Mindfulness

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 …

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 …

Candle Light

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.

Great White Egret

Great White Egret

            The Great White Egret is Yolande Essiembre’s first chapbook of poetry. The title poem offers an image, a white egret, that is central to the whole collection. Summarized in this one poem are the concepts of pantheism, mindfulness, self-questioning, and receiving lessons and inspiration from the natural world that surrounds the narrator and her poetic voice.

            Pantheists often consider the universe, or nature, to be identical to the divinity. In simpler terms, it’s the old Greek idea of Gaia, the world spirit – spiritus mundi, in the Latin of Moncton’s Northrop Frye – that links nature and the divinity. Pantheism can be found in both religious and philosophical contexts, with some branches of pantheism rooted in traditional religious beliefs and others stemming from poetic perspectives. In the case of The Great White Egret, the narrative voice sees nature as an all-embracing poetic concept that makes possible a life, both physical and spiritual, in the immediate present.

            The lessons the narrator receives in the course of observing The Great White Egret are (1) to take one step at a time, (2) to be still, and (3) to be one’s own reflection. This third lesson reaches out to include the cover photograph. Verbal and visual blend when the egret, reflected in the water, parallels the reflection of the poet in the stillness of nature. This is further complicated by the double meaning of reflection as mirror image and of the thought process involved during the observation of the bird. The visual and mental images become reminiscent of the hymn “on the wings of a snow-white dove.”

Part of the beauty of Yolande Essiembre’s poetic meditations lies in the extension of image and metaphor beyond the page and into the mind of the reader where they create a mirror universe of reciprocal reminiscence and creativity. Other poems that reach out in similar fashion to explore the deity manifest within the natural world include A Force of Love in Our Universe, Breath of Life, Glimpses, and In the Sanctuary. This last poem works on the basis of repeated images that stand strong and clear, for example, “Life pressing through a blade of grass. / Leaves shimmering, dancing, waving. / Light flickering, casting shadows.” Life and movement, especially movement – pressing, shimmering, dancing, flickering, casting – create a sense of wonder in the natural setting where the poet finds sanctuary.

            Mindfulness is a mental state achieved by focusing one’s awareness on the present moment, while calmly acknowledging and accepting one’s feelings, thoughts, and bodily sensations. It is often used as a therapeutic technique and can be compared with the yoga techniques which our poet practices. This yoga technique is compounded in the poems where breathing is emphasized, as in Breath of Life, for example, where we read “Who are you breath of life / Who fills my lungs with air”. It can also be found in the poem In Your Presence “In the stillness of the morning / I breathe / I listen / I breathe”.         

This chapbook is more than a mere collection of poems. It is a compendium of personal feelings, inner thoughtfulness, and natural observations. It is the work of a thinker and feeler, in tune with the universe and continually seeking answers to some of life’s most important questions. Reading The Great White Egret, you too may start asking similar questions. More important, you may even find some meaningful answers.

The Great White Egret
Sitting, rocking, gazing upon a lake,
Pondering, reflecting, wondering.
How one can choose purpose over comfort?
How does one remain true to oneself?

On a wing span comes an answer.
A bird, a Great White Egret
Lands at the edge of the water.
Tall, magnificent, breathtaking.

Steps in slow motion, into the lake,
Advances one long leg at a time.
Proud, confident, in no hurry.
My first lesson: “Take one step at a time.”

The bird stops, remains still,
Listens, stretches its long neck,
So still that I hold my breath.
We wait.
Second lesson: “Be still.”

The majestic bird gracefully glides
In the calm clear water.
Its reflection a thing of beauty.
Like a mirror, reflects divinity.
Third lesson: “Be my own reflection.”             

Transitions

Transitions

Modes of limited transitions,
moods of time tapped in time
to time’s rhythmic piano.

Scales fall from my listening eyes
and all-seeing ears.
A transitory awakening,
this glimpse of the composer’s vision,
each note a new version
extracted from abstracts
perceived in color,
each note a hue, and chords
a rainbow spectrum of light
glimpsed darkly through
the raindrop’s distorting lens.

Birdsong and sunshine.
Notes perched
on the matinal branch,
each in tune with the other,
at times in seeming discord,
yet the morning chorus
diluting the day
with the liquidity
of light and sound.

Comment:

Transitions is the fourth poem in the first sequence (Crystal Liturgy) of my poetry book Septets for the End of Time.

“How on earth did you create that painting?” I asked my friend Moo. “And how do you relate it to this poem?”

“Good questions,” Moo replied. “Difficult to answer, though.” First of all, this is not a painting. It is the background cloth, always changing, always in transition, upon which I create my post card paintings. The idea of transition summarizes the movement from paint, to brush, to painting, and the haziness of the creative moment. It relates directly to your lines ‘Scales fall from my listening eyes / and all-seeing ears.’ This is the point in time, the magic moment, when the painting declares itself. I assume you have the same moment when you write poetry.”

“The two processes are very different, I think. In my poetry, a thought leads to a verbal image, and then each of the words turn themselves into little worlds in which verbal gemstones appear. I try to catch those verbal gemstones and to transform them into poetry. If I listen carefully, then my ears see and my eyes hear the words forming themselves into the right order.”

“Interesting. And yes, that’s what happens in my painting too. The initial mood captured in that first color, and then the minor moods that emerge from the first one gradually woven into the painting.”

“That is somewhat similar to how I write – by listening to the words and doing what they tell me to do. Then I do what they want me to do, not what I want them to do.”

“Fascinating. But there is one huge difference between us.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll tell you next time.”

The End of Time

The End of Time

A thin violin crying
its cat-gut heart out
in tears of sound, falling,
rhythmic raindrops,
down a grey-streaked face
tight with stress and taut with pain.

Such concentration,
such soulfulness packed
into each mindful note.

An audience of one,
I sit, head bowed, meditating
on the meaning of meaning
and the nothingness
of a being condemned
to oblivion, yet oblivious
of the how and when.

Each note a hammer-blow,
then, the piano pounding nail
after nail into this living coffin,
this body I drag through the motions
of extracting meaning
from this meaningless life.

Comment:

The End of Time is the second poem in the first sequence (Crystal Liturgy) of Septets for the End of Time. The painting, by my friend Moo, expresses his impressions of the nature of the end – but he doesn’t tell me the end of what. Certainly not of our friendship, I hope.

I am always worried by those last two lines: extracting meaning from this meaningless life as I don’t think that life is meaningless. However, there are times when it certainly feels that way. Those are the times when we need our beliefs in truth and the purity of art to survive. But how do you define them, you ask me. In all honesty, I don’t. I can’t. Art changes. What we consider to be true changes. Relativism? Yes, to a certain extent. I know what I believe. I don’t know what you believe. But I would never try to inflict or enforce my beliefs on to you. That is not how I work.

As for Moo, I don’t know how his mind works. I think he just sees things in color and shape and in the creation of movement within the stillness of a two dimensional illusion. I also think he thinks like a child. Maybe, like me, he has entered his second childhood, though I don’t really remember ever having had a first one. Oh dear – the meaning of meaning – one of the great enigmas of this wonderful world in which we live.

Exploring the Divine in Nature

Divinity

outside us or in us
the divine is always with us

green god
of the mountain ash
garlanded now
with autumn berries

lady hollyhock
and her flock
of butterflies and bees

colibri
martyred soul
reborn
as a hummingbird

our garden
a paradise
where the creator
still strolls

some of her
many faces
glimpsed
among the leaves

in this half-light
as the sun
goes down

What would your life be like without music?

Daily writing prompt
What would your life be like without music?
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What would your life be like without music?

Very quiet.

I consulted Moo, my favorite artist, on this one and he said that the above answer was much too brief and slightly cynical.
“Look,” he said to me, “this is today’s painting. It’s called Walking on Air.”
“Walking on air?” I queried.
“Yup,” he replied – “I hear music, but there’s no one there.” Then he told me to listen quietly to his painting. And I did. But nothing happened.
“I can’t hear a thing,” I told him.
“How many people do you see inside the painting?” he asked.
“About four,” I replied. “A girl with long red hair, a little girl with a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead, an old man, all hunched up, running away from something, and someone on the left hand-side, at the bottom, but I’m not sure what they’re doing.”
“Idiot,” he said to me. “Open your mind, not just your eyes. Look again. Now what do you see?”
“The same people, and there may be a couple more. How many people do you see, Moo?” “None. That’s why I hear music, because there’s no one there.”
“You’re having me on, aren’t you? You’re pulling my leg? You’re taking the…”
“Easy now,” he grinned maliciously, ” you don’t want your next word to be taken and used in evidence against you, do you? Now, look out of the window. What do you see?”
“I see blossoms…”
“But the trees are bare,” he smiled. “Do you toss and turn in your bed at night?”
“I do. And I’ve gone and lost my appetite.”
“I bet those stars shining in the skies last night, will be shining in your eyes tonight.”
“My golly, Moo, I think they might be. You know, you are a genius.”
“I am indeed. But I usually travel incognito. And listen…”
“Wow. I hear someone singing softly, and the voice is coming from the painting… but…”
“I know. There’s no one there.”

How quiet would my life be without music? As quiet as it would be without art, poetry, a sense of humor, friends who laugh with me, not at me, and people like you, who read this, and don’t think that I am totally insane. Oh yes, and if there was no music in my life, there would be no Great Starts to the Day, and no Poems for the End of Time.

What are your future travel plans?

Daily writing prompt
What are your future travel plans?
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What are your future travel plans?

When Covid struck in Avila, Spain, a small walled city, the abulenses (the Spanish name for people who live there) were confined to their houses and apartments. They got their exercise by walking on their balconies, or walking around their living quarters, however small, again and again.

When I was young, I traveled regularly to Bristol Zoo. The lions and tigers paced restlessly in their cages, or else just lay there, soporific. Maybe their food contained the drugs that curbed their violence. I never asked. But I do remember that relentless padding from one side to another. In the aquarium, the fish swam around and around going nowhere. The same with the seals and the penguins. Alas, they were only animated by feeding time, when the attendants appeared with their buckets of fish. Then the animals came alive and dived, jump, swam, and responded to the food thrown to them to entertain the watchers.

And it was somewhat similar in Avila – the restless pacing, the circuit of the room, the movement to the kitchen or the fridge. Some people lost weight, but many put it on. They got up from the chairs in which they were sitting, walked to the fridge, opened the door, took out a beer or two, and returned to their chairs in front of their tv sets. Language is always renewing itself and, in times of difference and stress, we invent new words. This routine became known as El Paseo de la Nevera – The Stroll to the Fridge.

Now, as my age increases and my energy grows less, a similar thing is happening to me. I count my steps as I limp around the house, hobbling from room to room. I aim for 2,000 steps a day, but sometime manage more than that. I go out, in good weather – not raining, not too hot, not too humid – and time my walks around the garden. I am unable to count my steps when I lean on my Rollator as my hands do not move and they must be in motion, if I am to keep a record on my watch. When walking, I stay as close as possible to the shade and try to keep cool. Each day, I try to walk two or three times in this fashion. Sometimes I even manage four outings at 15 minutes apiece. Occasionally, especially if I go shopping as well, leaning on my shopping cart, I may even manage an hour’s walk or more. When I achieve my targets, I feel fulfilled and satisfied.

While walking in the garden, I do one of two things. (a) I concentrate on the flowers, the ants beneath my feet, the weeds, the moss, the birds, the way nature grows and blesses me. Or (b), I pretend I am back in Avila, or Santander, or Brandy Cove, or Pwll Ddu, or Bishopston Valley, and as I walk, I visit my favorite bars and talk to the family and friends that I miss so much and haven’t seen for so long, most of whom I never hear from nor will ever see again.

And these are my travel plans – to continue doing this for as long as possible. To walk regularly. To continue to dream as I walk. To rejoice in the sunshine of my garden. To survive – and to enjoy each moment that I am permitted to do so.

AMDG – Ad Majorem Gloriam Dei.

What are your daily habits?



Daily writing prompt
What are your daily habits?
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What are your daily habits?

“The habit (Greek: Σχήμα, romanized: Schēma) is essentially the same throughout the world. The normal monastic color is black, symbolic of repentance and simplicity. The habits of monks and nuns are identical. Additionally, nuns wear a scarf, called an apostolnik.”

So, my daily habits are a little bit monastic. “Monks were very religious, lived simple lives and followed certain rules to discipline themselves. The monks didn’t have any possessions, they didn’t even own their own clothes and they wore a simple garment known as a habit. Monks chose to live in the monastery as they wanted to help others and worship God.”

I can’t say I am very religious, in the church-going sense, but I do live a pretty simple life. My rules and disciplines consist of daily exercises, stretching and strength, a morning wash and shave, getting dressed in my non-monkish habits – jeans, shirt, sox, shoes or sandals. Coffee and fruit for breakfast. Writing – (a) in my journal (b) on the computer (c) in my poetry book. An early lunch, usually a sandwich. A post-prandial walk around the garden with my roller, examining the hollyhocks, the yucca, and the clematis, and checking on the progress of the other flowers.

The daily routine of a monk is somewhat similar. Monks typically wake up early in the morning, often before sunrise. I wake up early, text a couple of my best friends on the cell phone beside my bed, and then I go back to sleep again. I often begin the day with a prayer or a hymn – as do the monks – “Every morning, when I wake, / oh Lord, this little prayer I make, / that thou will keep a watchful eye, / on all poor creatures born to die.” Then I begin my daily routine of work and meditation. The specific activities and schedule can vary, but generally, I spend several hours each day in work (writing) or study (reading).

I try to think like a monk – to think like a monk means to remain calm and focused under all circumstances, especially when life gets challenging. Alas, at my age, I meet challengers all through the day. Things fall to the floor – challenge – can I pick them up with my magic claw? I can’t open bottles and cans – challenge – can I do so with one of my two magic appliances? I actually have three, but one of them doesn’t work. The other two, however, are wonderful. It is almost impossible for me to open plastic wrappings – challenge – can I do so with a pair of scissors, a pocket knife, or must I, in the worst case scenario, use a genuine can opener? Good tip, that, incidentally, especially for bubble packs. There are many other challenges, the worst of which is always what to do if I fall down. We won’t talk about that – I just do my best not to fall.

I also do my best to lead a relatively simple life – I try (1) to do one thing at a time – (2) to commit whole-heartedly to my family and few close friends – (3) to simplify my life and concentrate on what I am doing – (4) to develop my mind by not indulging excessively in social media – (5) to order my existence by making lists of essentials that must be accomplished – (6) to express myself and my love for the world around me in poetry, prose, and paint – and finally, (7) to remember that, the day I was born, I took my first step on the path to death. Beyond that, I do very little more.