Existence

Time Flies

Time Flies

… bends like a boomerang,
flies too rapidly away,
limps back to the hand.

Endless this shuffle of unmarked
days dropping off the calendar.

Hands stop on the clock.
The pendulum swings:
time and tide stand still,
do not move.

‘As idle as a painted ship
upon a painted ocean.’

The painting in my grandma’s room:
seemingly moving seas,
sails swelling out,
but the ship doesn’t move,
it stays firm in its frame.

Our garden fills with birds
and squirrels, light and dark.
Morning ablutions: each day
a twin of the day before.

The TV screen churns ceaselessly,
tired, shadow faces boring us
with shallow wit
and worn-out wisdom.

Time:
an albatross around the neck,
an emu, an ostrich, a dodo,
an overweight bumble bee,
too clumsy, too heavy to fly.

What brings a tear of joy to your eye?

What brings a tear of joy to your eye?

Peeling onions, of course. As my Welsh grandfather told me, years and years ago

“If, if, if,
onions climbed a cliff,
potatoes would rise
with watery eyes
if it wasn’t for if.”

There you have it, in a nutshell, or should that be an onion skin? So, why does peeling onions bring a tear of joy to my eye? Because of the things that I make with them, of course. Where would paella be, if there were no onions in the mix? Can you imagine French Onion Soup with no onions in it? How about a Spanish Omelet / tortilla española? Okay, okay – I know some purists, especially in Galicia, say that the tortilla española should consist of egg, potato, salt, and nothing more, save a touch of olive oil, perhaps. But most of the tortillas españolas that I have enjoyed (and made) include an onion or two to blend with the potatoes. And how about salsa mexicana or salsa pico de gallo? Unthinkable without their dash of sliced onion.

So, peeling onions – that always brings a tear of joy to my eye, because I know how I am going to use them and how tasty they will be. And for those who have forgotten the hungry in this world, myself included in this particular post, do not forget Miguel Hernández and his poem Las nanas de la cebolla / The Onion Lullaby. Reading that poem and understanding its background will surely bring a tear to your eye, as it always does to mine. This time, however, it won’t be a tear of joy!

Absence in Presence

Absence in Presence

Just before her flight left,
she came up
from the basement,
her cleaning tasks
complete,
and smiled at me.

In the background, music,
a Golden Oldie,
the Rolling Stones playing
‘This could be the last time.’

Present in her eyes,
and in my heart,
the thought,
more than a thought,
the knowledge
that those words
might actually be true.

Clepsydra 9 & 10

9

… what lies behind this attic door
     ready to spring out
           at the slow push of my hands

cobwebbed
     this world revealed
          a universe of memories
               waiting to be called
                    back into life

what life
     the flickering half-life
          of shadows on a wall     

or the alternate reality
     of planets that lost their way
          and forgot how to dance
               around their sun

do they still move
     in rhythm to an unsung song
          an unstrung guitar
               music no one else can hear
                    played by a wandering star

lost the glimmer
     of life’s candle
          adrift on distant waters,
               but never forgotten …

10

… nor seen
     nor heard
          I am amazed by the maze
               wandering
                    among cluttered objects,

my world takes shape
     in a mad hatter’s workshop
          where things grow legs
               walk this way that way
                    constantly getting lost

I can hear them
     chittering chattering
          but I can neither
               see nor hold them

like so many bats
     they roost upside-down
          little children lost
               in memory’s attic
                    where everything ages
                         slowly gathering dust …

Self-Portrait

Self-Portrait

I smell. I whiff. I gloriously stink.
My arms, my feet, my crotch, reek with beauty.
This is me. I am still alive. I’m rank.
The time has come, the Walrus said, to take
a shower. I strip. I weigh. I obey.

Hot water streams. Bathroom steams up. I draw
faces on grey glass, smiling, glum. Soft soap
works its miracle turning Japanese
nylon into a rough body cloth that
rubs and cajoles all putrid dirt away.

Butterfly from its chrysalis, I step
from the shower, sniff with caution, and stench
no more. I am clean. I no longer pong. 
My body has been taken over by
perfumes no longer mine. Who am I now?

I am no more myself. I am no more
my own gorgeous underarm muscular
ripeness. I have left my odor circling
in the soap suds and drifting down the drain. 
What a pain. It will take me a week or 
more to start smelling like myself again.

Clepsydra 8

8

… those other faces fading
     drifting away
          their smiles their frowns
               melting away into the dark
                    where no star glows

they cannot return
     nothing walks the woods
          save a silence
               where once they strode

empty the hand
     once held out to help them

silent the prayer
     emerging from pale lips
          and unanswered

where are they now
     those who walked
          this way before us
               glum ghosts
                    hushed their chorus

I promised
     to remember them
          but I forgot them
               as one by one
                    they slipped away …

Clepsydra 6 & 7

Clepsydra 6 & 7

6

… I say I walked alone
     along a long lonely road

nobody could cross that threshold
     nor enter that inner sanctum
          where hungry metal monsters
               lay in silent ambush waiting

nobody could share that sacrificial altar
     the single bed with its iron frame
          on which I lay on my own waiting

uniformed attendants
     locked themselves
          behind their concrete defences
               away from the radiation
                    so dangerous

while I waited
     for those circling stars
          that would burn
               and scar me
                    to descend …

7

… and single beds
     were only meant for one
         
just me
     strapped in
          tied so tight
               lying motionless
                    as I waited for
                         the bed to rise …

upwards
     into that dark night of the soul
          and I the sole sufferer
               under a claustrophobic sky

behold my body
     a mass of red and green striations
          burned by pin-pricks of light
               walking across my body
                    follow the red map
                          painted on my body

burns and blisters
     body and mind scarred
          scared by knowing
               all this suffering
                    might be in vain

others walked this road before me
     some never returned
          empty places at breakfast
               hushed whispers
                    faces turned away

when the tide turns
     it brings with it
          the joy of life
               a spark of hope
                    life’s waters
                         resuming their flow …

Comment:
All that happened to me ten years ago – but the memories are still fresh in my mind. At night, I often watch those planets circling, closing in, those star ships, guns blazing, burning my skin. So many of us have walked that lonely path, lain on that bed, faced those demons. Holst’s Planets – it amazes me that the music still plays in my mind, the celestial dance still goes on in the ballroom of my head, and the memories refuse to fade, though the burns on the skin have vanished and are long gone.

Clepsydra 4 & 5

Clepsydra 4 & 5

4

… candles and the clepsydra
     marking time
          witnessing
               the transition
                    from day to night

drip-by-drop
     falling water
          flickering candle flames

less certain
     than the monotonous
          tick-tock
               of a pendulum clock
 
time and tide
     wait not
          for ship nor man

though time is marked
     on calendars
          and prison walls

days passing into weeks
     spring into summer into autumn

daylight lengthening
     shortening
          until bleak mid-winter
               comes again …

5

… black midnight
     all is lost
          who now can count the cost

stiff upper lips
     forget how to pray
          fingers clasping
               unclasping
                    never grasping
                         life’s simple flow

with silent steps
     planets and stars
          slowly turning
               writing out our lives

sun by day
     moon by night
               the sky alight
                    with shimmering fires

midnight curtains
     burning lights
          crazy curtains
               drawn in night’s sky

a lost dog hurls
     his coyote cry
          who on high
               now listens to his call

not the planets
     nor the Archer
          nor the dog star
               who never barks
                     anything
                          but summer’s flames

pity the poor dogs below
     bitches in heat
          waiting alone
               for their lover’s paws
                    their welcome snuffles

locked and bolted
    the door
          heightened
               the canicular heat …

What’s your favorite recipe?

What’s my favorite recipe?

I find it hard to talk about my favorite recipe at a time when so many people in this world of ours are desperately short of food. I get regular messages from the local food bank – can I help them out? And I try to do my best. Alas, my pittance is a drop in the ocean of want and need.
Our local supermarkets have food baskets that you can add to your food bill. These will then be handed over to those who distribute food to the needy. Then there are the checkouts where I am regularly asked if I will add $2 to my bill for the food bank. I usually give $5 or $10.
I see old men sitting at the entrances to stores, a coffee cup before them with some petty cash in it. I also see homeless, workless people at traffic lights with signs held up, asking for cash.
I don’t want to start on war zones, on the accidental-on-purpose starvation of people, on the targeted destruction of homes, animals, and crops. Nor do I want to contemplate the rising prices of what used to be staple groceries and are now becoming luxury items – olive oil, meat, coffee.
While I can still afford some, but not all, luxuries, far too many people can’t. And yet you ask me what is my favorite recipe? Well, here goes –

Take one pound of charity, stir in a pound of love, add a spoon full of humanity, mix with half a pint of the milk of human kindness, sprinkle the mix with a half cup of sugar – to take away some of life’s bitterness, pepper it with ground Good Samaritanism – to add some neighborly love, and complete it with essence of humanity – to remind us that we are still human. Then distribute it, free of charge, everywhere you possibly can but, above all, not just to the needy, but to those who are capable of changing the situation, but for some reason or other, refuse to do so.
Pax amorque.

Clepsydra, Poems 2 & 3

2

… who closes
     the museum doors,
          locking away its memories

dark descends,
     waters heard but unseen
          time unmeasured now
               until the coming of candles

each with its symbol
     lines that mark time
          an hour here or there,

never accurate
     seldom on time

a time that quickens
     in a whisper of wind
          the flame flickering
               time traveling faster

one candle tilts
     its waxen cataracts
          tumbling time
               cascading down
                    entering the void

that empty space
     left by the spent flame
          smouldering

where did it go
     the light
         I’d like to know
               how and why

a lifetime
     like a fire-fly’s spark
          flits away …

3

… fifteen eighty-eight
     the Spanish Armada
          its crescent glistening
               gunfire sparking
                    fireflies of flame

ponderous time
          spaced out
               relentless and slow

an unstoppable juggernaut
     on and on
          tides turning ebbing
               ever-flowing

hill beacons burning
     church bells
          ringing out their warnings

God blew
     and gusting winds
          took them away
               to the sand-dunes
                    off the Lowlands coast

flashes of flame
     fire-ships launched
          fire on the flood
               the rigging ablaze

quickly cut anchors
     now watch them go
          shepherded
               by sheepdog ships

 on Ireland’s rocky coasts
      ships and men
          their time up
               torn from the light
                   
swallowed by night’s
     dark throat …