Blessings

Railway Bridge

Railway Bridge

walking away
from Swansea sands

me crossing the bridge
shaking sand
from my sandals

a rare event
Swansea Bay Station
Cline Valley Line
a train at the platform

the station master
blows his whistle
doors close
slowly the train goes
under the bridge

I stand in a cloud
wrapped up
half-blinded
in huge puffs of smoke

filling my lungs
assaulting nostrils and eyes
with the sting of cinders
the stench of burning coal

sting and stench
and that short sharp whistle

they linger and cling
unforgettable
in my mind’s dark corners

Comment:

Me and my writing buddy also discussed linked poems. This is simply a chain in which each poem links back to another one. Yesterday, we wrote about Swansea Sands and how the poem was generated. Today we can look at the linking between that poem and this one, the old railway bridge that crossed the railway lines by Swansea Bay Station, and led back into Swansea, a town in those days, and the Civic Centre. Note, now, that each of those names could generate further links, further poems in the chain.

When we think of the great chain of being, we think of how all things are linked. From the Great Western Railway (GWR), to the Mumbles Railway, to the Cline Valley Branch line, and beyond. Each poem a railway station along the way. Main line, branch line, express train, goods train … links everywhere, and each link encapsulated in a memory of one kind or another. How could we not write poetry about such things?

McAdam Railway Station, in New Brunswick, Canada. 60 trains a day used to stop here. Now the station is a landmark, a memory, a place where ghost trains run and shadowy figures run wild up and down the grass grown tracks where the sleepers sleep, their dreams undisturbed. I could write a book of poems about this station. Wait a second, I already have and Geoff Slater, my painting buddy, decorated it for me with his wonderful paintings and drawings. What more can I say? Each link in the chain, a potential poem. Each stop along the way, material enough for a painting, a poem, or a book.

Swansea Sands

Swansea Sands

walking home
over the railway bridge

sand in my hair
sand in my socks

sand in my sandals
sand like sandpaper
sanding me down

tides rise and fall
sea gulls call
the bay so big
and me so small
as tiny as a tiny
grain of sand

Comment:

Not Swansea Sands at all, sorry. But a sandy beach all the same, here on the southern shores of New Brunswick, down by St. Andrews. The theme of the poem comes from Blake’s ‘to see the world in a grain of sand’. It might not be Swansea Sands, but there’s a great deal of sand down on the southern shores of NB. I worked on this poem with one of my writing buddies, who visits me regularly. We shared an impromptu creative writing session over the kitchen table in Island View a couple of days ago. Alas, as you probably know, there are no islands in Island View, and there’s not a grain of sea sand in sight. So we improvised.

We started with a central idea – a grain of sand – and from there we talked about how to generate a poem, from scratch so to speak, in three steps.

(1) The first draft.

Write as it comes to you – just write. Just bounce from word to word, line to line, like a supercharged, literate budgie. Take about 3-4 minutes for this. Then read it aloud to partner / writing buddy, checking on sound and rhythm.

(2) Second draft.

– Eliminate words and ideas that do not fit the central image. Remove anything loose or unclear. Then read it aloud to partner / writing buddy, concentrating on sound and rhythm.

(3) Third draft.

Polish and finalize the poem. Sometimes a fourth draft is needed, but in this case we settled with the third draft. At this stage, pay careful attention to the poem’s ending (closure is always difficult). Reorder, add, and polish, as necessary. Then read it aloud to partner / writing buddy, checking on sound and rhythm.

From the initial image – to see the world in a grain of sand – I generated two poems. My partner / writing buddy generated a short story that would fit into their current sequence of childhood memories. Other ideas for further poems also came through.

Conclusions;

  1. Make your poems alive, make them personal, make them an experience! 
  2. Remember rhythm. And never forget the necessity of a live reading or series of readings in which you can feel and hear the words.
  3. An alterative to a live reading with a partner / writing buddy is to record your own voice. The recordings can then be sent to friends who can comment on them.

Waist Land

Wind-sculpted tree on rocky coastline with turbulent ocean and cloudy sky
A lone, wind-shaped tree stands on rugged coastal rocks under a cloudy sky

Image generated
not by Big Brother
but by Little Brother
who left the Frying Squad
to become a painter
and mind-reader

Waist Land

Jack Pine Sonnet

living in a waste land
surrounded by books
he writes in his journal
things false and true
in memory of the old days
when the world seemed so new

a life built on sand
slips through his fingers
wouldn’t it be grand
if the sand stays and lingers
refusing to pass through
the hour glass’ waist
so time stops to flow

then he could say no
leave me alone
there’s more sand to fall
I don’t want to go

Comment:

It’s a bit like a cliff-hanger, isn’t it? Hanging on by our fingertips and not daring to look at the depths down below. We know they are there, but look, there’s a tiny fossil in the fissure in the rock, so much older than us, we’ve got a long time to go to catch that up. And remember – 80 is not old, if you are a stone!

Treading air – great fun. Not as good as treading warm water in the local YMCA. Just a lovely sense of balance, floating there in the warmth, no weight on arthritic joints, and the world around us amniotic, as it was in the beginning. Ah, those original waters, we have all swum in them, the rich and the poor, the black and the white, and all shades in between. Even King Charles and the late Queen. And remember, they may speak of blue bloods, but all blood is red -and, if you cut us, do we not bleed.

Speaking of bleeding – blood-thinners – my favorite doctor’s latest joke. I cut my arm the other night, getting into bed. Didn’t even notice. Pillows and sheets soaked in blood when I woke up and my scalloped arm, stuck to the sheet, opened itself up and started to bleed again. Feels like seventeenth century Spain, the wounds of the dead man re-open and start to bleed when the assassin appears before him. Certain truth. Obviously 100% guilty.

And they tell me that in South Wales people are adding cooking oil to gasoline to make the petrol go further. Scotland Yard sent the Flying Squad to South Wales to sniff people’s exhaust pipes to see if they were cheating the tax man. I asked my friend – “Is this true?” “Ah, yes,” he said in his lovely Welsh lilt, “and we call them the Frying Squad!”

Rag Doll

A rag doll with button eyes and a patched outfit sitting against a wooden post near pink rose bushes in a garden at dusk.
A well-loved rag doll leans against a wooden post surrounded by blooming roses at twilight.

Big Brother read my mind
and painted the picture

Rag Doll

Jack Pine Sonnet

They fought over her
whenever they met
each one holding her
by a leg or an arm

An eternal tug of war
a terrestrial dog fight
with no truce called
and neither giving in

One day they went
a step too far and tore
the doll in two neither happy
with an arm and a leg each

as for the rag doll
torn apart in fury
she was discarded
thrown in the garbage

when nobody was looking
one child returned
rescued the rag doll
sewed her back together
and filled her with love

Comment:

Tragic, really, and really tragic. A reversed Judgement of Solomon in so many ways. An Allegory applicable to so many situations in this tiny, overcrowded world of ours. Every night, on the television, we can watch hour after hour of shows like this – minus the last stanza. Some endings can never be happy.

One night, for the fun of it, I counted all the deaths, shooting and murders on selected shows over a three or four hour period. I saw over 150 violent deaths. What sort of legacy are we leaving our children, our grandchildren. And what will their children learn in their turn? Food for thought to be taken three times a day while avoiding exposure to reality – or is this the alternative reality to which we will all be exposed?

My Love For You

My Love for You

A Jackpine Sonnet

Yesterday fled quickly by
today limps slowly on and on
tomorrow draws near
yet never arrives
if and when it does
it becomes today

As for me I feast on shifting
shadows my story a tapestry
reversed – hanging
back to front unreadable

It is hard to slough your skin
the skin once shed can never
never be donned again

My body white bone grey gristle
no longer wrapped in skin
is bonded together by super glue
made from my love for you

Comment:

Moo assures me that this painting, unsigned and untitled, is actually his. After yesterday’s doubts, I must believe him. He says it is called U-R-My-Sunshine. He also thinks it would be a great painting to go with this strange little poem that crept somehow out of my head and landed on my page. It reminds me somewhat of the church cat – it crept into the crypt, crapped, and crept out again. “Oh what a naughty pussy cat.” Who U-R is up to the reader / viewer apparently. I doubt that I am his sunshine after what I said about him yesterday. Oh sorry. You didn’t read that blog? Well, shame on you! You’ve got to do your homework if you’re going to keep up with me and Moo.

What is A Jack Pine sonnet, you ask? Well, I don’t have a clue. But now that my other buddy, Ryan, has introduced me to AI, I will ask my AI what such a thing might be. Asking now. Hang on to your seats. It tells me it’s thinking. Aha! Here’s what I think it thinks it thinks.

AI says – A jackpine sonnet is an irregular, spikey poetic form created by Canadian poet Milton Acorn (from neighboring PEI), in the 1970’s. It typically acts as a 14-line sonnet with 7-13 syllables per line, but allows for flexible line counts (e.g., 12, 18, or 20), using internal and consecutive rhymes rather than strict, traditional rhyme schemes.

Key Aspects of the Jackpine Sonnet:

  • Origin: Developed by Milton Acorn, often known as the “People’s Poet,” as a uniquely Canadian, gritty form of expression.
  • Structure: While it aims for roughly 14 lines, it can vary in length based on the needs of the poem.
  • Rhyme and Rhythm: Uses internal rhymes (rhymes within a line) or consecutive end-rhymes (e.g., AABB) rather than standard sonnet structures.
  • Style: It is designed to be “irregular and spikey like a jack pine tree,” focusing on structure and integrity rather than rigid adherence to traditional verse rules.

So, now you know what a Jack Pine sonnet is. But I bet you’ve never heard of Milton Acorn! I have. Here’s the poem I wrote about one of my meetings with him. You can find it in The Nature of Art.

Milton Acorn

“Oy,” he waved strong carpenter’s hands, “Make this
work.” I typed in my code and the machine
came to life. “Go away,” he pushed me out
and slammed the copier room door behind my back.

Later, my secretary came in and caught him,
his face pressed to the glass. He pushed the button,
lights flashed, the machine whirred and copies emerged.

In his hand he held images of his feet,
arms, legs, head, all of his body parts.
“Tape, not masking, clear tape, 3M.”
Flustered she fled, brought Scotch tape,
watched as he stuck himself together.

Over lunch he showed me his work:
a self-portrait, shadowy and cloudy,
whiskered and worn, smelling still of printer’s ink.
That’s how I remember him: unique, stately,
unmistakeable, uncouth, unseemly:
a jack pine growing in its own self-image.

Farewell, my dear friend, Milton.
And that is how I remember you.

Nights

Nights

There are nights
when the trees
seem to whisper
your name,

cautioning you
against the wind’s
knife edge.

“What have I done,”
you ask,
“to merit this?”

The soft fall
of burnt brown leaves
weeps over
your woodland grave.

You will walk
these woods
no more, save
on a frosty night

when deer shiver
beneath naked trees
and the moonbeam’s
icy blade.

Comment:

Poems arrive, as silent as the deer that troop through my garden. Some times they hurry past, and catch them if you can. Sometimes, they stay, wait, nibble at an overhanging branch. Just when you think you can reach out and grasp them, they sense the bark of a dog, the sigh of the wind through leafless trees. You blink, and they have gone.

Was your camera ready? Was your note book open, your pen in your hand? Or did they flit away like dreams in the morning when the sun comes into the bedroom and sparks diamond fires from the lashes that guard your eyes?

Spring Cleaning

Spring Cleaning

Sun’s yellow duster
arrived late this year
gray cobwebs still
clutter my mind

I try to brush them away
with clumsy fingers
but stubbornly they stick
and cling and will not go

Spring came in with snow
gales and icy rain

Warm winds will soon
spring showers bring
to revive cold clay
and help things grow

Comment:

We have lived in this house for 37 years, but only once have I seen ducks land on the snow-covered lawn. Whatever were they thinking? Good question – do ducks think? They are living beings, so of course they do. But I am totally unaware of what they think nor am I able to understand the nature of their mental computations.

We share this world with so many creatures that we do not understand. I wonder sometimes if they understand us. Who knows? If we cannot speak their multiple languages, if we cannot enter their culture and their minds, if we see them as nothing but food and devour them as fast as we can, never thinking of them at all, save as more or less savoury items on our dinner plate — les meurtiers et les victimes, as Albert Camus wrote. Murderers and victims – and we are both. Murderers of our victims and victims ourselves to our unbounded greed.

House of Dreams 5 & 6

House of Dreams

5

A leaf lies down
in a broken
corner
and fills me
with a sudden
silence.

I revise
our scrimshaw history
carving fresh tales
on the ivory
of new found bones.

6

A vixen
hunts for my remains.

She digs deep
at midnight
unearthing
the decaying teeth
you buried with
my borrowed
head.

Comment:

None of this makes sense. Why should it? Don’t ask me to explain it to you. Who am I to tell you what to think and what to do? You are not in elementary school now. Teacher is not leaning over you, teaching you how to shape letters with a pen, telling you to color in red, or yellow, or orange.

Learning – tell me what have you learned? Have you learned to think for yourself? Have you learned that life is mysterious, joyful, sad? Do you not know it can also be incredibly dangerous? Fear not the thunder. Rejoice in the rain and snow. Open your eyes to the world around you and be joyous wherever you go.

Meditation

I am the gatherer of words,
the weaver of wooly clouds.

I am the sheep dog
who shepherds the flock
in and out of the field.

I am the corgi
who snaps at the heels
of cows and pigs,
too small to be noticed.

I am the butterfly
turned into an eagle
who soars into the sky
and gazes on the sun
with an open eye.

Tell me,
my friend,
what and who
are you?

House of Dreams 3 & 4

House of Dreams
3 & 4

3

The light fails
fast, I hold up
shorn stumps
of flowers
for the night
wind to heal.

The pale magnolia
bleeds into summer:
white petals
melting on the lawn
like snow.

Sparrow sings
an afterlife
built of spring
branches.

4

Pressed between
the pages of my dream:
a lingering scent –
the death of last
year’s delphiniums –
the tall tree
toppled in the yard –
a crab apple flower-

a shard of grass
as brittle
as a bitter tongue
at winter’s
beginning.

Comment:

“La poesía se explica sola, si no, no se explica.” Pedro Salinas. Poetry explains itself. If it doesn’t, it can’t be explained.

This quote suggests that the poem is a self-contained entity that must be accepted and understood on its own terms. This is particularly true when metaphor rules and feelings and meaning are contained within the poem’s enunciation. In addition, the musicality of words can never be ignored. The rhythm they bear within them speaks for itself.

Show don’t tell – easy advice, but what exactly does it mean? So many people say so many different things. A cliché is always the simplest form of criticism.

“I don’t understand your poem,” Moo tells me.
“Neither do I,” I reply, “and I wrote it.”

“I don’t understand your painting,” I tell Moo.
“Neither do I,” Moo replies. “And I painted it.”

Words of wisdom.

Breathe deep.
Look and listen.
Don’t think.
Feel.

Hear the smell of color.
Touch the emanating light.
Taste the dry leaves crackling.

See the words shaping,
carving themselves
deep into your dream.

Rage, Rage 59

Rage, Rage
59

You cannot hide
when the black angel comes
and knocks on your door.

“Wait a minute,” you say,
“While I change my clothes
and comb my hair.”

But he is there before you,
in the clothes closet,
pulling your arm.
You move to the bathroom
to brush your teeth.

Now,” says the angel.

Your eyes mist over.
You know you are there,
but you can no longer see
your reflection in the mirror.

Comment:

The last poem in the series and Rage, Rage against the dying of the light is over and done. Many of you will recognize the title from Dylan Thomas’s poem Do not go gentle into that dark night. I guess the theme itself has become part of the Welsh culture. And now we have exported it to New Brunswick, Canada, and perhaps beyond.

I bought The Black Angel, pictured above, in Avila, Spain. It is a plaster cast of one of the Angels in Roger Van der Leyden’s paintings, if I remember correctly. Here is the angel’s face in close up.

She or he brings a promise of rest and peace, a freedom from earthbound woes and sorrows. She stands on the shelf above the fireplace insert in our sitting room and brings blessings to the house. I look at her every time I light the fire. And she smiles down and blesses me. I think of her as a lady, but her peace and beauty outweigh any formal signs of sex.

As for that reflection in the mirror, well, I don’t have one of me. But her is a photo to reflect upon:

Raining in Avila and puddles in the street. Now you see me, now you don’t. But I am there, holding the camera, and looking down at the water where —- rain has stopped play. The bails have been removed. Old Father Time has gone back to the Pavilion at Lord’s, and the cricket game is over for the day.