Discourse Analysis

As Right as Rain

As Right as Rain

It’s the day after the night before
and I awake to an ache
in each of my arms.

I went to bed early, at ten,
and slept until eight-thirty,
but my AI watch tells me
that I only got six hours sleep.

I found a bump in the bed,
on the right side,
when I look towards the window.

I must have lain my arm against it,
during the night. It was so sore,
my right arm, the Covid arm,
when I got up this morning,
but the left arm, the flu arm,
was perfectly alright, except for
a little itch, and a tiny tingle,
like the jingle of elf-bells.

Black coffee and an aspirin
soon cleared it all up, and now
I am as good as new,
as right as rain,
except the rain that fell last night
brought power losses, cold,
and an absence of warmth and light,
and that sort of rain is not all right.

Commentary:

That’s a golden oldie from a couple of years back. I did both jabs in the same arm this year and didn’t feel a thing. It didn’t rain either, but look at the muck coming down in the photo – we had a bit of that a couple of days ago. Welcome to our Canadian half-winter. We used to get 3 metres / ten feet of snow every winter. Last year I only used the snowblower of three occasions. No wonder I think of it as a half-winter – winter ain’t what it used to be.

Carved in Stone 61 & 62

Carved in Stone
61

Water through the water clock,
water off a duck’s back,
the waters of life,
continually flowing,
trapped in our children
and their children,
and the love we create
never lost, just circling,
like the hands of the clock,
like the planets and stars.

But who will wind up
the clockwork universe,
and tend the mechanism
that balances planets and stars?

What will happen
when the clockwork
finally runs down,
the last candle is snuffed,
and the water clock dries up?

62

Whoever, whatever remains
will be left to contemplate
Ozymandias with his two vast
and trunkless legs of stone,
standing in the desert.

“Look on my works,
ye mighty, and despair.”

Commentary:

“Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.” Well, Moo does have a sense of humor after all. I thought he did. From Ozymandias to the meaning of “works” to the destiny of the work we did. What a journey. It goes from the joy of the children who build a snowman to the warm spring wind that melts him to the crows and the dog who do what crows and doggies do. Intertextuality – the links between verbal and visual and think about it – such strange things happens in Moo’s creative mind.

But what do we leave behind? Think about it. Only the wake of the ship in which we sail. The wake – that white trail we leave behind us, on the surface of the sea, slowly vanishing as we also vanish, pulling away into the unknown that always lies ahead. Moo is right – so many things disappear out of the frame of the painting. “There are no pockets in shrouds” said the preacher in the hospital where I took my father, so long ago for treatment.

And even if there were, how would you fit a snowman, several crows, a cardinal, and the rear end of a dog into the pocket? “Contemplate Ozymandias with his two vast and trunkless legs of stone, standing in the desert. Now contemplate the fate of the snowman. Now look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.”


Banks of the Seine

Banks of the Seine

Gnawing at the carcass of an old song,
my mind, a mindless dog, chasing its tail,
turning in circles, snapping at the fragment
of its own flesh, flag flourished before it,
tournons, tournons, tournons toujours,
as Apollinaire phrased it, on a day
when I went dogless, walking on a mind-leash
before the Parisian bouquinistes who sold,
along the banks of the Seine, such tempting
merchandise, and me, hands in pockets,
penniless, tempted beyond measure,
by words, set out on pages, wondrous,
pages that, hands free, I turned, and turned,
plucking words, here and there, like a sparrow,
or a pigeon, picks at the crumbs thrown away
by pitying tramps, kings, fallen from chariots,
as Éluard wrote, and me, a pauper among riches,
an Oliver Twist, rising from my trance, hands out,
pleading, “Please, sir, can I have some more?”

Commentary:

Intertextuality – how many different texts can you recognize in this one piece of verse? I can count six reminiscences of other poets, ones that have influenced me to a lesser or greater extent. A couple of novelists lurk in the shadows as well. Fascinating, eh? Do these voices echo in any other ears than mine? Good question – and does it matter if they do or they don’t? The main thing is that they harmonize, the old world with the new, the centuries that went before with the one that is with us now. Quevedo – “Vivo en conversación con los difuntos y escucho con mis ojos con los muertos.” I live in conversation with the defunct and I listen with my eyes to the dead.

And look at that painting. No, not the Banks of the Seine, but the banks of the Fundy, near St. Andrews. And it’s Moo, at his best, doing a cross between a cartoonist, a genuine artist, a surrealist, and an amateur artist who lends his paintings to friends when they want a picture of water, or a river bank, or something or someone else that will add to the intertextuality of his works. Yea, Moo. Go Team Moo, go. Long may you survive and work together.

Carved in Stone 53

Carved in Stone
53

Nor do I belong
in the Aztec city of Tenochtitlán
with its cruel stone gods.

Built originally
in the middle of a great lake,
it defied all comers, and held
the mighty Cortés at bay.

Human sacrifices, night and day –
what is it that makes some people,
carve and shape the living flesh
of others, as if it were wood or stone?

Who could admire a culture,
based on human sacrifice,
death, blood flowing,
just to keep the sun in the sky,
red at its dawning,
westering in the evening
into a sea of blood.

Commentary:
“Man’s inhumanity to man.” Robbie Burns, if I remember correctly. Thus it was and thus it always will be. Man’s need for space, for room around him. The need to establish himself and his own tribe and oust the other. The need to target the other to prove the weakness of those who do not belong. So many ways to target, including humor and jokes, all pointed at the targeted individual.

“What’s the most dangerous job in Ireland?” – “Riding shotgun on the garbage truck. “The jokes never change, just the targets. For Ireland, substitute England, France, Canada, Wales, Scotland. For a country, substitute a town – Fredericton, Island View, Saint John, London, Cardiff, Dublin, Paris. Okay, so they are cities, not towns, but you know what I mean.

Let’s change the joke. “How do you get the [choose one or more] English, Irish, Scottish, French, Welsh, Germans, Italians, out of your front yard?” “Put your garbage cans in your back yard.” And so it goes on and on. Like old Father Thames, who just keeps rolling along, down to the deep blue sea.

Why, I ask myself, why, why, why, do we have to diminish someone else in order to appear strong ourselves? Is it just human nature? Is it the nature of some people? Do all people behave in the same way? If you have the answers, or any answer, the same instructions as usual, send it to me on the back of a postcard, by dog sled, via the North Pole. And if you’re feeling generous, put a $5 bill in the envelope. It will help me pay the lawyer’s bill for suggesting such outrageous nonsense.

Carved in Stone 51 & 52

Carved in Stone
51

Time, shape, and location –
the Templars’ Castle
in Ponferrada,
considered impregnable,
but it had no water works,
no moat.

Napoleon placed his cannon
on the hills above
and fired down into the bailey,
shattering walls, gates, and doors.

Again, only the ruins remain
inhabited by choughs
that nest in the walls,
and rise up in stormy clouds
when visitors disturb them.
 
I go there on a sunny day
and wonder when the castle drowses
if it dreams of its former glories,
ground down into the dust.

52

I climb a ruined wall
and watch white clouds
as they gather over the hills,
then roll down into the valley –
a cavalry charge of plunging horses.

So easy to see
Santiago Matamoros,
St. James the Moor Slayer,
descending from the clouds
to rescue the Christian army.

I study the skies
and see something secret,
almost mythical,
carved from the mists of time.

But this not my land
and these are not my people
nor my legends.

I sense I am not welcome here,
that I can never belong,
and I decide to move on.

Commentary:
“I sense that I am not welcome here, that I can never belong, time to move on.” Sad words – but we live in a world that, all too often, has turned its back on people. More, it has turned them into numbers and statistics, and number sand statistics are not flesh and blood. Tragic really. And doubly tragic the labels that are stuck on people. So hard to get off, those sticky labels, for they are designed not to come off easily, but to linger, like sticky plastic wrappers in the grocery store.

James Bond – 007 – interesting – but I am not a number, though I have had numbers attached to me all my life, as have you and all the people you know. Number plates on cars, telephone numbers, Medicare numbers, dental care numbers, bank account numbers, driving license numbers, student numbers, graduate student numbers, library card numbers – and now passwords, a mixture of numbers, letters (small and capital), and signs, all jumbled in such a way as to make things inaccessible for those who do not know the numbers. An alien world, my friends, for the numbers, those numbers, are much more important than we are, and each of us, like it or not, is reduced to a number, or a label, or a recognizable feature or nick-name.

So, how do we belong? How do we fit in? How do we survive? If we are lucky, we have small communities that thrive around us and look after us. But sometimes we are left alone. All alone. And then we have nothing to belong to, no sense of being, of belonging, no sense of a valued place in life, of being worthy. And when our worthlessness sinks in, then we sink lower, and lower, and we wake up one day and realize that it is all over and that the end is near, for we have nothing, not even the desire to live on.

Carved in Stone 44

Carved in Stone
44

The old man, withered,
last house on the left,
leaning on his garden wall,
coughing, spitting up
coal dust and blood.

He’s not old, when you get close,
just grown old, underground,
where emphysema
and pneumoconiosis
devour men and boys.

He spits on the side walk.
Mining souvenirs,
Max Boyce calls them,
and they appear
every time the young man,
turned suddenly old,
starts to cough.

He can’t walk far,
wearing carpet slippers,
soft and furry,
just leans on the wall.

He fell, or was pushed,
into the trap at an early age,
when the coal seams
had grown so thin,
that only a small boy
could kneel before
the coal black altar
of the underground god
and, with a pick and shovel,
he learned to carve and shape
the long, slow death
contained in those seams.

Commentary

Moo’s painting, Coal Face, adorns the front cover of Carved in Stone, Chronotopos II. Coal Face is not the denigration of Black Face, white men pretending to be black by dyeing their faces, although they have some similarities. In Welsh Mining, the coal face is where the men used to dig when, with their shovel and their pick and their little lamp and wick, they knelt to dig out the coal. Knelt, because there was no standing room, deep down underground. Then, when the seams grew thinner, and the men could no longer reach them, the young boys were sent underground.

A day underground left men and boys with coal dust seamed into their bodies, especially their hands and their faces. Hence the triple meaning of black face – where the coal is dug, what men and boys looked like after a day’s work, and the blackening of their faces by white men, for the fun of it.

Faces are one thing, coal dust in the lungs is another. The result – emphysema and pneumoconiosis devour men and boys. Black lung, some call it. “And every time he coughs, he gets a mining souvenir” – a black spot coughed up on the sidewalk – Max Boyce.

Child labor, minimum wage, living wage, work that kills, slowly and silently, – what can I say? Forgive me, for I can say no more.

Carved in Stone 43

Carved in Stone
43

Back home, in that little cul-de-sac,
the husbands are away,
working their night shifts,
while the wives are at home,
entertaining the truckers,
those long-distance drivers,
who park in that street and lodge there,
overnight, in the houses.

The children, boys and girls,
go out into the street,
climb into the trucks,
duck under the tarpaulins,
and, with all of us sworn to silence,
practice what their elders
are doing back home.

Commentary:
Monkey see, monkey do. And who knows what Monkey sees or does when the lights are turned out, darkness descends, and the honor of the blood cult takes control. Ask the animals, they will teach you. That was the motto of Bristol Zoo, where the Monkey Temple ruled, and Alfred the Gorilla and Rosie, the Elephant, were King and Queen of the beasts.

Knowledge – where does it come from? How do we attaint it? Is there a difference between knowledge, what is known, felt, and worked out for yourself, and education, when you obey orders and do what you are told to do (and how to do it). “We don’t need no education, we don’t need no thought control.” I have always loved Pink Floyd and The Wall. So many walls, so many barriers, so many things to break down in order to build them up again. Songs – Frank Sinatra – “I did it my way!” And who teaches what and to whom, underneath the tarpaulin when the lights are out? “Hey, teacher, leave those kids alone.”

And beware of anyone who tells you that “we teach you to think outside the box.” That person will only give you a slightly bigger box, of his or her own making, inside of which you will be forced to think.

Of course, there are other ways in which we can think about education. How about this one? Filling empty heads with knowledge. How many ways are there to do this? And what is the exact content of the jug from which the knowledge will flow? And how many sows’ ears does it take to make a silk purse? “Hey, teacher, leave those kids alone.” Giddy up, Neddy I’m on my hobby horse now.

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 37

Carved in Stone
37

A great blue heron,
half-buried in the sand,
lies, covered in flies.

What words could I carve
in sand beside his grave?

What words would I carve
on mine?
What could anyone say?

I guess I could say
that I was happy,
in spite of the pain,
but would I do it
all again?

Commentary:

I guess I could say that I was happy, in spite of the pain, but would I do it all again? – Good question, and I have no answer to that question. Is life circular? Do we pass on from existence to existence, learning as we go? Some religions think so. Do the participants and believers have a choice? That I do not know.

Would we, like the English cricket team currently in Australia, make the same mistakes again and again, never learning from each dismissal, never learning from the blows given to another’s body or head? All good questions. Or would we learn from each life, each circumstance, slowly ascending a sort of Platonic Ladder until we climbed to the highest level of perfection? Who knows? I most certainly don’t. Nor do I know where the light and the flame go when I blow out the candle.

So many mysteries, as the fate of my little bird was a mystery, as the fate of the fish in the first photo was also a mystery. Albert Camus – meurtriers ou victimes? Are these the only choices that we have, to be the predator or the prey? I most certainly hope not. Libre albedrío – free will in the Calderonian world of the seventeenth century in Spain. But how free are we? What cultural and developmental chains bind us, pull us down, and are we surrounded by our childhood and our culture, and our education, in such a way that we have little or no choice in how we think and what we do?

Answers by air mail, please, and tied to the back of a great blue heron, preferably the one in the upper photo, not in the lower one!

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.

Commentary:
Moo suggested I use this painting of his to illustrate this poem. He called it originally The Olde Order Passeth, but the original phrase, from Tennyson’s Idylls of the King, should really be The Olde Order Changeth, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

And yes, things do change. Here we have a fourteen line sonnet. Structure giving order to chaos. And words change, the world changes, our thoughts change, the weather changes. Hymns Ancient and Modern – Age and decay in all around I see, oh thou who changeth not, abide with me.

And what do we do when we meet with change? Weather – I change my clothes. There is no such thing as bad weather, only inadequate clothing. It used to be a useful saying, that one, but not any longer. When change changes into disaster, it is a very different kettle of fish. Thoughts change – mine just did. A useful phrase suddenly becomes an inadequate reaction to a changing situation. The world changes – sometimes for better, sometimes for worse, but how do we, each one of us, confront that change? How do we adapt to it?

I know far too many people who, like the ostrich, bury their heads in the sand and pretend that change is not all around us, that the world is the same as it always was. We humans are experts at adapting. We must adapt. But how do we adapt? Each one of us must answer that question in his or her own way. The alternative is to close our eyes, bury our heads, and pretend that nothing is happening.

Another alternative is to seek within for that 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. Perhaps that is the world the ostrich discovers when he removes himself from this world and enters that other one beneath the sand. Who knows? Not even the ostrich, I would guess.