Blessings

Clepsydra 30

30

… but before all that
     did I emerge slowly
          from the grain
               of a granite heart
                    as a sculpture
                         emerges from stone

I broke out of a silent world
     left the flesh-and-blood house
          where my mother lodged me
               abandoned that amniotic silence
                    broken only
                         by my mother’s heartbeat

my own heart
     responded to that rhythm
          until I materialized
               and slipped into
                    this waiting world

only to be held at the hips
     trapped
          a climber in a cave
               half out
                    yet not able to break
                         completely free

and me
     visited all my life
          by the nightmare
               of that pincer grip
                    until the doctor
                         forceps in hand
                              pincered me
                                   and drew me forth
white meat
     from a reluctant lobster’s claw
          silent
               dangling upside down
                    a special lobster
                         blue at the bottom
                              red at the top
                                   breathless
                                        motionless

until that first slap
     broke the silence
          and wailing
                I came into
                     that waiting world …

Commentary:

Nice painting, Moo. I like that. Its original title is Walking on Air, and I guess that’s what it might have felt like, dangling up side down, held by my feet, trying to walk on my hands, and look at all those suggestive colours. Colors / colours – English or Canadian? Does it matter? Red is still red and a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

“Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” Ecclesiastes, if I am not mistaken. “Great knowledge brings great grief; for in much wisdom is much grief, and he who increases knowledge increases sorrow.” So, we live and we learn, but what do we learn? Only the wisdom of all the wise people who walked this way before us. “In my beginning is my end …” – T. S. Eliot – “and in my end is my beginning.” In blood we begin our days, and in blood will we end them, just as the day begins with the spilling of the sun’s blood and ends in an evening of glory. Except when it’s cloudy, and then, of course, we have to guess what’s happening.

Guess-work – we guess how it began and we guess how it will end. And there’s the Clepsydra for you – drop after drop of water and people gathering knowledge, only to know how little they know, for, as Erich von Richthofen said, in the Medieval Course at the University of Toronto, a long time ago, in the 60’sixties of the last century which was also in the last millennium – “The more I know, the more I realize how much I don’t know.”

Clepsydra 28 & 29

28

… diagnosed
     with a terminal illness
          called life
               I know it will end
                    in death

I have seen many
     pass that way
          two-legged humans
               four-legged friends
                    and none have come back

I recall
     holding the dog’s shaved paw
          while the vet slipped
               that last redeeming needle
                    into the exposed vein

the dog’s eyes
     pleaded for release
          her tongue licked my hand
               oh so trusting
                    even at that
                         for me
                              so bitter end

and did the poor dog know
     what was coming
          did she live her life
               as I have led mine
                    waiting for that last word
                         to be spoken
                              the last order given …

29

… two of us
     me and my death
          walking side by side
               everywhere
                    sharing the same bed
                         sleeping between
                              the same sheets

I wonder if
     we dream
          the same dreams

my death
     how would I greet him
          when he came
               as executioner
                    not friend

I re-create him as a man
     or as a dark angel
          with all-comforting wings

is he open-eyed,
          while I am blindfolded
               not knowing the way
                    afraid of falling

this death
     is it cruelty
          or merely love               

the path is ahead is new
     and totally unknown …

Commentary:

Many of the images in these two pieces are exercises in intertextual examples, Stanza 29 in particular, drawn from the Neo-Stoicism of Francisco de Quevedo (1580-1645). His advice, set out in poem after poem, is to embrace death before it comes. Prepare for it, mentally, and be aware that it is the natural end of life. As Dylan Thomas also writes, “Every morning when I wake, oh Lord this little prayer I make, that thou wilt keep thy watchful eye on all poor creatures born to die.” The Dunvant Male Voice Choir gives us this version of it. Remember to turn your sound on! I like this version, not just for the music, but also for the views over one of my favorite childhood beaches, Rhossili and the Worm’s Head, not far from my home in Gower.

As I grow older and creakier, as my ailments accumulate, one by one, so I realize that indeed I have been “diagnosed with a terminal illness called life.” It’s funny to think of life as a terminal ailment. “Take two Tylenol and when you wake up tomorrow morning you’ll be feeling much better.” And yes, like every sane person “I know it [this terminal ailment] will end in death.” So, don’t be sad. Carpe Diem – seize each day and enjoy every one of them to the best of your ability. Remember the inscription on the Roman Sundial – horas non numero nisi serenas – I count only the happy hours. Whatever you do, have no regrets. If you do have some, make your peace with them now – or as soon as you possibly can. And, when the call comes, go willingly. Step with pride and joy onto that new and unknown path that will lead you to an eternity of joy, acceptance, and love.
                   

Clepsydra 25 & 26

25

… how will it all end
     does it not need closure
          something to bring
               the water-wheel full circle
                    a golden key to open
                         what

the museum’s door
     memory’s door
          the archives where
               so many memories lie
                    gathering dust

though some may tell the truth
     whatever that is

or does the story go on and on
     never pausing
          never ending
               wrinkle after wrinkle
                    threaded through time
                         after time
                              the candle
                                    burning

the clepsydra
     dripping all life away
          the pendulum
               swaying
                    back and forth …

26

… Westminster Chimes
     chiming the quarters
          church bells
               ringing out a warning

the hills alive
     alight
          with burning beacons

what new armadas
     sailing now off our coast
          what fireflies flicker
               their thunderous roar
                    frightening birds in trees
                         driving deer
                              into the woods

how many people
     cast forth like bread
          upon the waters
               to return ten-fold

hark to the bells
     ringing out again
          St. Clement’s
               St. Martin’s
                    the Old Bailey
hark to the children singing
     dancing in a circle
          never-ending
               until the music ends

and the last child
     is caught by
          the lowering arms
               trapped
                    a fish flapping
                         in the osprey’s grasp …

Commentary:

I wonder how many people still sing the children’s song about the bells of London? Images from it – intertextuality – occur throughout Clepsydra.

“Oranges and lemons,”
ring the bells of St. Clement’s.

“You owe me five farthings,”
say the bells of St. Martin’s.

“When will you pay me,”
ask the bells of Old Bailey.

“When I grow rich,”
sing the bells of Shoreditch.

“And when will that be,”
sing the silver bells of Battersea.

“I do not know,”
booms the great bell at Bow.

“Here comes a candle
to light you to bed.
And here comes a chopper
to chop off your head.”

The song appeared at children’s parties. Two of them joined hands, held their hands high, like London’s Tower Bridge, and the children, in a long chain passed beneath the ‘bridge’ as the song was sung. At the end, the children speeded up and they tried to avoid the last verse when the bridge’s arms descended and two children were caught. These then had to replace the original two gate-keepers and the game started again. At least, that was how I remember it being played.

It is worth remembering how violent in their imagery children’s songs can be. The games seem sweet, but they often have dark undertones, some going back to the Black Death – “Ring a ring a rosies, a pocket full of posies, atishoo, atishoo, we all fall down.” If you don’t know what that all signifies, go down the rabbit hole with Alice and the white rabbit and look it all up! And find out what a farthing is, and a penny farthing – go on – I double-dog dare you!

And remember – poetry carries its own meaning – or multiple meanings – and they are not always easy to find. Dig, my friends, dig. There’s gold in them there hills.

Loss

Loss of …

By the time I remembered your name
I had forgotten your face,
and then I couldn’t recall
why I wanted to talk to you
in the first place.

Words and phrases bounce,
water off a duck’s back.

They sparkle like a high tide
rejected by the retriever
as he shakes his coat dry
on emerging from the sea.

This book I read is a word parcel,
a clepsydra of droplets
a rainbow strung with colored beads
each scoring a bull’s eye
on the world’s taut literary hide.

Mapa mundi of forgotten lands,
I trace dark landmarks
on the back of scarred hands
and wonder why I have never visited
faraway places with names
I cannot even pronounce.

Tourist guide to a failing memory,
I track the trails of drifting ships
as their white sails vanish,
blank butterflies from a distant summer,
floating over a darkening horizon.

Commentary:

I notice how my memory fails a little bit, day by day. I mis-spell a word. Forget a telephone number. Have to check a recipe three or four times – was it twenty minutes at 400F or 30 at 350F? Then I wonder how many spoons of sugar I put in my coffee. Worse, I forget whether I have taken all my tablets or not. I line them up in order, take them one by one, and still forget whether I took the last one or not. Oh dear.

I make shopping lists and check each item off as I put it in the cart. Then I check the cart to see if I did put the items in. Impulse buying. I haven’t seen Marmite on the shelves for some time now. So, every time I see it I buy it. Now I have four pots of Marmite in the cupboard. Animal Farm – Marmite good, Vegemite bad. And I can even say that in an Australian accent.

I forget words in English, but suddenly remember them in Welsh, French or Spanish. Then I forget them in the other languages as well. Last night I remembered callos in Spanish but forgot what they were in English. I had to ask my beloved and she reminded me that callos meant tripe. Great. I now knew what they were but I couldn’t remember why I wanted to know what they were in the first place.

This afternoon I looked everywhere for my glasses and then I remembered that I was wearing them. I have a little name tag that I wear when I go out. That way I will at least remember who I am. Now, I have just changed my coat – so where’s my name tag? As for my cell phone, I never call myself on it, so why should I remember the number anyway? I guess that’s it for now. I am sure I had something else I wanted to say, but I can’t remember what it was. Oh dear!

My First Thanksgiving

My First Thanksgiving

For the first twenty-two years of my life,
Thanksgiving had no meaning, no substance,
no shape, nor form, nothing to hold me.

When I emigrated to Canada,
my Canadian cousins changed all that.
when they invited me to come to
Kincardine for Thanksgiving.

They served a traditional Thanksgiving Dinner
with vegetables in colored jellies
and all sorts of things I had never seen.

We were all surprised
at how alike we looked.
Like Cousin George in Vancouver,
or Cousin Elsie in Revelstoke.

They told me how WWII
had brought the family back together
on these special holidays –
Christmas in Wales for the Canadian troops
or Thanksgiving in Winnipeg
for the Welsh boys learning to fly.

That thanksgiving, the old family names
turned into photographs before me.
Snaps of my mother’s wedding,
my grandmother holding me on her knee.

And finally, as a special Thanksgiving gift
a long-distance phone call to Britain
and Clare on the phone saying
yes she would come to Canada
and yes she would marry me.

And I remember crying
all the way back from Kincardine
to Toronto and that was my first
Thanksgiving in Canada.

Gaia

Santo Domingo
Worshipping Gaia before the great altar
in Santo Domingo

If the goddess is not carried in your heart
like a warm loaf in a paper bag beneath your shirt
you will never discover her hiding place

she does not sip ambrosia from these golden flowers
nor does she climb this vine to her heavenly throne
nor does she sit on this ceiling frowning down

in spite of the sunshine trapped in all this gold
the church is cold and overwhelming
tourists come with cameras not the people with their prayers

my only warmth and comfort
not in this god who bids the lily gilded
but in that quieter voice that speaks within me

and brings me light amidst all this darkness
and brings me poverty amidst all this wealth

Commentary:

A Golden Oldie from Sun and Moon – Poems from Oaxaca. The Church of Santo Domingo in Oaxaca, Mexico, contains approximately six tons of gold and gold leaf. Incredible. I visited it regularly, but rarely saw anyone else in there. The local people seemed to avoid it and tourists with cameras were the main visitors. I refuse to take pictures inside churches, for several reasons.

It has always amazed me that the Spaniards built their churches on the sites of previous places of religious worship. This is partly because the indigenous appreciated the sacredness of certain sites, and partly because it was to these sites that the indigenous had traveled prior to the arrival of the Spaniards. Interesting, too, that the Spaniards call their arrival the Discovery while the indigenous call it the Conquest. History – a coin with two different sides – and it is sometimes difficult to look at both sides at once. Malinche – heroine or traitress? Cortes – hero or murderer? And, as they used to say in Northern Ireland, during the troubles, one man’s freedom fighter is another man’s terrorist.

Spin the coin of history, by all means. But beware of seeing only ‘heads’ and forgetting that there are ‘tails’. And never reduce those ‘tails’ to mere ‘tales’. Neither the written tradition nor the oral tradition is infallible. Many people, quiet and secretive as they may be, have long memories. And remember too that all that glitters is not necessarily gold.

Clepsydra 23 & 24

23

… gulls on the wharf-side roof
     fishing boats
          returning to port
               white wakes trailing,
                    pointing to where they’ve been

where have I been
     all my life         

where is the wake
     that tracked me to and from
          so many unimportant places

so often have I waited
     for that moment of reunion
          port station airport

birds leaving nest
     only to return
          then leave again
               are not more faithful

sweet brevity of life
     a stone memorial
          on the harbour wall
               raised to all
                    who went to sea
                         and never returned
                              dying in the waves’ embrace …

24

… a watery grave
     no church no candles
          just cold waters sliding shut
               as down to the depths they go
                    

sinking from level to level
     never to rise again
          not till seas run dry
               burnt up by the sun’s candle

even then they’ll walk no more
          with their beloveds
               hand in hand
                    on diminishing land
                         or sea-licked sand …

Commentary:

“Birds leaving nest, only to return, then leave again, are not more faithful.” A lovely photo, from Avila, of storks, bouncing on their nests, waiting for the wind to lift them up aloft. I thought of using sea side photo from PEI, but this image caught my eye, and my words. A verbal – visual link. Not easy to spot, but there, in the sky above them, a parent waits. As soon as one chick takes flight, the watching parent will drop, fly under the fledgling’s wings, and tutor the young bird in the art of soaring and flying. I have spent many a happy hour, just sitting there, watching them.

And here’s the photo from PEI. An osprey, returning to the nest, after a fishing expedition. One hopes for such moments. Then, suddenly, one day, the magic happens, and verbal and visual joining hands in a single moment of magic. And listen to that baby bird, beak open, shrieking, waiting for the parent to arrive. I can still hear the screeching, although we are in the age of silent, but colorful, pictures.

In the picture below, the Grande Réunion – you can see the White Geese gathered at Bic. They return every year, so beautiful. The first time I saw them, I thought they were a drift of late snow. Then they rose from the field, and flew up, into the air. I have often seen snow falling but that was the first time I saw snow actually rising, after it had settled. A memorable moment.

Moments of magic, as I said, and each of them linked – verbal to visual. Silent dialogs with my time and my place, now shared with whoever has ears to hear and eyes to see and an imagination to reconstruct the alternate realities.

St. Mary Redcliffe

St. Mary Redcliffe

Time and Temple Meads
have begrimed your wand-thin spire,
the tallest in England.

You waved goodbye
to the Cabot boys,
Nova Scotia bound,
as they set sail.

Starling lime your belfry,
gift and inspiration
of Merchant Adventurers,
that gentlemen’s company.

Worms wriggle and gnaw
at your ship’s figure-head,
harbored now, bare-breasted,
sturdy in your oak-beam nave.

Rust rustles and creaks
at the Edney Gates,
wrought to last centuries
by Bristol ironmasters,
themselves apprenticed
to learn time’s laws.

Commentary:

Yesterday, via Zoom, I met with the Canadian Alumni of Bristol University. Sarah Price (Bristol Alumni Association) and Heather Proctor (Alumna) set the meeting up for us. Golden Oldies, all of us, we sat there and reminisced about our days, so long ago for most of us, at Bristol. I graduated in 1966, the same year I came to Canada. Most of the other alumni graduated long before I did. My last visit was in 1986 when I met with the Spanish Department, much changed, and talked abut my most recent research. One alumnus had visited just last year and talked of his returning to his old hall, his old room, his olde department, and all the changes that he had seen.

Most of those gathered had been in halls of one sort or another. Their experiences and friendships seemed very different to mine. Digs out in Knowle, Bristol, my first year. Then rooms in a rooming house, up by the Clifton Suspension Bridge, with other members of the Cross-Country team, for my next two years. Summers in Spain and France distanced me enormously from both England and the university. I remember coming back from Spain one summer and standing at the bus stop in Clifton, waiting for a bus to take me to Temple Meads Railway Station, a Number 18, if I remember correctly. Well, the bus arrived and drove towards me at enormous speed. It didn’t look as if the driver had any attention of stopping. So, I ran out into the road, waving my arms. He braked, gave me a very strange look, and asked me what I wanted. I said I wanted to go to Temple Meads. He said well get on the ****ing bus then. I looked at a great expanse of green metal, with windows, but no door, and asked him “Where’s the door?” Of course, after three months in Spain, like an idiot, I was standing on the wrong side of the road, and the wrong side of the bus. Such bitter-sweet memories.

I suppose I wasn’t a very good student. My only talent was speaking Spanish fluently. I worked hard at that, completely immersed in Santander, playing soccer on the sand, wandering through bars at night, learning to drink from a porrón and a bota without disgracing myself, and fishing on the weekends for panchos and julias in the Bay of Santander. I also learned how to row an old battered row boat, un bote. And it was all marvelous fun.

I also wrote a great deal of poetry and even managed to publish regularly in the Nonesuch Magazine. St. Mary Redcliffe, the poem above, dates from those days. I loved that church and visited it regularly. I wonder how many other Bristol students went in there and walked around inside. I also wonder how many stood with Jorge Luis Borges by the polished, black slate of the city hall, with its coal mine on the green, and gazed at their reflections in those shiny azabache mirrors. As I wrote yesterday on my blog – “How much can we know, your life of mine, my life of yours? At what point do those twin railway lines meet at the edge of time? Or are they doomed to a parallel universe where mind and mind, rail and rail, neither meet nor understand?” Sometimes, we can take a great joy in working out the answers to such questions. 

Tell us about a time when you felt out of place!

Tell us about a time when you felt out of place!

I think it would be much easier to tell you about a time when I felt as if I was in my proper place. There were so few of them. As for the original question – Tell us about a time when you felt out of place – I think that a time should be replaced by the many times. Learning languages has always been more of a pain than a pleasure, for me, anyway. In the Basque Country, Northern Spain, at first with my parents, and then on my own. Sitting at the table or standing in the kitchen, listening to people chattering away in Spanish some days, in Basque, on other occasions. I was reduced to interpreting looks, smiles, scowls, meaningless sounds … how could I have felt that I was in my proper place? Etiquette – I knew nothing about their etiquette. Culture – I knew nothing about their culture and they knew even less about mine. I lived in a world where waves of sound battered at my body and I stood there, a rock on a seemingly deserted linguistic beach, being gradually worn down by the endless waves and the eroding tides. How could I have felt anything but ‘out of place’?

The same thing happened when I became immersed in French culture. I spent some time in the South of France, in an area where Provencal was still spoken. Between the two languages and the differing accents, I was lost, lost, lost.

Something similar happened when I came to Canada. Here, it wasn’t the language that baffled me, but the culture. I remember trying to learn to skate. My cousin played Junior “B” hockey and volunteered to teach me. Well, I learned very slowly (a) to keep my balance and (b) to move forwards very slowly. However, I couldn’t skate back wards and I couldn’t stop. In spite of that, I decided to try and play hockey. The park close to where I lived in Toronto had a frozen area where the little kids played shinny. I asked if I could join in. After three falls and a total inability to stick handle in any known fashion, they stuck me in goal. I used the goalie’s stick to try and stand up. After the third or fourth goal, one five or six year old whisked up to me, stopped in a sideways shower of ice, and said “Sir, please sir, you’re allowed to use the stick to stop the puck, you know.” I retired from ice hockey soon after that, and from skating. I did learn to cross-country ski, though. I also earned the name Wapiti (white-tailed deer) long before I saw one or knew what it meant.

And that is all just scratching the surface. I could say more, so much more. But I’ll control myself.

Clepsydra 18-20

18

… as free as the birds
     a sky full at North Cape
          where shores retreat
               year after year
 
the big red mud diminishes
     under advancing waters
          sea-threatened cliffs
               undermined roads
                    houses
                         the lighthouse

gulls follow the fishing boats
     herring gulls
          blotting out
               sun and sky
                    above the reef

with its seals
     basking in sunshine
          knowing themselves
               being themselves
                    thinking themselves safe

kings and queens
     of their sealdom
          never questioning …

19

… an osprey
     sudden the swoop
          turned into a stoop

water shattered
     total immersion
          then emerging
               with lusty thrusts of wings

claws clasping
     imprisoned prey
          prised from the sea
               raised to the skies
                    up and away
                         murderer and victim

oblivious below
     the black horse
          with cart and farmer
               gathering seaweed

all of them
     having no doubts
          safe in the security
               of their roles …

20

… while lost in the labyrinth
      I searched for a thread
               on life’s loom

a thread woven
     by an unknown
          unseen hand
               a hand and thread
                    I could never control

yet one day
     that thread
          will lead me out
               from the dark

then shall I see
     the sun’s great candle
          beneath which red rocks
               wave and water battered
                    crumble

here at North Cape
     in a way that nobody
          can understand …

Commentary:

The osprey “emerging with lusty thrusts of wings, claws clasping, imprisoned prey prised from the sea, raised to the skies, up and away, murderer and victim.” The words are based on the photograph. A quiet day, somebody shouted, and pointed, and clickety-click, I was lucky enough to capture the whole thing on my digital camera. This one shot summarizes it all.

The stanzas (16 & 17) that precede this moment are available here. Clepsydra, the book, is one single poem, one single sentence, that rambles on and on. Each stanza stands alone, each poem (numbered) stands alone, and the whole book stands alone as a single sentence summarizing what I have seen and where I have been. Bakhtinian Chronotopos – my dialog with my time and my place. In this case, my many dialogs with my multiple times and multitudinous places.

Albert Camus lent me the phrase ‘murderer and victim’. ‘Nous sommes, ou meurtrier ou victime‘. Quoted from memory. I hope I am not too far wrong. My memory fades as I age. Louis Aragon suggested I borrow his line “rois tombés de leurs chariots” – that I found in his collection Il ne m’est Paris sans Elsa. Here, I have applied it to the seals at North Cape, PEI – “seals – basking in sunshine – kings and queens of their sealdom.” Intertextuality – texts talking to texts and recalling segments of texts within other texts.” Wonderful. Alas, I fear the coming days when the memory may no longer be so clear. ‘What will be, will be’ said the Osprey as he pulled the flounder from the sea and carried him too his nest in a nearby tree.