Ice Storm
This month and my life
are nearly done.
Sun strengthens in the sky
but birds ice up
in spite of feathers,
fluffed like eider downs.
Man alone,
within warm walls,
can bravely laugh
at winter’s squalls.
But oh, if the power fails,
if wires are tumbled
by winter’s gusting gales,
man’s heart no longer
fills with ease.
He sits at home
in the cold and dark
while all around him,
ice covers the land
and even fire dogs
freeze.
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
14
As for you, my love,
one moment you were with me,
at the airport,
the next, you were not.
I turned away for a second,
and, when I looked again,
you had walked
through the boarding gate,
and passed out of my life.
Now, I can’t think straight.
Hair leaks from my head
like straw from a scarecrow.
My teddy bear brain
has morphed from sawdust
into a mess of lonely grey jelly.
15
Memories deceive me
with their flickering
shadow shows.
Shapes shift with a click
of the magician’s fingers.
What magic lantern
now slips its subtle slides
across night’s screen?
Desperate, I lap,
like a wild Alpine goat,
at salt-licks
that increase my thirst
and drive me
deeper into thick,
black clouds
of want and need.
Comments:
Shapes shift with a click of the magician’s fingers. Indeed, they do. I love the shape-shifting nature of snow. One day, the ash tree stands stark against dark pines. The next, the garden is winter white and the trees are dressed in their fine wedding garments. The table is no longer a table, though I do not know exactly what it has turned into. The distant trees seem to lean in close. The railings lose their summer dirt and snow turns everything inside out and upside down.
It reminds me of Pete Seeger – “Snow, snow, falling down, covering up this dirty little town.” Except the garden isn’t dirty, just a little abandoned in winter until the snow arrives, or, even better, the ice storm, followed by sun, when we suddenly seem to live in the heart of an icy diamond, looking out.
Carved in Stone
63
Words descend, soft and peaceful.
They brush my mind
with the hushed touch
of a grey jay’s soundless wings.
Yet the grey jays have gone,
vanished along with the grosbeaks,
evening, pine, and rose breasted.
Words can hardly express what I feel
in this diminishing world
when I inhale color and light.
Dawn bursts into bloom,
and the indoor hyacinth starts,
once more, to blossom.
Its immanent beauty
fills me with a warmth
that disperses night’s shadows,
taking away all sense of gloom.
Commentary:
The indoor hyacinth starts, once more, to blossom. Its immanent beauty fills me with a warmth that disperses night’s shadows, taking away all sense of gloom. Indeed it does. Once upon a time, it became infested with little bugs and was reduced to one leaf. Clare worked with it, spoke to it, cajoled it, and bit by bit it came back to life. Now it lives in the front porch in summer and returns to the house, southern aspect, in winter, to flourish when least we expect it.
Hyacinth, Jamaica in Spanish. And nothing more delicious than the miel de jamaica that one is offered in Oaxaca, fruit juice squeezed from the hyacinth flowers. “My wife has gone to the West Indies.” “Jamaica?” “No, she went of her own accord.” Humor flows and the hyacinth flowers, and I spend my winter hours sitting and watching my indoor flowers.
Yet the grey jays have gone, vanished along with the grosbeaks, evening, pine, and rose breasted. They used to flock on the picnic tables but as the weather warmed, they went further north. I remember when 64 mourning doves perched on the power lines. Now, we have two or three who look lonely in the garden and sound even lonelier. Words can hardly express what I feel in this diminishing world when I inhale color and light, but long for the passerines’ morning and evening flight.
But, in spite of all that, sad as it is, the hyacinth’s immanent beauty fills me with a warmth
that disperses night’s shadows, taking away all sense of gloom.
Carved in Stone
50
Here, in the castle of my own home,
I sit and write and patiently wait
for the enemy’s superior forces
to arrive and overwhelm me.
But death is not the enemy.
He is the friend
who has walked beside me
every day, since the day
that I was born.
I know him and I trust him,
though I am unaware
of when he will come to call
and I am ignorant of the shape
he will finally take.
Commentary:
Francisco de Quevedo, the 17th Century Spanish Neo-stoic and Metaphysical poet, wrote “the day I was born I took my first step on the path to death.” And so it is, with all of us. Sometimes we are able to choose our paths, sometimes they are forced upon us, sometimes they appear – with choices – and we make our selection and move on.
There are so many roads to travel. For Antonio Machado (Spain, Generation of 1898) there is no road. There is only a wake upon the sea – “Caminante, no hay camino, solo hay estela sobre el mar.” We must look back, to see where we have come from and where we have been. But there are many other possible paths, beside that of the sea – gravel paths, cobbled ways, log trucking roads in the Canadian Forest, cattle roads, transhumance roads, winding roads, straight Roman roads, roads that run up hill, down hill, or twist and bend following the paths of rivers.
The picture above shows the old Roman Road that leads to the Puerto del Pico, in the province of Avila. It followed the contours of the hill and formed part of the Ruta de la Plata, the road that took Latin American silver from Seville to the Spanish capital in Madrid. Look carefully and you can see the modern highway that runs parallel to the old Roman road. Nowadays, that older road is used for transhumance, the movement of cattle from the valleys in the winter to the hills in the summer. The same road, the same pass, so many different uses, and the road a wake upon the path of so many lives.
Fire Storm
Yesterday, it was difficult to breathe.
We inhaled dust and ashes as smoke
from forest fires scuttled towards us,
carried piggy-back on a strong west wind.
Today, the wind herds clouds into aerial castles,
pinnacles and pyramids piled upwards,
tall ships’ canvases painted dark, thundery,
raised by fierce wedges thrust beneath them,
lofting them into darkening skies.
Beyond a certain height, water becomes ice.
Particles group together. Hail stones form,
small at first, growing ever larger
until the very air can no longer bear
their weight. Golf ball big, they tumble down
the sky’s steep ladder and fall to earth.
The dry drum roll of distant thunder rumbles.
A scissor-slash of light shreds black skies.
An executioner’s hay wain rolls towards us,
a runaway train destined to tear our lives
apart. It leaves us helpless, clamoring for safety,
our world torn apart, our earth sore wounded.
Death scythes away, downing rich and poor alike.
Who now knows which way thrown dice will fall?
The dye’s sharp edge, once cast, cuts like a blade.
Hail stones clatter on the roof, battering us down.
Carved in Stone
32
I dream of winter snow
snaking its whispering way
down the highway.
Waves draw lacy curtains
across the beach.
Sandpipers wade, pecking,
probing at tide’s foaming edge,
strange writings their footprints,
punctuation,
the holes they leave
drilled in the sand.
Evening now, and a low light
casts its magic on the forest,
gilding the trees.
Dry leaves rustle.
A shadow flickers
at the edge of my eye,
my childhood –
a sea bird soaring.
Commentary:
So inadequate, the word world I create. Sound – winter snow snaking its whispering way down the highway / dry eaves rustling. Absence of sound – waves draw lacy curtains across the beach / sandpipers, with their shrill voices and constant whistling’ / the gentle hiss and buddle where the sandpipers sew their holes.
What about the other senses? I miss the sense of smell, the odors borne on the wind, the different aromas that arises from dry and wet sand, the pong that wet sea weed exudes, the perfumes of sea side grass and wild flowers … And what about touch – the sandpaper scraper of dry sand between the toes, the feel of those lacy curtains as, jeans rolled up, you paddle along the shoreline, the feel of the wind on your face when sea birds soar … and who can ever forget the salt taste of the sea upon their lips?
The Catch 22 of all writers – how much can we include? How much can we suggest? How much must we let slip by? Culture – how can we describe the sea to someone who has never seen the sea? I can ask the questions – but I must leave you to work out the answers for yourself. So inadequate, the word world I create.
12
A Ruffed Grouse sought refuge
among the berries
of the Mountain Ash.
I shot him,
not with a gun,
but with a camera.
Intertextuality –
a friend borrowed the photo,
turned it into elegant brush strokes,
and now the painting
hangs on my wall,
opposite the tree
where once he sat.
A still-life
face to face with its reality
as early morning dew
forms on spider webs,
hammock-strung
between grass-blades,
bending in the wind.
And what if the spell breaks
and I can no longer see the fine seeds
of the dandelion clock kissed away
by the lisping lips of time?
What is life?
Is it just an illusion?
Commentary:
I shot him, not with a gun, but with a camera. Interesting. I have never seen the need to take the life of living creatures, except in cases of absolute necessity. And no, I have never killed, let alone for fun or sport. Shooting with a camera, that’s my ideal, and when a friend and fellow KIRA artist likes the photo and offers to paint it … well, that leads us into the nature of intertextuality, where reality becomes photo, becomes painting, becomes a text, and you, dear reader, are contemplating all those moments that join us.
The fine seeds of the dandelion clock kissed away by the lisping lips of time. This image comes from my walks in the Welsh countryside around Brandy Cove, Gower, with my paternal grandmother. “What time is it Nana?” I can still see her, bending down, plucking a dandelion, and holding it out for me to blow the seeds away – one puff, one o’clock, two puffs, two o’clock. I recall the seeds, drifting away on the summer breeze. “The Good Lord loved those dandelions,” she once told me. “That’s why He planted them everywhere.”
What will happen when the wells run dry and water runs out and there are no more dandelion seeds? How long will it be before I can no longer see them? Vis brevis, ars longa. The answer to my questions – I care, but I really don’t know.
Hallowe’en
1
Today is All Hallows Eve.
Tomorrow is Oaxaca’s
Day of the Dead.
The clocks change
the day after tomorrow.
Today, it’s raining,
and rain is a trick when
it forces celebrants off the streets
and town councils vote to change
the traditional date and send
young children out trick and treating
on a dry, warmer night.
But this rain, after drought,
is a Hallowe’en treat.
It brings a promise
that the aquifers will refill
that wells will not run dry,
and above all,
it brings us hope.
2
Around us, fall thrives
and watches and clocks
will soon fall back.
Trees weep for lost leaves.
Flowers that flourished
now wither and perish.
Hollyhocks topple and fall.
Bees’ Balm is abandoned
by butterflies and bees.
3
I expect time
to change with the clocks
and my body clock
will soon be out of sync
with the tick-tock chime
that denounces each hour.
Hours that used to wound
now threaten to kill.
They used to limp along,
but now they just rush by
and I, who used to run
from point to point,
now shuffle a step at a time.
But still I live in hopes to see
the clocks spring forward
once more.
Commentary:
A great poem for Hallowe’en, even if I say so myself, and I haven’t even mentioned the Blue Jays and the Los Angeles Dodgers. Oh, woe is me. Shame and scandal in my poetry.
Game Six of the World Series on Hallowe’en – wow! – well, one team will get a treat and the other will receive a very disappointing trick. I know which team I support, but I don’t know who will win this time around.
Having said that – with substantial rain after drought, everybody in my province is a winner. And who could wish for more than that?
41
… fire flares on the water
rivers and lakes blaze
that sound is a monster
a dragon descending
breathing fire
so swift so powerful
come sudden
from nowhere
yet another disaster
with its ravenous roar
the dragon refuses to move on
until sated
but who could satisfy
that monster
destroy its will
defeat its power
will Lac Megantic
ever be the same
after all these years
of grief and tears
will fading memories
be all that remain …
42
… a stillness between words
tranquil movements
the world suspended in space
soundless the night
drenched in silent light
Aurora Borealis
draws gaudy curtains
across the night sky
I can hear my heart beat
as time softly sifts
a celestial hour glass
this sky filled
with unimaginable light
breaking coloured waves
lit up
with mysterious flowers
so graceful
when decked out
in light
the moon returns
turns into a mirror
its silver boat
suspended in space
silent its light
enlightening
the heart’s dusky craters
dawn’s silent glory
will be here soon
pointing the silent path
to even more light …
Commentary:
Ten years or so since the disaster at Lake Megantic. I am sure it affected everyone who followed the news, saw the pictures, and bore witness to the power of conflagration. Moo offered me his painting called Burning Birbi. A Birbi is a Koala Bear in one of the Aboriginal Languages. When the fires hit New South Wales, the Eucalyptus Trees started to fire. When in danger, the Birbi climbs the eucalyptus trees, higher and higher, followed, of course, by the fire. A fate inescapable. Just like the Megantic Disaster. Word has it that it could, and should, have been prevented. I cannot (will not) comment on that here. I will just stress the fear that we all have, those of us who live in a drought stricken province (New Brunswick) surrounded by trees.
The closest wildfire to us, in Island View, was about 31 kilometres away. The closest trees are about 30 feet away from the house. Much too close for comfort. Curtains of flame and smoke, rising up to stain the skies. And the smell of burning also inescapable. Stay indoors, I say. Shut the windows. And hope that nothing comes your way!
Fire, controlled, brings heat, warmth, light. The Northern Lights bring spectacular light flooding down from the skies, not rising up. You can almost hear the sky crackling as the light curtains shift and shimmer and dance their way across the horizon. Fire and Fire Light – beautiful when we can control them, but oh-so-destructive when they flame and flare, out of control.
Do not despair. Just remember we need each other, all of us, each one of us. Together we can overcome most things. Isolated and alone, like the lone koala at the top of his tree, it is much, much more difficult to survive. Select your friends carefully. Maintain contact with them. And be there for each other in times of need, for, as we say in Wales – “a friend in need, is a friend in deed.”
rogermoorepoet 