Giving Thanks

What brings you peace?

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What brings you peace?
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Septets for the End of Time

I

Crystal Liturgy

Here, in the abyss,
where song-birds pluck their notes
and send them, feather-light,
floating through the air,
here, you’ll find no vale of tears,
no fears of shadow-hawks,
for all blackness is abandoned
in the interests of sunlight and song.

Here, the crystal liturgy surges,
upwards from the rejoicing heart,
ever upwards, into the realms of light,
where color and sound alike
brim over with the joy that, yes,
brings release to head and heart.

Here, seven-stringed rainbows reign,
the everlasting harp is tuned and plucked,
and an eternity of music cements
the foundations of earth and sky.

Here, the master musician conducts
his celestial choir, their voices rising,
higher and higher, until they reach
the highest sphere, and song and voice
inspire, then expire, passing from our eyes
and ears into unbounded realms of light.

Here, the seven trumpets will sound
their furious dance, a dance that will announce
the end of this singer, the end of his song,
but never the end of song itself.

What is the most important thing to carry with you all the time?

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What is the most important thing to carry with you all the time?
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What is the most important thing to carry with you all the time?

Things I carry with me

            That old black cast-iron stove, wood-fired, that baked the best ever breads and cakes and warmed the bungalow on cold, summer mornings. The Welsh dresser with its age-blackened rails that displayed the plates, and cups, and saucers. The old tin cans that ferried the water from the one tap located at the end of the field. Full and wholesome, its weight still weighs me down as I carry it in my dreams. The Elsan toilet from the shed by the hedge and the shovels that appeared, every so often, as if by magic, as my uncle braved the evening shadows to dig a hole on the opposite side of the field, as far from the bungalow as possible.

            The outhouse at the end of the garden. The steps down to the coal cellar where they went when the sirens sounded, to sleep in the make-shift air raid shelter, along with the rats and mice that scurried from the candles. The corrugated iron work shop in the garden where my uncle built his model ships, the Half-Penny Galleon and the Nonesuch. The broken razor blades I used to carve my own planes from Keil Kraft Kits, Hurricanes and Spitfires, an SE5, and once, a Bristol Bulldog. Twisted and warped, they winged their ways into nobody’s skies, though once we built a paper kite that flew far away in a powerful wind and got tangled in a tree. The greenhouse from which I stole countless tomatoes, red and green. Kilvey Hill towering above the window ledge where the little ones sat when there were more guests than chairs in the kitchen. The old bombed buildings across the street. The bullet holes in the front of the house where the Messerschmidt strafed us.

            The old men spitting up coal dust from shrivelled lungs. The widows who took in lodgers and overnight travelers. The BRS lorries, parked overnight, that littered the street. The steep climb upwards into those lorries. The burrowing under dirty tarpaulins to explore the heavy loads, and many other things. The untouchable, forbidden drawer where the rent money waited for the rent collector’s visit. The old lady, five houses down who, when the shops were shut, sold warm Dandelion & Burdock and Orange pop for an extra penny a bottle.  The vicious, snub-faced Pekinese that yapped fierce defiance from the fortress of her lap. The unemployed soccer referee who on Saturdays walked five miles to the match and five miles back just to save the bus fare, his only financial reward. My father’s shadowy childhood. His first pair of shoes, bought at five years old, so he wouldn’t go barefoot to school. 

            Wet cement moulded onto the garden wall, then filled with empty bottles to be smashed when the cement set solid. The coal shed where the coal man delivered the coal: cobbledy-cobbledy, down the hole. The outside toilet with its nails and squares torn from yesterday’s newspaper. The lamp-lighter who lit the lamps every evening as the sun went down. The arrival of electricity. The old blackout curtains that shut in the light and shut out the night. The hand rolled fabric sausage that lay on the floor by the door and kept the heat of the coal fire in the kitchen. The kitchen itself with its great wooden chair drawn up by the fire. That chair: the only material possession I still have from that distant past.

Qué será

Qué será

Peace in the Peace Park,
here on the headland,
where cool grass slopes
down to the water’s edge.

Geese have nested close by
and gifted us with goslings.
Golden balls of fluff, they walk
on the land right now,
but soon will take to the water.

A thin, yellow line, they will
paddle behind their parents,
webbed feet invisible
beneath the water’s flow.

And I, in the metal coffin
of my over-heated car,
sit and watch them, envying
their freedom of movement,
waiting for whatever will come.

My beloved draws near.
I sense as much as see her,
as I covet her strong steps,
the ageless sway of her body.

Alas, I am growing old,
and not with any grace,
but fighting it all the way,
and qué será, será
is all that I can say.

Rebirth

Rebirth

“El mundo nace
cuando dos se besan.”
Octavio Paz

A new world is born
when two people kiss.
The hummingbird sips
at the hollyhock’s lips.
Bee enters the blossom
and, sated, comes out.
A butterfly perches,
flutters its wings.
The sun enters a cloud:
radiance is born.
Silver linings
morph to gold.
The sun’s needle stitches
the world together.
Oh to be a part of Eden,
Paradise born anew,
in the moment when
lip meets lip and the tongue
is a twister, touching down.
Two hearts a-whirl,
their world aflame.
Their world reshaped,
new shapes now born.
Wild flowers swaying
in an age-old dance.
Life’s journey renewed,
not always by chance.

What traditions have you not kept that your parents had?

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What traditions have you not kept that your parents had?
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What traditions have you not kept that your parents had?

What traditions have you not kept that your parents had?

To the best of my knowledge, my parents only had three traditions. I have not kept any of them.

Tradition 1: They took two weeks holiday every year in August. Both were hard-working, and that holiday was always a precious break from work. Being employed in academia and a life-long inhabitant of the Ivory Tower, I have not had holidays forced upon me by a 9 to 5 work schedule. Research and creativity do not function according to a 9 to 5 clock. I realize how fortunate I am, and I give thanks every day for my intellectual and creative freedom.

Tradition 2: They fought like cats and dogs at every opportunity. It was so bad that, at one stage, in my innocence, I thought that cats were females and that dogs were males, and that was why they opened instant hostilities whenever they saw each other. Luckily, I have no siblings to challenge this view of events, and my parents are long gone, so they won’t be worried either.

Tradition 3: My maternal grandmother’s birthday was just before Christmas. On her birthday, every year when I was a child, my mother would come home early from work, but my father wouldn’t. He often didn’t come home at all. Office parties. My mother would hang around the house for a while, consoling herself. Then she would get angry, tell me to pack a bag, pack one herself, and call a taxi. This would take us to the railway station or the bus station, and off we would go to grandma’s house to celebrate her birthday. My father, looking sheepish and hang-dog, would arrive late Christmas Eve, or early Christmas morning. On Boxing Day, the gloves came off, and they were at it again. That’s why it’s called Boxing Day. Well, that’s what I thought anyway.

So there you have it. Three traditions that my parents had and that I have never kept.

Was today typical?

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Was today typical?
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Was today typical?

So, I Googled the meaning of typical and here are some of the synonyms that appeared. Standard, normal, stock, representative, usual, conventional, characteristic, regular, orthodox. Following the meanings offered, yes, today was typical. Dark at midnight, dawn breaking about 5:30 AM, full sun by 7:30 AM, noon – dead on 12 o’clock, as usual. And so it goes on. The weather may change, but the basic structure of the days, although also cyclical, growing longer then shorter, in terms of daylight hours, does not change much. Therefore, yes, by this definition, it was a typical day. But was it?

For creative people, each day is different and each moment, minute, hour of each day is different. Creatives listen, observe, feel, touch, delve beneath the surfaces of things, and see things in a lateral multiplicity that means everything is evolving, changing, growing, decaying. Creative people look and listen (with or without mother). They imitate, and from that imitation they create and re-create. And creativity moves way beyond the standard, normal, stock, representative, usual, conventional, characteristic, regular, and orthodox. If it doesn’t, it’s not creative, it’s just standard, normal, stock, representative, usual, conventional, characteristic, regular, orthodox.

Was today typical? Well, it’s not over yet. But up until now, it has only been typical in terms of its intimate creative typicality. The light has changed with the changing sky and clouds. Rain fell, and changed the tones of the colors around. The light changed, but so did the scents that arose from the warm earth with its carpet of grass and the tarmac and concrete, its heat suddenly cooled. The ground glistened, spider-webs sparkled, birds sang when the sun returned, flowers tossed their heads, in slightly different ways from yesterday, when the wind was warm. Now, damp and shining, their dance-steps and rhythms also changed. Now the world is wet. The trees are waving their fans and have caused a slight wind to arise and rustle their leaves. This day is full of creative magic – but only for those who have ears to hear and eyes to see. For too many people, alas, yes, this is, after all, just another typical, humdrum, boring old day. As W. H. Davies wrote: “What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?” Creatives make that time – and they live among the blessed.

If you could bring back one dinosaur, which one would it be?

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If you could bring back one dinosaur, which one would it be?
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If you could bring back one dinosaur, which one would it be?

Probably my maternal grandfather. He was always a bit of a fossil, ostrich-like, with his head buried in the past. A great-story teller, he spun a web of intrigue about things that happened in his youth, like when he ran away to sea, age 12, Swansea in the old days, and his time in the trenches during WWI. I would climb up the back of his chair while he was sleeping, and blow on the bald spot at the back of his head to wake him up. Then I would climb onto his lap and say, “Grandpa, tell me a story.” And he would.

My friend Moo painted a picture of the two of us together when I was younger. That’s him, on the left. I am the smaller one on the right. He would walk with me all over Swansea Sands, telling me stories as we walked. “This is where the medicine man would pitch his stall,” he’d say. Then he would tell me about the fraudulent way the doctor sold his bottles of cough mix. A miner, with no voice would approach from the crowd. One sip of the magic potion and he’d be singing hymns and arias, voice fully restored. “Bribed, of course,” Grandpa would tell me.

Next to the snake medicine stall, a travelling dentist would pitch a stage with a small brass band and his chair. Patients would handover their three penny coins, the band would start to play, the patient would open his mouth, the dentist would wield his pliers, and out would come the tooth. Then doctor and patient would dance to the band music until the patient stopped screaming. “No anesthetic back then, see,” Grandpa would chuckle.

Oh yes, that’s the dinosaur I’d bring back. And I’d record his voice, and write down, in full detail, every story, each tall, or short, tale he told me.

If you won two free plane tickets, where would you go?

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If you won two free plane tickets, where would you go?
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If you won two free plane tickets, where would you go?

Wrong question – because I wouldn’t go anywhere. Now, I’ll ask the right question: If I won two free plane tickets, what would I do with them? That I can answer.

I am no longer a willing traveler. Even a trip into town to go shopping is too much some days. So, I wouldn’t use them, but I would look for someone who could. But before that, a question – are these single tickets – you go there and have to stay there or else pay your own way home? Or are they return tickets, there and back and again, or as they say in Spain, ida y vuelta? If they are the former, I have a couple of people in mind that I would bundle off to the other end of the planet and leave them there, stranded. If they were return tickets, then other options are family.

My Canadian family: a free trip home during these difficult financial times would be excellent. I guess that would be my first choice. But I have family in faraway place, with strange sounding names, and maybe my Australian family would enjoy a trip to Canada to visit me. Or else a trip back home to Wales where there’s always a welcome for the prodigals that return. And what if the family weren’t interested?

Then I would advertise the tickets for a local family that needed free travel for health purposes or family visits. If nobody came forward, I would raffle them or auction them, and give the proceeds to one of my favorite charities, the women’s shelter or the local food bank.

And there you have it. Meanwhile, courtesy of Moo, my favorite artist, the little green man goes sailing through the air in the painting above, flying into the sunset, and enjoying every minute of it.

What strategies do you use to maintain your health and well-being?

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What strategies do you use to maintain your health and well-being?
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What strategies do you use to maintain your health and well-being?

Covid changed the world and my outlook on the world. Since the first rumors in 2019, I cut my own hair and stopped eating out. I avoided crowds, left home as little as possible, wore a mask everywhere, and maintained as much distance as possible between myself and other people. I stopped inviting people around to the house, and, as a result, we have hardly had a visit or a visitor in the last four years. We got regular shots and boosters. So far, with those precautions and a little bit of luck, we have avoided Covid.

My health care deteriorated during the Covid period. I had very few visits to my GP’s office, and most business, like prescription renewal, was done over the phone. Consultations were by telephone as well. I missed out on the regular blood tests that my urologist / oncologist had been scheduling for me, after a bout with prostate cancer. These picked up again in late 2021, and were resumed in 2022 and 2023. Things seem to be moving well currently. Thank heavens.

I interpret well-being as my state of mind, rather than my state of body. I would say that my well-being suffered from my lack of human contact, although I have slowly developed a series of online support groups. In this way, I was able to continue my writing, for example, in Zoom sessions. I also missed my family visits. I no longer travel well, and due to Covid restrictions, I did not see my daughter or my granddaughter from 2019 to 2022. Clearly, we all missed the family closeness and we were all affected. However, we are used to isolation from family. Boarding schools, travel abroad in the summer, emigration to Canada, saw our family connections broken. That said, the advent of social media, Skype, Zoom, Messenger, texting, free phone calls, have all lessened the miles between us and maintained a contact that we never had, post migration, with our parents and grandparents, and extended family. The isolation and loneliness have been hard. They are hard upon all ageing, isolated people. We have suffered less than most.

As for strategies, I really have only three: 1. to adapt 2. to survive 3. to create beauty via my writing and my painting. Painting, prose, and poetry – these I can share with my friends. Vita brevis, ars longa – life is short, but art endures. Pax amorque – peace and love.

Listen!

Listen

When I cannot write,
I take a paint brush,
and start to paint.

When I paint, I listen
to the brush as it moves
itself over the canvas.
I listen to the colors
as they demand attention
and tell me where to place them.

I listen to the paint as it says
‘just here, not too thick,
not too thin, a swirl please,
gently now.”

I also listen to flowers, trees,
the wind in the willows,
the songs of falling leaves,
and the voices of birds
that mourn their empty nests,
abandoned on the branches.

Comment:

This poem also came from yesterday’s prompt – what do you listen to? The act of ranting, based on a prompt, usually generates imagery and ideas that can then be used in either poetry or prose. For me, the secret is to cut away the dross and to search for the gems that are often hidden within verbal outpour. This leads, in my opinion, to enhanced creativity.