Rock
You are the rock
on which I build
my life.
You are the fairy castle
planned in paradise
where the sun always shines
and stress is distant.
How often have I mapped
your inner islands,
traveled your well-known ways,
always discovering
new sacred spots
where I can immerse myself
in your inner serenity?
You are the fortress
within whose walls
I can forget my past
and create my future.
Candle Light
Candle light
softens your features
brings out the bone shape
makes me forget
the minor flaws
of ageing.
Bone shape,
rock shape,
land scape,
your face contours
traced by the flame,
counting the years,
like tree rings.
Beneath the surface
you are as you always were
and always will be.
When I look into your eyes,
I see your soul
dancing in the candle’s flame.
Silence
Pain stops at the edge of silence
and silence is the sound of sunlight
breaking against the walls of the room
in which I sit and listen, in silence,
waiting for the notes to begin again.
Silence, yes, yet my silence lies broken
by the renewed intrusion of the clock,
by the electric hum from lights and heating.
Ghostly noises break into my thoughts:
cheers from a distant tennis court,
those eternal advertisements
that invade my innermost being.
What triviality now shatters
the Messiaenic mood that wrapped me
for a moment in a many-colored cloak
woven from musical oblivion.
Time’s teeth start to gnaw again
and the grandfather clock
nibbles at my soul, extracting
its essence in a surge of sound,
tick-tock, tick-tock.
Westminster Chimes choke
life from the hour and ring
the tick-tock knell that files
my life away, second by second,
minute by minute, day by day.
Comment:
Silence is the fifth poem in the first sequence (Crystal Liturgy) of my poetry book Septets for the End of Time.
“So,” said Moo, “today I offer this painting where the title, Sound of Silence, fits well with the title of your poem. That said, I am not sure that the painting itself, qua painting, is as suitable as earlier pairings. De gustibus non est disputandum / there is no arguing about taste. I guess you either like something or you don’t.”
“It certainly isn’t in your usual style. In fact, it looks more like a colored pencil sketch than a painting. Where did you draw the title from?”
“Actually, it’s from one of your poems about Avila, in Spain, the city where, or so they say, you can hear the silence. You complained about all the noise that you found, especially the church bells, in that otherwise silent city.”
“Ah yes. I remember that poem. And I’ll never forget the sound of the bells echoing from wall to wall in those narrow, medieval streets. Bells from all the churches inside the walls of the city, tolling at exactly the same time, calling the faithful to prayer.”
“And that is one of the differences between us that I mentioned yesterday. My paintings, whatever they depict, are always silent. I have heard you read your poems out loud on Spotify and I have also heard other people reading them on your behalf, not always successfully. Poetry is designed not only to be read silently, but also to be read out loud, before an audience. Painting, on the other hand, is always silent. It does not speak, nor can it be heard. A painting is just there, in two dimensions, powerful, if you are lucky, weak and wobbly if the artist does not fulfill his task.”
“Interesting, dear Moo. And the images that I draw from Messiaen’s music are interesting too. For musical notes, without words, change into images within the listener’s mind, and then, when heard by the poet in me, become verbal images upon the page. Fascinating.”
“It is. Some time soo we must talk about intertextuality, the ways in which one artistic form or text can influence another. Hopefully, you’ll find a poem and I’ll find a painting that illustrate just that.”
Then There’s The Nights … KTJ
As a child my days were good.
Full of wonder and being misunderstood.
Growing and learning without knowing love.
But always guided by the Lord up above.
The days were filled with hope in my sights.
Then there’s the nights.
Trying to make sense of my life in a bed I did not own.
Fighting demons no child should ever fight alone.
Dreams of monsters under the bed.
Thoughts of not belonging filling my head.
Longing for a normal Mom and Dad.
Crying myself to sleep and feeling sad.
At 14, I thought I was grown.
Stealing my food and living alone.
Leaving behind a brief life with my dad.
Street life was hard, but it was all that I had.
The days seemed to pass by all right.
Then there’s the nights.
Fear of passing by where the dead lay to rest.
I’d stand with my thumb out and hope for the best.
I was told it was the living I should fear.
But my mind was confused
and my thoughts were unclear.
Sleeping in ditches and dreaming of a home.
No one to care for me, I was alone.
Years passed by as if in slow motion.
People came and went, playing on my emotions.
More than one marriage, with hopes of a happy home.
Each time I was sure I was done being alone.
I kept telling myself life was sunny and bright.
Then there’s the nights.
Sleeping once again in a bed I didn’t own.
Waiting for a husband who does not come home.
Anger and confusion running through my head
Wondering if he was sleeping in another woman’s bed.
I wanted to scream and demand he be true.
But you don’t have that option if someone’s abusing you.
I’ve finally made it to the last quarter of my life.
I no longer desire to be anyone’s wife.
I have my independence and a loving heart.
I want love, but I also need time apart.
To grow and learn and miss the ones I love.
I have been truly blessed by God above.
Then there’s the nights
Sometimes sleeping in a bed, I don’t care if I own.
Nights full of contentment for me and me alone.
I’ve let go of the dream of two hearts and souls
intertwined as one.
Finally, my worries and grief are done.
The rest of my journey will be full of peace and love.
Once again, I thank the good Lord above.
Comments
Yesterday, I posted a painting that KTJ associated with one of her poems, Addiction. Last night, my friend, Moo, painted this painting which accords with one of KTJ’s poems entitled And then there’s the nights. This is the lead poem in her first poetry collection, I am my tattoos. This linking of the verbal (poetry) with the visual (a painting) has been a technique I have used before. The movement between visual and verbal often generating a shifting pattern of colors and images in the reader’s / viewer’s mind. These collaborations between artists are very productive. Long may they continue.
NB If you, dear reader, would be interested in writing for one of Moo’s paintings, just drop me a line, or leave a note in the comments section.
Addiction
Joy, desire, companionship, laughter,
sharing feelings, caring, and dreaming.
Two people so alike in many ways,
painfully different in others.
All my cravings, and desires
set out before me in a beautiful world
so different than my own.
A broad chest to lay my head on,
listening to a heartbeat
that is not my own.
Strong arms holding me close,
providing comfort.
Cool grass between my bare toes,
earth from the gardens
embedded under my fingernails.
Like an addict,
craving love and validation.
Basking in the glorious
short-term feeling of bliss.
This world, this person,
both my drugs of choice.
Fantasy, then reality,
going from one to the other,
walking out of fire into
an ice bath over and over.
A fantasy world
hiding beneath
a dark cloak of reality.
Comments:
It’s funny how your paintings speak to me. As soon as I opened this email, my first thought was… this is the perfect painting for my poem “addiction”. The colors and the art work bring to life the sentence, “like walking out of a fire and into an ice bath”. KTJ
So, here we are – the poem and the painting can now be found on the same page. I don’t usually put other people’s poems up on my blog. However, should any of my readers be inspired by one of Moo’s paintings, and should that reader decide to write a poem about it, I would happily consider publishing both poem and painting on this blog. No money involved – my pitiful pension won’t stretch that far.
No promises. But an interesting start to a new idea.
Pax amorque –
rogermoorepoet.
What makes a teacher great?
When Moo descended from Mount Academia, he brought down with him the ten tenets to which great teachers, knowingly or unknowingly, commit. He asked me to transcribe them here, since they were in danger of being neglected and / or forgotten.
Describe one simple thing you do that brings joy to your life.
Painting.
I was always told that I couldn’t paint. “You don’t have a clue. Give it up now. You’re wasting your time, and ours.” Same with drawing and any other form of visual and creative art. I tried to build model aircraft – Spitfires and Hurricanes, Gloucester Gladiators, SE5s -. They were ugly, lumpy, had crooked wings, and never flew properly. The few that I managed to launch often fell apart on landing. Same with model kites. The one I did manage to build took off in a half a gale and got stuck in a tree.
Failure!!!!!
Much later in life I re-discovered Henri Matisse. “I make meaning out of shape and color.” Then I stumbled across Salvador Dali’s famous statement: “I don’t know what it means, but I know it means something.” From there I started to take lines for a walk, and moved into cartoons – you will find some earlier on these pages *click here* – or – *click here* – or just explore these early pages for yourself.
From these cartoons, I moved, with the encouragement of Geoff Slater, the Art Director at Kingsbrae International Residencies for Artists (I was the first writer in residence, June 2017), to actually painting, for the first time, with acrylics on canvas. This led me to my Pocket Paintings / Peintures de Poche, made with acrylics on 4″ x 6″ postcards. What fun. I now have well over a hundred of these and, guess what! – just like my books, I give them away to my friends for free.
These simple, linked acts – writing – painting – gifting – bring me great joy.
Long may it continue.
Pax amorque.
Coming soon ….. to a Rollator near you.
Yesterday I checked the galley proof and all seems well. The distortion on the photo above is all mine (!) and the original cover is much clearer, better, straighter, and brighter.
I have not posted for two weeks, and yet some of my faithful followers have still clicked on this site to see how I am doing. Thank you so much.
Several things happened last month. (a) I started a stretching and exercise program. (b) I upped my walking to 4000 steps a day. (c) I used a combination of Rollator [Nexus 3] and shopping cart to build up, slowly, to an hour a day of aerobic exercise.
That’s all good news for the physical body and the mental state, but not such good news for the creative cycle. Blog postings have suffered and my online social presence has been greatly reduced. On the good side, I have been out and about, around the garden and around the block, and have re-established contact with neighbors, friends, and the local canine newbies and golden oldies.
I also managed to edit and correct and revise Seasons of the Heart and this chapbook of poems, based on my meditations on Anam Cara (by John O’Donohue) will soon be available to gift to my closest friends.
As you probably know by know, I do not sell what I call my “Covey Collection” of self-published chapbooks and books. If you wish to support my efforts as an artist, you can do so by clicking on this link and seeing if there is anything that fancies your tickle, sorry, I mean tickles your fancy.
B & W
“Slim words couched
in the empty whiteness
of the page.”
John O’Donohue,
Anam Cara
black words
white page
thoughts
floating in space
airs and graces
whirlwind words
blowing through
freshening
cleansing
cotton clouds
silky sky
that one word
waiting
to be spoken
that one thought
soon to be word-borne
out from the dark
a new existence
to brighten us
blind us with light
White Space
A place of silence,
white space
at page edge,
bearing witness
to the absence
of words.
A place to pause,
rest,
to think.
A place,
like the white space
between lines of prose,
where eye and mind
can pause and rest.
Bewildering
the pounding
of earwig music,
the advert repeated
again and again,
the omnipresent
sound byte.
Everlasting,
the loop, the loop,
the interminable loop
that intrudes on
silence.
Words
Words emerge
from the silence
of blood and bone.
They break
that silence
the day they are born.
Silence,
once broken,
cannot be repaired.
A word once spoken
cannot be recalled.
The greatest gift –
knowing how to be alone,
how to sink into silence.
A world of words
smothered at birth
and that world,
dismissed, forgotten,
sometimes still-born.
A lost world of words
whirled on the silent wind
that fans the unborn fire within.
The spider web of the mind
blown clear by the wind
that blows unspoken words.
The hush of the tadpole
swimming
into its own metamorphosis.
The sultry oblivion
of blood and bone.
Poetry that expresses the authenticity of being. Playful, yes, but packed with meaning. Taste it on the tongue. Savor it in the mind. Touch the words on the page. Indulge yourself in the white spaces between the words. Read and re-read each poem. Dive into its depths. Swim – but do not let yourself drown. When you surface again, return to the light and remember, all will be well.
Two Poems to help you find your way in the dark!
1
Suit of Lights
I am a man of straw
shivered by raw winds,
frosted by the cold
enveloping this enigmatic body
with its rattle of drying bones.
I walk with two canes,
not just a sick man,
but a stick man.
My broken body
hangs on the coat hanger
of my battered bones,
its worn-out sack
knitted from skin,
bonded with blood.
The magic hour descends.
Earth glows
with a different light,
my world is transformed,
translucent, bright.
A touch of the almighty,
this beauty surrounding me,
blessing me.
I wear a sudden clarity
with this suit of lights.
2
Illumination
You must find it for yourself.
Were I to tell you what it is
and where it dwells,
the light it brings you
would be warped,
untrue.
Only
you can find
that light.
Only you
can strike the match,
ignite that blaze,
trap its warmth
in your own bone cage.
Enlightened,
you must dig and dig,
deeper and deeper,
until you lose yourself
in a bottomless pit.
When you are lost,
look up.
In the dark above,
you will find
a tiny pinhole of light,
a star to guide,
a glow-worm
to light your way
in the darkest night.
rogermoorepoet 