or later, they will arrive, driving
down in flurries. Think wind-driven leaves
or the soft white whisper of snaking snow.

There is a moment when all sounds cease
and you can be at one with your inner self,
there, where summer sunshine twinkles
and soft rains bring forth clarity and joy.

What are words anyway, but soap bubbles
emerging from an iron ring to rise in
child-hood’s skies, soaring, dying, around
the cloudy thrones of sun-kissed clouds.

We, their so-called creators, are left below,
building cotton-wool castles spun from air.

Comment:

The painting, animales de fondo, comes from a book by Juan Ramon Jimenez in which he describes human beings as ‘animals living at the bottom of an ocean of air’. I have tried to capture the concept both verbally and visually.