Dreams

Rage, Rage 38

Rage, Rage
38

Now, my heart is once more
a time-bomb ticking
beneath her fingers.

I dream of walking tall,
with her by my side,
in the youthful paradise
of a distant,
long-promised land.

My tom-tom heart,
softening clay,
putty beneath her fingers,
thumps out a hoodoo
voodoo beat on its drum.

Victor Sylvester,
and his orchestra,
Sundays on BBC radio,
announces his signature rhythm –
slow, slow, quick, quick, slow –
my mind waltzes to the music
plucked from my heart strings.

Wild winds blow in from the shore
buffeting my heart, breaking it apart.
Blown open, in spite of my dreams,
my secret is not a secret anymore.

Comment:

Absent without leave, I have chased the dreams of rugby and cricket and abandoned my poetry until another today. And here I am, a week after St. David’s Day, still dreaming, still raging, still recalling so many things.

Wild winds blow in from the shore buffeting my heart, breaking it apart. You can see, in the photo above, the wind tugging at the waves. A lurid sky fills with heavy clouds and oncoming rain. My heart is out there somewhere, wave-washed, blown open by the simple beauty of wind and sea.

How many now recall Victor Sylvester on BBC Radio on a Sunday afternoon? Or the Billy Cotton Band Show? That was our Sunday afternoon entertainment long before we had TV. You can’t imagine it, can you? A world without TV. So many things fade away from far too many people.

Who now will talk of my Voce and my Larwood, long ago? How many saw Hammond at his best, with his imperial cover drive? Ken Jones? Cliff Jones? JJ and JPR? Lloyd and Bleddyn? Old visions, buffet my heart, breaking it apart. Frank Worrall in Swansea at St. Helen’s. Everton De Courcy Weekes at Bristol, in the County Ground. I have the photos. I have the memories. And I have a broken heart when I remember things, some personal, some not, that so few people do.

Rage, Rage 30 & 31

Rage, Rage
30

A pack of miniature wolves
infiltrated the midnight forest
flourishing in my other lung.

When the pibroch played,
they pointed their noses
at the spot where the full moon
would have been, if
I had invited her in.

They mingled their howls
with the bagpipes’ caterwaul
and I lay awake all night
with my heart beating
arrhythmic suspicions
on its blood red drum.

The drum played,
the pibroch wailed,
the wolves howled,
my body lay scarred by
an absence of sleep
and the presence of moonlight
that drove stars from the sky
and filled the room with shadows
and shifting shapes.

31

The full moon drew up water,
imposed high tides,
drew the wolves
by their drawstrings
out of my chest.

The piper paid his rent,
packed up his pipes,
took a sip of his whisky,
Bell’s – ‘a drop before ye go,’
and marched away,
leaving me alone.

Now silence rules my lungs.
Five deer stand silent
in the woods beneath my window.
I watch them watch the piper
pipe himself away.

It’s all over now,
the cough, the splutter,
the aches and pains
that told me I was alive.

I miss
the swish and roar
of my incoming,
outgoing breath.

Comment:

The piper marched away, leaving me alone. That’s the funny thing about pain, especially in our old age. It lets us know that yes, we are still alive. I know we are better off without it, but when it is there, it is better than the emptiness that will follow when we slip into the dark night that awaits us. Or perhaps it will be the golden dawn of another age. Many people tell us many things, but I don’t know how many people really and truly know. As I get older, I speculate more and more.

I once asked my grandfather if he was worried about dying. He looked at me for a long time. Then he said, “Well, one thing’s for certain. I know I am going to die. I’ll die if I worry about it and I’ll die if I don’t worry about it. So why worry about it?” He was a wonderful man with a wonderful attitude about so many things. But then he had survived the trenches in WWI and there weren’t many things he hadn’t seen. He rarely talked about it, but when he did, he told the most wonderful stories. And he sang all the old WWI songs too. A one man entertainment act for the small boy that would climb up onto his lap and say “Grandpa, tell me a story….” and he would begin “Once upon a time…” and that was the start of the magic.

And it’s the magic that we need. The magic that is so often missing in this age of information overload. “What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare.” Nor do we have any time to crawl into grandpa’s lap and seek those magic words – the words that start the willing suspension of disbelief – “once upon a time, a long time ago …” And, with a wave of the magic wand we are transported into a wonderland of dream and magic.

Rage, Rage 26 with Bonus Poem

Rage, Rage
26

In my dreams, I track 
the sails of drifting ships,
white moths fluttering
before the wind.

I think I have caught them
in overnight traps,
but they fly each morning
in dawn’s unforgiving light.

I give chase
with pen and paper,
fine butterfly nets
with which to catch
and tame wild thoughts.

I grasp at things
just beyond my fingertips.

I wake up each morning
unaware of where
I have traveled
in my dreams.

Comment:

White moths fluttering before the wind – my dreams at night. How do I trap them, catch them, squeeze them between my fingers, hold them, pin them to the show case of memory? I remember in Oaxaca – the young boys, trapping the moths. Huge, gigantic butterflies, moths, as large as birds. They severed their wings, and sold them to the passing tourists. Such beauty, such colour.

I heard an angry buzzing, looked down, and saw flightless bodies, wings clipped, rowing their stumps of bunt oars, skidding sideways across the gutters, and dreaming painfully of the stars.

Bonus Poem

Dreams

White moths fluttering
before the wind
my dreams at night.

How do I catch them,
trap them,
pin them
in memory’s showcase?

In Oaxaca
young boys traps moths.
Gigantic moths,
huge jungle butterflies,  
as large as birds.

They cut off their wings,
sell them like postcards
to passing tourists.

I hear
an angry buzzing
and look down.

Flightless bodies,
wings clipped,
rowing stumps of blunt oars,
skidding sideways
across the gutters
dreaming painfully
about the stars.

Rage, Rage 26

Rage, Rage
26

In my dreams, I track 
the sails of drifting ships,
white moths fluttering
before the wind.

I think I have caught them
in overnight traps,
but they fly each morning
in dawn’s unforgiving light.

I give chase
with pen and paper,
fine butterfly nets
with which to catch
and tame wild thoughts.

I grasp at things
just beyond my fingertips.

I wake up each morning
unaware of where
I have traveled
in my dreams.

Comment:

White moths fluttering before the wind – my dreams at night. How do I trap them, catch them, squeeze them between my fingers, hold them, pin them to the show case of memory? I remember in Oaxaca – the young boys, trapping the moths. Huge, gigantic butterflies, moths, as large as birds. They severed their wings, and sold them to the passing tourists. Such beauty, such colour.

I heard an angry buzzing, looked down, and saw flightless bodies, wings clipped, rowing their stumps of bunt oars, skidding sideways across the gutters, and dreaming painfully of the stars.

Losing Your Language

Losing Your Language

To lose your language is to lose
your butterfly soul as it flutters
to reach life’s sweet-scented rose.

So much butterflies see at night,
released from their earthbound bodies,
roving in dreams, among the stars.

They enter ancient rooms where friends,
return at night, pale ghosts outlined
among the wall’s flickering shadows.

You, tongue-tied and silent, earth-bound
indeed, are as small as a fly, struggling
in a spider web of voiceless words.

You yearn for the freedom of flight,
for the liberty of culture restored,
for the return of your own lost world.

Comment:

Tongue-tied and earthbound – it happens. The ties that bind snap one day, the kite takes flight and is soon lost among the clouds. What happens when the river runs underground and we lose sight of everything we once knew it by? No more trout, the waters ripping as they rise to the flies. No more tinkle of water over stone, or the rushing roar of the spring freshet. No mor coolness beneath the trees. Ephemeral beauty – here today and gone tomorrow. A moment rejoicing, and a lifetime lamenting. Sorrow, like tears, is in all things.

Carpe diem – seize the day. Sip slowly at beauty’s cup. Enjoy life while you can. Make the most of every hour of sunlight and, like the sundial, count only the happy hours. And make each one count.

Rage, Rage 22 & 23

Rage, Rage,
22

I trace dark contours,
scarred desiccated lines
blurred on the back
of my wrinkled hands.

Blood maps, they are,
unremembered encounters
with immovable objects,
wounds that bleed freely,
deep below the surface,
subcutaneous.

23

When I dream,
I imagine the sky
to be a crystal ball,
twinkling with stars
that tell the time
and my fate.

With silent steps
they creep and steal
hours, days, weeks, years,
whittling my life away,
splintering it
a little bit more
every day.

Time, like golden sand,
trickles through
night’s fingers.

I hold in my hands
an hourglass
through which my life,
secretly, silently,
slides down
and trickles away.

Comment:

“Unremembered encounters with immovable objects,” – oh dear. Anti-coagulants, blood-thinners for short. Moo’s skin is dry anyway. Now that he’s on anti-coagulants, he bruises every time he bumps into something. And Moo bumps into things. He’s one of those people who fall out of bed and go bump in the night. How do I know? He stole my teddy bear and my teddy bear told me. Anyway, his cardiologist calls it collateral damage. A sort of side dish that arrives when ever he stumbles into anything. That’s Moo, not the cardiologist.

As for me, I miss the old myths. I love the idea of the platonic, terra-centric universe. The planets move back wards and forwards around the earth in a slow dance. In order to dance, you need music. So the Platonic creator is a master musician who pays the harp. The stars dance to his music. Fray Luis de León uses this Neo-Platonism in his poetry. For him the sky is ‘un gran transunto donde vive mejorado todo lo que es, lo que será, y lo que ha pasado’. – a large space where, much improved, dwells everything that is, that will be, and that ever was. A lovely thought. Nothing is lost. Everything is saved – but in a state of betterment, all mistakes erased.

Moo would like that. His collateral damage all turned back into perfect skin. Oh dear. He wouldn’t be happy. He’d have nothing to paint. I am sure he paints his bruises when he runs out of inspiration.

Rage, Rage 18

Rage, Rage
18


I nod off again and dream
of a summer beach,
burning sand, tide way out,
sparkling waves, clouds moving,
inaudible, as they drift by.

I dream of my beginning
and find a forlorn formlessness
that sought the solace of sound
only to discover waves and wind
as I drifted on an amniotic sea.

The wind of change has blown.
I awake and pick up my book.

Voltaire –
“Si jeunesse savait,
si vieillesse pouvait.”

“If youth knew,
if age were able to.”

Comment:

The wind of change has blown and, by all accounts, it is still blowing. A Nor’ Easter here, swinging down from the Arctic and bringing us cold weather, ice, and more snow. Driving isn’t too bad, for the roads are cleared regularly, especially when schools are in. Most enterprises have cleaned, salted, and sanded their premises. Some haven’t. Yesterday, it took two people to move my shopping cart from the shop to the car, a matter of about thirty yards. The wind was so strong. It tussled and tugged, drove me where I didn’t want to go, and two people stepped in to help me. Then I discovered an undug doorway. I parked my car at a sharp upward angle, on the snow. A man offered me his arm. I said no, but he stood beside me, hands held out to help, just in case. Leaving that same shop, I was accompanied by a young lady who insisted on carrying my bags, taking my arm, and leading me to my car. The dangers of falling on down hill ice were even greater than going uphill.

I dream of my beginning, more and more often nowadays and now-a-nights. I know, spell check underlined that word. A neologism, not a proper word. But I like it, for though I dream by day, nodding suddenly into a shallow sleep, it is by night that I really do my dreaming.

At night, I find I can roam a world that has become hostile in the light of day. I can, and do, dream of my childhood on the Gower Peninsula. The fields are still there. My grandmother walks among the bluebells, and together we tell the time by the old dandelion clock. The larks still rise on Bishopston Common and Bluebells, Cowslips, and Primroses still hide beneath the trees. The sands at Brandy Cove are still clean. There is no pollution in my dreams and no oilers clear their tanks in the pristine waters of the Severn Estuary. There is no industrial haze and, on a clear day, I can still see, from the steps of the bungalow, Ilfracombe, across the bay.

And the people – my family and friends are still there. My uncles and aunts, my cousins, all young still, my parents and my grandparents … and all my dogs return, one by one, from their canine adventures. At night the cows can be heard crunching grass, and wheezing in my dreams. I met one, once, on a night trip to the outhouse – we had no indoor plumbing. And, on one memorable night, I stepped into a wet, warm cow patty, left like an anti-personal landmine, just outside the back door. I still shiver as I think of that warmth creeping up between my toes. No amount of wiping has ever really removed it. It haunts like the ghosts of summers past that drift at midnight round my room. waiting to be plucked from the air.

Rage, Rage 4

Rage, Rage
4

I walk from room to room,
startled by shadows,
and open doors,
search under the table,
look behind chairs.

Nothing. No one.
The house stands
still and empty,
but for the sadness,
the silent sadness,
that fills each room
with their remembered
presence.

Commentary:

Absence and presence. How many of us feel that something is there, walking beside us, or just behind us? How many feel that an empty room is not empty, but is filled with a presence, something we feel, half-recognize?

I have been in houses, invited for the night, where I would not sleep. Why? I do not know. But I felt a presence, a prescience, if you wish, that filled me with a desire to leave and not to stay.

What is it? Is it other memories, other lives, that impinge upon ours in this current time frame? I do not know. But I do know that there are houses and rooms in which I will not stay. I also know that there are others that throw open warm arms to welcome me.

Look at Moo’s painting(s). How many of them welcome us in? Do some of them shut us out and make us shiver with a fear, not of the unknown, but of the hardly-remembered, that lies in wait to shake us out of this dream which is our present life?

Rage, Rage 2 & 3


Rage, Rage
2

These problems start the day
you realize you are alone.
Your beloved goes away,
for a holiday,
to be with your daughter
and grandchild.

Now the house and the cat
are yours, and yours alone.
No problem you say and
everyone believes you.

You jumped in the car,
drove daughter, and child,
holidays done,
to the airport.

Your beloved went with them,
her holiday about to begin.
And that’s when it all began.

3

When I come back home
from leaving them at the airport,
the front door stands open.

I thought I had closed it
when we left.
I tip-toe in and call out
“Is anybody there?”

Echo answers me –
‘… there, there, there …”

Commentary:

Raymond Guy LeBlanc, one of my favorite Acadian poets, published his poetry book, Cri de Terre, in 1972. My painter friend Moo, who also likes Acadian poetry, borrowed the title and changed it slightly when he painted this painting – Cri de Coeur. Earth Cry / Heart Cry.
What is all creativity, visual of verbal, but a cry from the land or a cry from the heart? Sometimes it is more than a cry – it becomes a clarion call, a shout out, a calling out.

So many of us are born with creativity in our hearts. So few of us carry that creativity, be it verbal or visual, into the adult world, a world that all too often grinds us down and sifts us out. We become grey people in grey clothing sitting behind grey desks beneath artificial lighting, doing grey jobs that slowly turn us into nine to five (or longer) dusts.

Moo has promised me a series of red paintings for this sequence. We shall see how he does. Red for anger, red for age, a red flag for danger, a red rag to wave at the raging bull of life, to provoke it, then bring it under control.

Nadolig Llawen – Welsh for Have a Joyous Festive Season. You can add other languages, as you wish. But above all remember Pedro Calderon de la Barca’s words – “Life is a dream and dreams are nothing but dreams.” One day, we shall all wake up. Artists and dreamers, grey ghosts and people of straw and dust.


Carved in Stone 72 & 73

Carved in Stone
72

Is this world I create real?
Of course it isn’t.

It exists only in my head,
and on the page,
but perhaps, one day,
you too will see
the things I have seen.

Yet the world I describe
is as unreal as the words
from which it is woven.

73

Heraclitus once wrote
we can never bathe
in the same river twice.

This is the Catch 22
faced by all poets,
to remember,
and to try to recreate.

Shadow hands on cave walls,
colored pictographs on gesso,
hieroglyphics on papyrus,
ink on paper, raw words,
and in the end,
everything reduced
to these three little letters
carved in stone –

RIP

Commentary:

If you have read this far, we have walked a long journey together – 73 verses that comment on life and the meaning of life. Hard reading in places, easy in others. I trust you have enjoyed the journey and found some stops and resting points along the way in which to contemplate the ways in which the threads of your own life intermingle with mine.

Throughout this journey, I have tried to use a four step process. (1) Verbal – the poems themselves. (2) Visual – photos that intertwine with the verbal. (3) A Commentary – that goes beyond the verbal and visual and opens up the ideas a little more. (4) A Dialog between myself – the poet – and Moo – the visual artist who has so frequently loaned me his paintings when he thinks they illustrate my words.

It’s been a topsy-turvy journey through what Bakhtin calls a world of carnival, where little is at it seems, and the world is turned upside down. That said, we have a clear choice – to slide down the downside of this life, or to scale the upside, to contemplate, with joy and happiness, the world from those heady heights.

Blessings. Pax amorque.
And thank you for travelling with me.