Giving Thanks

Sign Language

Sign Language

A skater leaving marks on fresh ice
or a stone cast into a pond,
with multiple meanings, multiple ripples
moving slowly outwards,
to end up where?

Who knows? Not me.
I only know that the thrown stone,
like the spoken word,
can never be recalled.

Each word a stone,
and each stone leaving its mark
on many people of many cultures
and multiple languages,
though English is the language
in which I now write.

Frost and snow here this morning.
Not much, just a dusting.
I look out of the window
at the crows’ claw prints
on my yard’s white surface.

My eyes draw silence
out of the white space
with its runic language
written by the crows.

The meaning of meaning –
tell me, if you can,
what do they say?
What do they mean?
What do they want from me?

Commentary:

Intertextuality – this poem came directly from this morning’s commentary, with some minor alterations. The commentary itself, emerged from Carved in Stone, 35. Three separate steps in the great chain of intertextuality, where text speaks to text and the crows cock their heads, turn them to one side, listen, and write their answers in the snow.

Sometimes words just flow. Sometimes, I force them to flow. However, I have learned over the years that the secret is to relax and to allow the words to come to you of their own free will. Sometimes they whisper, occasionally they shout. But if you are willing to listen, you will hear them everywhere. And they have so much to say, if you will only learn to listen carefully and try to understand their language.

Book of Life

Book of Life

When I lost my place, I tied my hanky in a knot,
to help me remember the number of my page.
Last night I looked in pockets and sleeve, but
I couldn’t remember where I put my hanky.

At midnight the stars dropped liquid fires and they
pooled like letters on the fresh snow of my dreams.

One night I caught some falling stars and I joined them
together, one by one, till they stretched their daisy chain
across the garden. Words grow like flowers in the Spring.

Once I could accelerate the universe. But now I slow
down when I spell my name. There is a circlet of gold
on the sky’s bright brow. What gave these stars the right
to write my future in expanding letters? A satellite moves
in a straight line, north to south and starlight crumbles
in the wake of artificial knowledge spanning the eye ball
of the planet. Who will repair these broken tunes? Who
will glue these scattered notes back into the piano’s frame?

My tongue stumbles against my teeth and trips on my lip.
A leaf of fire scorches the deep bell sound of my throat.

Commentary:

I looked over my shoulder, backward into time and space, and discovered this poem, penned more than a quarter of a century ago and abandoned in an old folder. Moo tells me he hasn’t painted for some time – I wondered if he was on a rotating striking, like our posties (Canadian for mail men and women), but he assured me that he had been sleeping, not sleep-walking in circles. Anyway, he felt inspired, put paintbrush to postcard and gave new life to my Book of Life. Thank you, Moo.

Do you remember when we used to tie knots in our hankies to remember what we had to do? Paper tissues put an end to that. No point in tying a knot in a soggy tissue, even if you could. And as Francisco de Quevedo told us – no point in looking in your hanky after you’ve used it. No point in searching for diamonds and emeralds, let alone pearls of wisdom, they just won’t be there. Good one, Franky. Of course, he was writing in Spanish, not English and my translation can’t do him justice.

It used to be fun watching the night sky out here in Island View. So clear – the satellites passed overhead and followed different paths from the stars. No Platonic dancing to ethereal music for them. Tone deaf, the lot of them, cutting their own little paths across the night sky. We used to get Northern Lights too, Aurora Borealis. They were always spectacular. Great crackling curtains of light hanging down from the heavens almost to the rooftops. Moo wishes he could paint everything h sees. I wish I could write down in verse every thought I think. If each of us had our wishes fulfilled, we’d have two books of life – one in color and one in black and white!

My First Thanksgiving

My First Thanksgiving

For the first twenty-two years of my life,
Thanksgiving had no meaning, no substance,
no shape, nor form, nothing to hold me.

When I emigrated to Canada,
my Canadian cousins changed all that.
when they invited me to come to
Kincardine for Thanksgiving.

They served a traditional Thanksgiving Dinner
with vegetables in colored jellies
and all sorts of things I had never seen.

We were all surprised
at how alike we looked.
Like Cousin George in Vancouver,
or Cousin Elsie in Revelstoke.

They told me how WWII
had brought the family back together
on these special holidays –
Christmas in Wales for the Canadian troops
or Thanksgiving in Winnipeg
for the Welsh boys learning to fly.

That thanksgiving, the old family names
turned into photographs before me.
Snaps of my mother’s wedding,
my grandmother holding me on her knee.

And finally, as a special Thanksgiving gift
a long-distance phone call to Britain
and Clare on the phone saying
yes she would come to Canada
and yes she would marry me.

And I remember crying
all the way back from Kincardine
to Toronto and that was my first
Thanksgiving in Canada.

Poppy Day

Poppy Day

Remembrance Day
11 November 2024

I wasn’t there
I never saw the gas clouds
            rolling over our positions
            never felt the barbed wire’s bite
            nor the bayonet’s jab

I never hung out my washing
            on the Siegfreid Line
            (“Have you any dirty washing, mother dear?”)
            never broke out of barracks
            never did spud bashing
            nor feasted on bread and water
            nor heard the rifle’s rapid rattle

I wasn’t there
            to see them carried away in carts
            coughing spluttering vomiting
            or bandages over their eyes
            walking slowly to triage a hand on
            the shoulder of the man ahead
            the sighted leading the blind

I wasn’t there
            but both my grandfathers were
            both decorated
            one mentioned in dispatches
            signed by Winston Churchill
            that one uninjured
            the other one gassed
            coughing up his lungs
            bit by bit for forty years

I am here now
to remember
and to honor them
though so much
has been lost

Comment:
My friend, the painter known as Moo, painted this poppy today. My generation, unless they served voluntarily, as many have done, was never conscripted. As a result, the horrors and tragedies of combat were never known to us, except as seen through they eyes of other people. I think of Wilfred Owen and his magnificent, heart-rending poems from WWI.
Today, I pay tribute to those members of my family who served in the armed forces by land, sea, and air. I also pay tribute to the veterans who survived, and to those who gave their lives in the defense of our country.

Who do you spend the most time with?

Daily writing prompt

Who do you spend the most time with?

View all responses

Who do you spend the most time with?

My Teddies. I know, I know. Most of you will say “A Teddy Bear is not a real person. You can say what, but you can’t say who.” And most of you would be wrong. Teddy Bears are trained confessors – they listen to everything you tell them – in silence – and they never condemn you. They are a great comfort too, and are just as good and effective as a comfort dog. Also, they are very, very obedient. Tell your Teddy Bear to sit and wait, and s/he does, very patiently.

I sleep in the same room as my teddies. And since I am in that room for 8-10 hours almost every night, that doesn’t leave much time for spending with other people. Besides which, while Rose and Teddy, the big ones, Mother and Father Bear, so to speak, usually stay in the bedroom, while Basil Bear, the small pocket bear with the pink ribbon, often travels with me, in my pocket, and usually sits on the table with me at meal times and when I read and write.

And remember – Teddy Bears don’t eat your porridge, so you never have to look at your Teddy Bear and say “Who’s been eating My porridge?” I hate porridge, by the way, “Porridge, porridge, thin and brown, waiting for breakfast when I come down. They clean the table of every dish, eggs and bacon, cheese and fish. But however early, however late, porridge is always sure to wait.” Sometimes I wish my Teddy would devour my porridge, especially when it’s burnt. I wounder if I could train him?

Here’s Basil Bear, on the table with me, helping me to choose my wine. He reads the label, very carefully, and then tells me which one it is. Now that’s what a Care Bear does – cares for and looks after his human. And look at that Black Cat – I do think he’s envious of Basil, four green eyes filled with the light of jealousy. I hope he doesn’t scram my Basil – a gath wedi scrapo Basil fach.

I also talk to that friend , who always walks with me. As Antonio Machado says – “El que habla solo, espera hablar con Dios un dia.” “He who talks to himself hopes to talk to God one day.” Let’s hope that particular chat is delayed a little bit longer. I enjoy writing these prompts. So, happy thoughts, and may you all share a Teddy or two who really care.

Illumination

Two Poems to help you find your way in the dark!

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.

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.

Silence

Silence

silence
          between words
tranquil movements
          the world
stands still
          suspended
in space

silent space
          between the stars

Aurora Borealis
          soundless night
drenched
          in silent light

listen –
can you hear
your heart beat

can you hear
the silence
of your house

time
          sifting silent
through an hour glass
         filled with light
drifting into
          night

It’s A Small World

It’s A Small World

Light returns to Island View after Monday’s eclipse. Here it is post the total eclipse and daylight is being restored. It was a wonderful experience, totally unlike the last total eclipse we saw, at Skinner’s Pond, In PEI, on 10 July 1972.

That one was unexpected. Nobody talked about it. Nobody said a thing. We travelled to Skinner’s Pond, the birth place of Stompin’ Tom Connors, just to see where he was born. We parked the car, put the dog on a leash, and walked on the beach. Normal sea-side sounds – waves, sea birds, wind among the dune grass – swallows rose and fell, twittering joyfully. A world at peace. Then it happened.

A shadow moved across the sun and the world started to darken. The dog went wild, strained at the leash, started to whimper. The bank swallows began to gather, then, as the darkness deepened, they dived for their burrows and vanished from sight. We shivered and wondered. We had no glasses of any kind. We avoided looking at the sun, and just experienced the world as it darkened and became colder and more silent, save for the sound of the wind in the grass. As the light returned, the dog settled down, the swallows emerged from their tunnels and took to the skies, twittering again. Life, light, and warmth returned to normal.

Monday’s eclipse was so very different. We weren’t intending to watch it, other than on the television. While I was out shopping, early that morning, I joked with the people I met that, during the eclipse, I was going to tuck myself into bed and hide my head under the blankets, in case it was dangerous. [Yes, I have read Day of the Triffids and seen the movie. Now that does date me.] On the way home, I met one of my neighbors. Was I going to watch the eclipse? Once in a life experience. Did I have the right glasses? He told me to avoid normal sunglasses. Told me I wouldn’t get the right glasses now. All sold out. He gave me a strange look when I told him of my decision to bury my head in the blankets – just in case – so no harm would come to me.

Several news items turned up on my computer. In one of them I read that approved special glasses – true specifics and details given – had vanished from the stores in Fredericton. Only one place still stocked them – Canadian Tire, South Side. Ha! I drove back into town and there, on the door of CT-South, I saw a sign – Eclipse Glasses available at Check Outs. I joined the line up of late buyers, bought two pairs, and headed joyfully home.

When the eclipse started, I drove around the block, looking for the best place from which to view it. I parked here, there, and everywhere, tried my glasses out – a small, black line, curved, was slowly and silently invading the sun’s disc. I drove back home and discovered, after an experiment or two, that our back porch was the perfect spot for viewing. We put chairs on the deck, sat down, and watched as the blackness on the sun’s face grew larger. No beach view this. The Island in Island View is in the St. John River / Wolastoq, on the other side of the hill. No sea gulls, no swallows, in our garden. In fact very few birds at all.

As it grew darker, we could hear the soulful hooting of some mourning doves. They soon grew silent. The crows, on the other hand, rose up to defend their territory, just like they do when a hawk passes over and puts its shadow between them and the sun. What a racket of sheer defiance.

Through our glasses we could see wavy lines of light flickering around the visible parts of the sun’s circumference. Occasional red streamers, flared up and out. Then the eclipse became total. We took off our glasses and for two minutes and seven seconds (or so) we basked in celestial glory. Breathtaking. Spell binding. A mystical moment of myth and magic. We sat in silence. Then, the spell broke. The sun emerged from its moon shadow and light returned. The earth warmed. Life was as it was. Nothing had changed, except for us. Light broke where no sun shone, and suddenly we realized so many truths.

How tiny is our world. How enormous is the space around us. How mighty is the universe. How fragile are we humans. How small and insignificant is our world. How glorious is our existence, the joy of life, of witnessing, of seeing such power and such glory. The joys of knowing that we are sentient, and alive.

Two images of partial eclipse – with clouds – Kingsbrae International Residencies for Artists (KIRA, June 2021).

Sun Flowers

Comment:
The poetry flows. But if I publish it here, I cannot use it in competitions and there are many around right now.

So, instead of a poem in words – a poem in colors and lines. I have portrayed several of my acquaintances and friends in the flower faces. Luckily, I am such a terrible artist that you will be unable to recognize yourselves! So choose one you like – and pretend that it’s you.

I hope this painting will cheer your day and bring some happiness and sunshine to you wherever you are.

Ice Flow

Ice Flow

Free fall, then scree on the road
to Wolastoq. with the fresh air
speaking to the rock face
in a long-forgotten tongue,
broken words metamorphosing
into fragmented scree at rock-foot.

Just for a moment we glimpse
the ancient water in the stone,
catch the flow of winter words.

The January sun, low in our eyes,
heavenly glory glancing off rock
to give earthly joy, golden beams
highlight damp, glistening slate.

Afternoon frost, water and rock,
polished into ice-maiden tears
that dance their sparkling way
and are held for a moment
in a vision that will last forever.

Comment:
Such beauty in silent things, ice, rock, sky. But learn to listen and perhaps you will hear them talking, one to the other. One day, you too may share their words of wisdom.