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Monet at Giverny

Monet at Giverny

1

his lily pond
a mirror shattering
shards of clouds
flames beneath the lilies
fractured fish

2
the executioner stripes evening
a cross the sacrificed horizon
in blood we were born
in earth will we rest
our flesh turned to bread
empurpled this imperial wine
streaming with day’s death
these troubled waters

3
green footprints the lily pads
a halo
this drowned man’s beard
liquescent
like the gods
he dreamed
he walked dry over water
flowering goldfish
this thin line of cloud

4
maples flash ruby thoughts
ripples flowing outwards
as heavy as a stone at Stonehenge
this altar tumbling downwards
through a liquid sky

5
wisteria and his curly blue locks
Narcissus clad in an abyss of lilies
imperial his reflection and perilous
slowly he slides to sleep
merging into his imaged dream
a vaulted cathedral
his earthbound ribs
the blood space immaculate

6
night and day and sun and clouds
leapfrogging over water
something survives
sepia tints
dreaming on and on
exotic this sudden movement
Carassius auratus flowering

7
Clos Normand and the Grande Allée
closed to him now
folded his flowers
their petals tight at his nightfall
dark their colours
mourning for his mornings of light
fled far from him now

8
can we soften this sunstroke of brightness
le roi soleil threatening to blind us?
rey de oros
the sun glow braiding itself
an aureate palette
a susurration of leaves

9
the lady of the lake
holding out her hand
handing him an apple
l’offrande du coeur
a scarlet heart of flame
monochromatic this island
brown earth in a crimson lake
the world reborn in tulips

10
especially
when the dying sun
molten fire spreading
a limpid light
sky brimming over into pond
trapped in low clouds
a slash of colour here
and there a tree
a fountain of gold
the sun an apple
blushing
on a setting branch

11
silver-white the money plant
moonlight between fine-tuned fingers
its rattle of seeds
blunt the moon’s bite
raked from water
gaunt its gesture
matched ripples
face to face
with the moon

12
upside down these clouds
bright in their winter boats
the night wind blows
clean dry bones
across the sky

13
fish aloft like birds
skimming wet sunshine
spring’s first swallow
rising from the depths
to snatch a golden note
quivering in the air

14
thunder raises dark ripples
lightning a forked tongue
insinuated into paradise
an apple tossed away
caution thrown over the shoulder
as sharp as salt

15
winds of change
that first bite
too bitter to remember

16
timeless this tide
this ebb and flow
oh great pond-serpent
biting your own tail
forever

Comment:

A real Golden Oldie and going back a long way. I just re-discovered it. Funny how these things become lost and abandoned. Then they resurface. This is from Though Lovers Be Lost, available online should you wish to continue with its poetry!

Click on the link below to purchase the book

Though Lovers Be Lost
Print Edition

Bleak Mid-Winter

Bleak Mid-winter
from
All About Angels

The reverse side of a tapestry this fly-netting,
snow plugging its tiny squares,
clotting with whiteness the loopholes
where snippets of light sneak through.
Black and white this landscape,
its colorless contours a throwback
to earlier days when dark and light
and black and white held sway.

Snow piled on snow.
The bird-feeder buried and buried, too,
the lamps that can no longer shine
beneath their cloak of snow.

The front porch contemplates a sea of white,
wave after wave cresting whitecaps,
casting a snow coat over trees
with snow-filled nests standing
shoulder-deep in the drifts
while a slow wind whistles
and high and dry in the sky above
the sun is a pale, thin penny
drifting through ragged clouds
hat threaten to bring more snow.

Comment:

A Golden Oldie, or rather, a Black and White Oldie, from when New Brunswick winters were colder and much more snowy. The iterative thematic imagery in the poem links to the hymn, In the bleak mid-winter. There are several reminisces of the hymn within the above lines.

It used to be sung as a an entry hymn in the Christmas Carol Services at King’s Stanley Church, along time ago, when I was in school. The procession would exit the vestry and move slowly though the church towards the altar. The first verse of the solo was sung solo. Then a duet followed. Then the whole choir joined in. I remember doing the solo one year, when both our lead singers were stricken with some form of laryngitis. We drew lots and I got the short straw.

The unique drum accompaniment that day was the sound of my knees knocking together, backed up by the loud beating of the heart in my chest. I preferred hiding in the choir, to stepping up out front and leading it.

Last year, we used our snow blower on three occasions. This winter, we have yet to use it. If during the next month or so I am forced to wake it up and shake it out of its cobwebs, I will be sure to sing “In the bleak midwinter” as I plow my drive. Alas, there will be no choir to accompany me. Those days are long past, and in the past they must remain, as the Flower of Scotland reminds us. They will be singing that in Edinburgh on Valentine’s Day. And Scotland will need a strong brave set of hearts to upset the invading armies from south of the border.

Wild Life

Wild Life

I see green grass
Small ponds
Winding roads
Patches of sorrow

Turquoise blues 
Hills to climb
Softness
Strength 

Flowers blooming
A small animal
Covered in feathers 

An eye
Keeping watch
Purity of white

Ekphrastic Poem
©
Yolande Essiembre

Comment:

My good friend Yolande Essiembre sent me her Ekphrastic poem after viewing this morning’s painting by Moo. Wild Life II is a better representation of the colours of the original. However, Moo added in some (what he calls!) helpful touches – the black shapes that reinforce the suggestions of the original. Yolande wrote her poem based on Version I – but with the stronger colors of version II. Magic – oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. And all artists weave their webs of deceit. As Cervantes says – Tanto la mentira es mejor, cuanto más parece verdadera. / The closer it approaches the truth, the better the lie.

Imitatio – imitation – one of the bedrocks of classical rhetoric. “Imitation is the best form of flattery”. Flattery, yes, but what we find, in art above all, is that there exists only one original. However good the copy, the flattery – the imitation, if you prefer – it is never as good as the original. The original of this painting exists in one time and one place. The two deceptions are not the original. In fact, Wild Life I no longer exists because Moo has repainted it. It has turned into Wild Life II.

So many questions – which version do you prefer – I or II? De gustibus non est disputandum. There is no arguing about taste. Which is the better version? Well, each viewer must choose. But remember, each version is a deception, and each deception is a lie. And there is only one original. Oh what a tangled web we weave.

But we can, I hope, agree on one thing – Yolande’s verbal version (which I publish here with her permission) is verbally picture perfect. It is how she sees the painting. It is what the painting means to her.

Thank you so much Yolande. Moo and I hope to publish your words and visions more often. With your permission. we will do so.


Cribbage

Cribbage

Red and white markers
chase each other
along the S bends,
past the skunk lines
to the final straight
where a single space
awaits the winner.

I don’t remember
who won, nor do I care.

We shuffle the cards
and deal again
as we wait for sleep
to descend and bless us.

We fast, tonight:
no food, no water.

When midnight strikes,
we put away the deck
and pegging board,
and bid each other
goodnight.

Sleep well if you can,
my friend:
morning will bring
a much more serious game
that neither you nor I
can afford to lose.

Comment:

A Golden Oldie from 2015. We were both receiving treatment for cancer, in Moncton, at the Georges Dumont Hospital. We both had sessions the next day, he had opted for surgery, while I was undergoing radiation treatment. We could not sleep, and so we sat up and played cards. It helped reax both of us and we talked while we played. I do not remember the conversation – nor the cards – just the immense peace and brotherhood that wrapped itself around us as we waited together.

A little later, we both left the hospital and we never met again. I remember how he played cards, his pegging skills, his ability to read the hands. But I can’t remember his face, or his name. Yet here he is, a ship that passed me, nameless now, in the night, and still, I hope sails on.

Looking back on those days – I remember such closeness in the Auberge, such camaraderie. Those who had been there longest sharing the secrets of survival skills with the newest arrivals. One of the greatest joys for me, was to meet with so many wonderful Acadians – male and female – who shared their language, their knowledge, and their culture. I remember the quilting sessions, the gossip around the table – and I was the only man in the group. The ladies wanted to know where I had learned to sew so well, but I fudged the answers and wouldn’t tell them. I still keep that knowledge to myself. I remember, too, the painting sessions. And the musical evenings with dance and song. So much encouragement, so much fun – and all in the face of disaster, for not everyone survived their treatment. As for me, I was one of the lucky ones. And I recall those days as blessed, in spite of the fear and sometimes the pain.

Rage, Rage 21

Rage, Rage
21

A yellow-bellied
sapsucker hops over
syrup-sticky squares.

His hand-carved
chess board
glistens
as feasting flies
swarm, dark,
beneath the sun.

My thoughts
are deeply rooted.

They branch out,
walk wordless
through stark
realities.

I raise my hands
But hear only silence.

The answers to my questions
tumble from the tree
and lay their leaves to rest
in the restless foliage
shuffled at tree foot
by the wind.

Rage, Rage 16 & 17

Rage, Rage
16

I doze in my chair.
The book I am reading
tumbles to the floor.

I fumble with my claw
and its metal hand
pincers the book,
then raises it.

The cat needs feeding.
I pick up her bowl
with my claw
but scatter her kibble
on the floor.

I can’t remember
where I put
the garden kneeler –
I just leave the kibble
where it lies.

Icing on the cake,
I pop my pills and now
I’ll feel less pain
for an hour or two.

17

On my own.
Outwitting old age,
accepting its growing limitations
 with as much grace and humor
as I can and must.
Trying to feel no bitterness.

That aspirin this morning,
falling into my shirt,
then appearing on the floor
a moment before
I sat on the loo.

A blue-eyed, mini-aspirin
winking at me quite happily.

I reached for my claw,
picked the pill up
and swallowed it,
washing it down with a smile,
and a draught of laughter.

Comments:

I doze in my chair. Just about sums it up. I remember playing darts in the Red Lion, Knowle, Bristol. When I threw an occasional good dart, the locals would whisper “Dozy, dozy.” To them it meant “lucky, lucky.” After a bit, I began to play better. One of the professionals made me my own darts set. Hand made. Adjusted to how I throw. I got better and better. One night, playing 301, double in, double out, I needed 131 to finish. I made it in a three dart finish – 57 (treble 19) – 42 (treble 14) – 32 (double 16). This was the only three dart finish, over 100, that I ever made!

I left the darts there. “Weed the board,” they shouted – meaning – clear the board of wasted darts so the next player could throw. “Check!” I countered, meaning I wanted them to check that I had won the game. “Dozy, dozy,” they cried. And, if I went back there, more than sixty years later, those who survived, and remembered, would still call me Dozy.

So, I sit here and doze about my life. The good days, the bad days, the in-between days. Faces drift in and out – [that’s why Moo painted me the picture] – and sometimes I can put names to them and sometimes not. And that’s life. A collection of personal memories – very vivid – and a selection of faces that we can no longer name and names to whom we can no longer fit a face.

My life – A blue-eyed, mini-aspirin winking at me quite happily.



Rage, Rage 14, 15

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 65 & 66

Carved in Stone
65

Flames flow sparkling waters,
a cataract of fire,
down church walls
as the Castillo burns.

Fireworks claw upwards
to knock on heaven’s door
and waken the sleeping gods
reminding them
not to forget their people.

A knife edge slices sun
from shadow, heat from cool,
solombra, Paz calls his neologism
with its combination
of sun and shade / sol y sombra.

66

I will never forget the taste and smell
of my own sweat as I walk beneath
the heaviness of a midday sun,
its heat falling vertical
and rebounding in waves
from concrete and cobbles.

I recall the roughness
of hand-hewn stone
heated by that burning sun,
the smoothness of silk
contrasting with the harshness
of tares in hand-woven wool,
marketed in the central square.

Commentary:

Fireworks claw upwards to knock on heaven’s door. The celebrants would buy their rockets in groups of 3, 6, or 12. When the first rocket went up – whoooosh – BANG! – we would wait for the fourth. When the sixth rocket went up, same thing – do they have a full dozen? And when the seventh rocket goes up, indeed, we know they do. Sometimes, we would be woken up in the early morning, as the joyful people returned home after a night of reveling. When that seventh rocket flew skywards – we knew it was useless to try and go back to sleep!

I remember leaving the zócalo one night, turning into a side street, and being met by a wall of people. A whole village, with its accompanying band stood there, waiting. Up went the first rocket, the band started to play, and the dancing broke out. No sleep for the gods that night. Their people needed them and had come knocking on the door. I was always amazed by the way the old gods stood shoulder to shoulder with the new gods of Christianity. The number of people who worshiped both also surprised me.

I last visited Oaxaca in 2001. I wonder how much has changed. I hope the dancing trees never change. Inside them, young children, their eyes peering through the bark, followed the band music. Occasionally, one of them would stop, open his or her tree, and invite you in. Alas, I never had the courage or the skill to accept the invitation. Even by 2001, the traditional carnival figures – monos – were gradually being replaced by Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse. Tragic, in so many ways. I hope they keep the traditions of the rockets and the music and the trees.

People of the Mist
A Poet’s Day in Oaxaca

If you want to read more about Oaxaca
Click here to purchase this book.

Carved in Stone 12

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.

Carved in Stone 10 & 11

10

Firelight dances,
bringing things back to life.

Each morning,
I take time to empty my mind
of those restless cats
I herd at night as they shimmy
through my troubled dreams.

By day, each cat
throws a different shadow
that parades before me
in the sweetness of soft sunlight
where a honeyed sweetness reigns
and no bitterness dwells.

My own cat haunts me,
purring for butter,

sitting there, staring,
eyes wide open, hypnotic.

What, I wonder,
does she really want
as she turns her back,
walks away,
and stalks a different prey
among my books?

11

Does she hear the clock’s dry tick
and sense the Roman numerals
marching round, left – right – left,
always in step
with the pendulum’s sway.

Does she recall migrating birds
or those gaudy summer butterflies,
fanning their wings
as they perch on Cone Heads,
Bees’ Balm, Black-eyed Susans,
generic butterflies,
specific flowers,
planted by my own hands?

I often ask myself –
“What does she know
that I don’t know?”

Commentary:

A strange thing knowledge. I have learned the hard way that “the more I know, the more I know I don’t know.” Just look at today’s second stanza. I would love to know more about, and understand better, migrating birds, summer butterflies, especially the lovely Monarchs that fly at Mexico and back, the flowers themselves, the way language substitutes the generic (butterflies, flowers) for the specific (Red Admirals, buttercups), and as for that cat, I really would like to know what she knows that I don’t know. I have never been able to train her, but she has certainly managed to train me!

And I would love to understand humor and laughter. Slapstick aside, humor is one of the cultural secrets that travels least in translation. Jokes in French or Spanish just do not translate well into English. It takes a deep cultural and linguistic knowledge to grasp foreign humor at first glance.

Take today, for instance. I drove the car to the garage to change the tires from summer to winter. I asked the garage guy, my friend, if he would drive me home, and he said he would. He got i the passenger side and I drove home. Then he drove the car back to the garage. He opened the garage doors, drove the car in, turned the engine off, hoisted the car up, and changed the tires. When he’d finished, he tried to start the engine. No luck. He called me – “Where’s the key?” “In my pocket!” I replied. We were having such fun chatting we never thought to offer or request the car key when we exchanged drivers. Well, we are all still laughing about it.

When I got into the house, even the cat was laughing, and as for that cat, I really would like to know what she knows that I don’t know. Maybe, it’s just that we humans, especially as we age, aren’t as clever as we sometimes think we are. Some things, I guess, I’ll never know.