Aging

Carved in Stone 42

Carved in Stone
42

After school, in a cul-de-sac
that backs on to the railway yards,
the street boys show me
how to hold a knife,
how to approach a man,
how to ask for a light,
for a forbidden cigarette,
while other boys,
knives in hand, lie in wait
to ambush the victim.

How old am I?
Five or six.

I would go to Woolworth’s
with my friends and distract
the shop girl while the others
stole whatever they could.

Then we would go
to the public washroom,
boys and girls together,
and share the spoils.

Something for everyone,
and everyone sworn to secrecy,
a blood cult, knives
or razor blades inserted,
and wrist pressed to wrist.

Commentary:

Free will or determinism? How does one escape from the back-street poverty of a run-down neighborhood and emerge from the shadows to bask in the light of the sun? Or is it all a dream, a made-up picture of a childhood that never was in a neighborhood that never existed? Vanishing point – the railway tracks fading away into the distance. Point of vanishing – to lose oneself in the mysteries of a past that never was in order to establish a future that never will be. Dream, dream, dream – all I have to do is dream!

And then there are the nightmares, when the dreams are true and the memories are so exact that you can see the blood on the razor blade and feel the almost silent slash of this particular slice of life. Secrecy – and who can tell whether I am telling the truth, or not, here in a foreign land, not the land of my fathers – and I only had one father, that I am aware of, and one mother too – where nobody knows me and the children from that imagined back street would never think of visiting.

For Jorge Luis Borges, whom I met twice, once in Bristol and once in Toronto, – Canada was a land so distant and so cold that it lacked reality. And thus I can dream my dreams, rewrite my past, reimagine myself, in whatever way I want to and I can vanish at any vanishing point I choose and emerge wherever I want to, and do it over and over and again, and who knows the truth? Over the points, over the points, and Liza none the wiser, whoever Liza happens to be!!!

Carved in Stone 35

Carved in Stone

35

My eyes draw sound
out of the white space
of silence.

Silent the pen,
gliding smooth,
over unlined paper,
a skater leaving marks
on fresh ice.

Each mark is a signifier,
or a series of signifiers
constituting a signified,
a message engraved
in the reader’s mind.

Commentary:

Each mark is a signifier, part of a series of signifiers constituting a signified, a message written on paper, then engraved in the reader’s mind. But, of course, the message has to be read, and the reader has to be diligent enough to burrow into the meaning of the message. And what is the meaning of meaning? Ah, we have been down that rabbit hole before and Alice has been through the looking glass, and we have seen ourselves in our daily mirrors, slowly fading as the years go by.

A skater leaving marks on fresh ice or a stone cast into a pond, with multiple meanings, multiple ripples moving slowly outwards, to end up where? Who knows? Not me. I only know that the thrown stone, like the spoken word, can never be recalled. And there’s a 2,000 year history behind those words. Each word a stone, and each stone leaving its mark on many people of many cultures and multiple languages, though English is the language in which I now write.

Frost and snow here this morning. Not much, just a dusting. I looked out of the window at the crows’ prints on the white surface of the garden. My eyes drew silence out of the white space with its runic language written by the crows.

The meaning of meaning – tell me, if you can, what did they say? What did they want from me? What did they mean?

Carved in Stone 33

33

A child’s swing in the orchard
hangs below the apple tree.

Early bluebells
tinkle in the hedgerow.
Why do foxes wear gloves,
I ask, in my innocence?

My grandmother,
a young woman once more,
stands in her kitchen
humming her morning music
while she bakes the day’s bread.

My grandfather,
skeletal in the evening sunshine,
shifts his long, black shadow
from side to side
as he scythes the grass.

34

Time’s fragility
dwells in all our bones,
but rarely in our minds.

I look at them,
those twin tomb stones,
with names and dates

time-worn now,
carved into their stone.

I blink, as they sway
in the twilight
of my own
fast failing eyes.

Commentary:

A Mexican Mask outlining a person’s three three ages. The small, pearl in the centre – seed of the child. The central face, bearing the pearl beneath the nose – youth and beauty. The second face – old age. The white skull – the individual’s death. How quickly life passes. I turn and look, and so many ages have passed me by. And so it is with all of us.

One of my friends dropped in to see me today. I coached him rugby (Jeux du Canada Games, 1985), when he was 18 years old, heading for 19. Now he is 59 years old and heading for 60, if he hasn’t already left it behind. Oh the memories – tread softly, for you tread on my dreams (Yeats). And it is so easy to substitute memories for dreams.

Time’s fragility dwells in all our bones, but rarely in our minds. Alas, in our minds as well. I notice how forgetful I have become. I see life my past as a railway track, the two rails joining, undivided, as they fly into the distance. “Railway train, running down the track, always going on, never turning back – choo-choo – I’ve got a one way ticket to the blues.” I remember the words and the tune, but I don’t remember who sang. Clearly time’s fragility is beginning to enter my mind as well.

Carved in Stone 30 & 31

Carved in Stone

30

A well of beauty dwells within me,
not skin deep, but buried, arcane.

A flickering candle
tethered to an altar,
shimmers at midnight,
when the Latin mass is said,
bringing me light.

In the dark, canonical hours,
shadows move beside me
as I walk long corridors
from dormitory to a chapel
filled with heady incense.

31

I kneel, dumb-founded,
as candle flames wax and wane,
their brightness enhanced
by the midnight magic
that turns doubters into believers.

Spell and symbol, each candle a star,
shining, twinkling, in a galaxy of light,
and everywhere, the incense,
overloading my brain, releasing me
to revelations way beyond
muttered responses, mumbled words.

A world of inner darkness,
yet heart and soul soar together
up to the altar’s immortal light.

My shadow flickering
on the corridor walls,
as candle in hand, half-asleep,
I return to my cold bed
where the long, chill snake
of the bamboo cane
reminds me of tomorrow’s
flagellation.

Commentary:

Shadows on the wall or candles – with which should we start? Verbal and visual – how do they blend and knit together? Does my visual take away from your visual, or does it enhance it? To what extant does my verbal and the commentary on my verbal change the nature of your original thoughts when you re-create, within your own mind, my images, both verbal and visual?

Verbal and visual – now add the sense of smell. “The incense, overloading my brain, releasing me to revelations way beyond muttered responses, mumbled words.” And now remember that I was only six or seven years old when I experienced these things. Add the Latin mass, only half understood, the cold, damp feel of walls and wood beneath the hands. A world of inner darkness, yet heart and soul soaring together up towards the altar’s immortal light.”

My words are black print on white paper. My memories flare – an aurora borealis of senses sent crackling down the spine, in and out of the mind, tumbling the brain into a world … what sort of world? An unimaginable world. One never forgotten. One never re-recreated. One that never existed. One that never could exist. One for which the young child, six or seven years old, yearns for the rest of his life. His unsatisfied life. His unsatisfying life. His meaningless life. His absurd life.

Oh pity the poor puppy, not knowing what he has done wrong, not knowing how to put things right, always inadequate, whining and cringing at his master’s feet. And always, “that cold bed where the long, chill snake of the bamboo cane reminds me of the next day’s flagellation.”

Carved in Stone 27

The philosopher in search of his stone.

Carved in Stone

27

Miguel de Cervantes –
I read and re-read his words,
envious of his ability to reach out
with language that thrills me still.

I see him as a total entity,
while I see myself in pieces,
broken, unable to express
the simplest thoughts.

As I age, I sense the water
slipping from the water-clock,
the candles burning lower.

I still cannot make the mark
I want to make, for they are beyond me,
those marvelous word-worlds.

My words are mortal, his are immortal.
Mine just ink stains on a humble page,
his cast in print, but crafted to last forever.

As I bear witness to those powers,
so much greater than mine,
my eyes fill with tears.

Commentary:

They are beyond me, those marvelous word-worlds. Indeed they are. But I do not seek to create ‘a marvelous word-world’. I am happy with ‘ink stains on a humble page’. I seek to reach out and find those one or two people who accept me for what I am and find their own selves in a small corner of the tiny gardens I discover or create. Not a world, then, but a tiny corner of my own world, described, and offered to those who have eyes to see and ears to hear and hearts and minds to feel and understand.

And what is this infatuation with the poem itself? I no longer write individual poems, I write sequences of linked poems, a set of poetic narratives, if you need to find a label for what I am trying to do. Cervantes once wrote “La épica también puede escribirse en prosa.” / Epic poetry can also be written in prose. What happens if we reverse that statement and say – “A narrative sequence can also be written in poetry.” Interesting, eh?

And what is this desire to leave something, some trace of us, behind? I cannot answer that question. The answer will vary for each one of us, and for each fall wall flower perishing against the garden wall. I look at the homeless, pushing their grocery carts, head down. Their existence is as important as mine. Their desire to survive, for another day, another week, another season – and winter is coming one – is more powerful than any poet’s desire to leave a work – a magnum opus – to celebrate their lives.

And yes, my words are mortal, as I am mortal, as Miguel de Cervantes and all the great writers were mortal. Patrick Lane once told me that if poets leave one poem behind them that is remembered, they have done well. Even the greatest poets, and you can check this in the anthologies over the ages, rarely leave more than ten or a dozen memorable poems. As for me, I am happy to say that I have never had a poem included in an anthology. Not to my knowledge anyway.

And what does Magnum Opus actually mean? I leave you with the quote from Wikipedia set out above. Click on it, and find yet another way to distract, deflect, and change the direction of our lives! Given that road, who would ever want to walk it to its end?

Carved in Stone 23 & 24

Carved in Stone

23

It isn’t true that art
lives longer than life,
for all too often art and artist
are destroyed together.

Words, all words,
and words emerge
from the silence of blood,
bone, and stone, breaking
that silence the day they are born,
and the word once spoken
cannot be recalled.

24

Here, among the ruins of my life,
I have learned how to be alone,
how to sink into silence,
how to smother at birth
that world of words,
and that world, still-born,
becomes a lost world
whirled on the silent wind that fans
the unborn fires within.

I sit here
brushed by a tadpole’s solitude
as it swims through the sultry silence
of blood, bone, and stone,
into its own metamorphosis.

The wind that blows unspoken words
tugs at the spider web of my mind
twisting and untwisting
its frayed, fragmented ends.

Commentary:

The fragility of life. The single puff that turns the dandelion into a dandelion clock. The multiple puffs that dowse the candles on the birthday cake. And then, one day, there are no more candles, no more cakes, just the heart ache of multiple absences, family and friends all gone and each of us alone with our individual loneliness.

That’s when we finally turn in and seek the inner roads that lead us to ourselves. The selves that were, the selves that are, the selves that always will be. Crack the walnut – inside is the map of a brain – your brain? If it is you will have found yourself in this labyrinth. But if it is the brain of another, you must not give up, you must seek yourself, walnut after walnut.

And when you go to the library, you must check book after book, because one day, if you are lucky, you will find the book of your life and it will tell you who you were, what you are, and what you will always be.

Carved in Stone 21 & 22

21

Goodrich Castle – Civil War tore down
its curtain walls, fired its stables,
drove horses and people mad with fear,
all destroyed, a way of life, gone overnight.

I stand in the ruins of the solarium
beneath towering columns
empty now of the stained-glass
that would have kept out the rain
and retained the sun’s heat.

I imagine standing there,
speckled in sunshine,
coloured diamonds covering me.

22

I stop in the ruined quad
to sniff the air, to imagine the panic,
to smell the crackle of burning,
to hear the high-pitched screams
of dying horses, trapped in the stables.

Sometimes, at night,
fate mans the pumps of my blood,
and sends fire alarms surging
through my veins.

I do not want to die alone,
defenseless, besieged by memories
that gnaw away my remaining days,
like flames.

Commentary:

Memories burn away my remaining days, like flames. Fire controlled, stolen from the gods by Prometheus in Greek Mythology, by Zopilote, the Trickster, in Oaxacan Mythology. I will always recall those early mornings in Oaxaca, standing on the azotea (rooftop) doing my morning exercises in the half light. High above me, Zopilote slowly spiralled. His wings glowed red in the sun that had not yet penetrated to the earth below. As he descended, he brought the sun fire down with him and gifted it to humans.

Fire and flames, under control, in the candle on the table, on the birthday cake, in hearth and fireplace, a life-giving source of heat, light, and energy. Fire and flames, uncontrolled – wild fires in the woods, blazing out of control. It happened last summer. A severe drought, and the woods so dry. A lightning strike – and fire and flame soon raged, out of control. Smoke darkened the skies and the smell of burning hung around for days. So many people evacuated, moving out of their houses with three days, two days, one day’s notice. Sometimes it was so much less. Three hours, two hours, one hour … our community newsletter contained details of what to have ready to cover each of those situations. Very sobering and thought-provoking.

Back now to Goodrich Castle. The occupants trapped inside the walls with no place to go. Horses and livestock trapped in the stables, and those life giving flames now bringing death and misery. “Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can.” Hands up all of you who recognize the author of those lines, a great English poet who is possibly not as well recognized as he ought to be. I know who he is, but I’ll leave you guessing and googling! Go on, Google him. I know you want to!

On Writing Poetry

On Writing Poetry

I sit here writing poetry
and, head in hands, I cry
at all the things I’ve left unsaid,
and then I wonder why
I wasted so much time on things
that perished before my eye.

Outside the night is dark and cold
and shadows flit and filter by.
I know that I am growing old,
that soon my story will be told,
and when it ends, I’ll die.

I know that death is not the end,
yet I do not want to die.
I want to paint the autumn trees,
the clouds that float on high,
with evening lights that stain the sky.

But rhyming is not all I do.
I often write in prose, with words
that wound, and sow dark seeds,
that root and flourish, grow like weeds,
and nourish other people’s needs.

Alas, I know not what I do,
nor yet what I have done,
nor when, nor where, the seeds
were sown, nor if they aided anyone
to turn away from the dark inside
and walk in the light of the sun.

Commentary:

A Golden Oldie that turned up on my Facebook page. So I copied it and pasted it here. What fun. I’ll probably revise it and sharpen it up a little bit. All best wishes to all my readers.

And remember, Remembrance Day is for Remembering. Both my grandfathers served in WWI and were decorated. Never forget those who sacrificed themselves to give us life and freedoms we enjoy.

Growing Old Together

Growing Old Together

You and I are growing old together.
We have been together for 59 years
and married for 54 of those.

We watch each other slowly breaking down,
the memories going,
the body parts not functioning
the way they used to.

In some ways,
it is incredibly beautiful.
In other ways,
it is so tragic, this slow waltz
around life’s dance-floor
towards who knows what
that last dance will bring?

It gets harder and harder
to find the right things to say,
sometimes to find anything to say.

There are days
when we just sit in silence,
filling in time,
doing a crossword or a sudoku,
or just gazing into space,
trying to avoid
the mindlessness
of endless adverts
on the television.

Commentary:

Not much to say, really. The poem and the photo speak for themselves, as good art always should. Sometimes the artist plans everything, and out it pops, all ready-made. On other occasions, a small miracle takes place and words and images tumble out, fluff their feathers, settle down and wow! – it’s a work of art. As long as one other person, other than me, thinks so, then I will be happy. “If I can reach out and touch just one person.”

I often wonder how many people are touched by traditional art nowadays. There is so much shock and awe out there, that the humble homely corner with its two doves or the image of an elderly couple dancing slowly around their kitchen, hanging onto each other – for what? And both of them waiting – for what, exactly? I expect it varies with each couple. But what I pity most are the lone doves, abandoned, autonomous, living on their own-some with nobody to talk to and only the TV to listen to. How many of them are out there, I wonder? When I walk around town, I see the street people, the homeless, the really lonely ones, just sitting, or slowly pushing a grocery cart with all their belongings tied up in plastic bags. Heads down, they plod on, never stopping, never looking.

“A sad life this, if full of care, we have no time to stop and stare.” W. H. Davies.

Carved in Stone 14 & 15

14


The sun throws shadows
across the cathedral’s face.

Crosses, arrows, stars,
masonic symbols
hammer-and-chiseled
into the granite sea-cliff
of the entrance way,
reveal the signatures
of the master masons
who laboured here.

And not just here,
for they traveled everywhere,
adding their stone signatures
to those of the other workmen
who left a piece of themselves,
carved in stone.

15

In the cathedral
of Santiago de Compostela,
Maese Pedro sculpted
a statue of himself,
a figurine, small,
low down, facing the main altar.

Students rub noses with him
before their exams,
when they look for luck
having forsaken their studies.

Illiterate people
consult these carvings
in the same way the educated
seek knowledge in their books.

16

The Bulls of Guisando,
pre-historic, unweighable,
the bearers of Roman graffiti,
itself two thousand years old.

Commentary:

… workmen who left a piece of themselves, carved in stone … I couldn’t find my masonic markings from the cathedral in Avila, so I added the words carved into one of the Bulls of Guisando instead. Amazing how people want to make a little bit of themselves eternal – in the sense that we extend our names, our graffiti, our messages beyond our lifetime and, stones thrown into a pond, who knows how long the ripples from those tiny word-waves will endure?

So, what’s it all about, Alfie? And which Alfie are we referring to, the one who burnt the cakes or the (in)-famous gorilla in Bristol Zoo, who went missing? And how many Alfies are there out there? And why buy an Alfie-Romeo when you can buy a neat tombstone for a much smaller sum of money and have it remind people of you long after you have gone?

Silly questions, really, but this is what poetry is for, to open up the curious mind and to dig warrens for bunny rabbits so that the hunters of curiosities can dig their ways down and find whatever they shall find. But do we ever find what we are looking for when we first start out? Good question. Carve your answers into a piece of rock and leave it by the roadside to see what happens to it. Or else, you can write a message, stick it in a bottle, and send it out to sea to float on the waves. Put my name on it, along with yours, and maybe, one day, it will arrive at my doorstep in Island View and, if I am still here, I will reply to you by the same method.