Intertextuality

Carved in Stone 59 & 60

Carved in Stone
59

St. David of Wales once said,
“Do ye the little things in life.” 

I do, and I wander
along the banks of the River Taff,
admiring how wild daffodils
flourish each spring, in Wales.

Young, I run on the beaches,
Brandy Cove, Pwll Ddu, Langland,
Caswell, Swansea Bay,
and, as I write these words,
I hear my footsteps
echoing back through time.

Baudelaire’s words ring in my mind,
“Creativity is nothing more nor less
than childhood recovered at will.”

Or, as Pablo Picasso said,
“I have spent my life
learning to see, paint,
and write again, like a child.”

And on and on I go –
child-hood, youth, maturity, age,
then back to my second childhood,
when I can recreate
that youthful world
in all its joyous beauty.

60

Does life flows through me,
like water in a clepsydra?

Does it flicker like a candle
guttering on a church altar?

Is it circular, like a sundial,
or the Roman numerals
on the face of the clock?

Am I just flesh and blood,
doomed to blossom and flourish,
then wither and perish?

Or will some small part of me
linger on, an unchained melody,
with all my memories slowly erased.

Commentary:

Moo’s daffodils are painted and potted, not growing wild at all. They are still the national flower of Wales and they still grow wild, in the spring, in Blackweir Gardens and beside Roath Park Lake. At least, I hope they do. I haven’t been back to check for 37 years now. Maybe things have changed, and the daffodils have gone the way of the sky lark, the cuckoo, the cowslips, and the bluebells. I wonder if the foxes still wear gloves? Let me know if you know the answer to that one. Just write “I do” on the back of the usual postcard. And you know what to do with it.

As for me, I am moving into my second childhood and, in may ways it is so much better than my first one. Here, I am free to look back on my life, to harvest my memories, to paint what I want – well, what Moo wants, anyway – and to think my own thoughts. Thank heavens Moo doesn’t think for me, though he does get his fingers covered in paint when he reads my mind and puts paintbrush to postcard, and designs his designs.

I feel very sorry for Moo. I guess he never had a childhood, so therefore, ipso facto, he can never have a second one. How much he is missing even he doesn’t know. How could he? Mysterious Moo – I like that idea. Sólo el misterio nos hace vivir, sólo el misterio. Only the mystery keeps us alive, only the mystery. And if you guessed that the author was Federico García Lorca, then you can award yourself a glow of satisfaction, for I have no prizes to hand around.

But hold on a moment, that was the title of one of Lorca’s drawings, so he was the artist, yes, but maybe not the author. Picky, picky nit-picky! Another of the joys of second childhood – annoyingly spotting the minor slips of other second-childhood thinkers – and never, never ever admit the mistakes you might, or might not make, are your own. Blame someone else. There’s always somebody out there whether to own up to your errors, especially if the price is right.

Carved in Stone 56 & 57

Carved in Stone
56

I stand before the Tzompantli,
the Aztec Skull Racks
in the ruins of the Great Temple
in Mexico City,
and gaze in wonder,
at the multiple meanings
of these decorated deaths.

57

At Teotihuacan,
I climb the Sun Pyramid,
with its carved serpent,
slithering sideways,
as the sun moves.

I heave myself upwards,
panting, sweating,
and when I get to the summit,
I sit there, feet over the edge,
and I feel my heart thumping
as I fight to regain my breath.

Now, I feel purified,
cleansed, sweated dry,
as I watch poor mortals
struggle as I did
to take that final step.

I imagine them laid
on the sacrificial stone,
their chests carved open.

Each beating heart,
when extracted,
will cover altar, priest, and sky,
with a fountain of blood,
so hard those hearts
are pounding. Blood seeds
shoot into the sky
to revive the setting sun
as it drowns in its own blood.

Commentary:

Incredible, looking back, those moments in Mexico when I came face to face with a culture, so old, so alien to me, that I had difficulty coming to terms with it. I do not understand human sacrifice. Nor do I understand the mentality of the conquistadores who held the Aztec Emperor’s feet to the fire and burned them to the bone, leaving him alive. And still he would not tell them the secrets of the kingdom.

“The setting sun as it drowns in its own blood.” A nod to Charles Baudelaire, of course, – “Le soleil s’est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.” Wonderful how these images stay with us. Sunrise – and the sun is born in blood – sunset and the sun sets in its own blood. And was it really true that only the blood of humans, drawn through human sacrifice, sometimes voluntary, sometimes not, would keep the sun in the sky?

And there we go – in blood we were born, in blood we will probably die – all hail the power of blood – unless of course / wrth gwrs – it is contaminated. And what will happen to us then?

Banks of the Seine

Banks of the Seine

Gnawing at the carcass of an old song,
my mind, a mindless dog, chasing its tail,
turning in circles, snapping at the fragment
of its own flesh, flag flourished before it,
tournons, tournons, tournons toujours,
as Apollinaire phrased it, on a day
when I went dogless, walking on a mind-leash
before the Parisian bouquinistes who sold,
along the banks of the Seine, such tempting
merchandise, and me, hands in pockets,
penniless, tempted beyond measure,
by words, set out on pages, wondrous,
pages that, hands free, I turned, and turned,
plucking words, here and there, like a sparrow,
or a pigeon, picks at the crumbs thrown away
by pitying tramps, kings, fallen from chariots,
as Éluard wrote, and me, a pauper among riches,
an Oliver Twist, rising from my trance, hands out,
pleading, “Please, sir, can I have some more?”

Commentary:

Intertextuality – how many different texts can you recognize in this one piece of verse? I can count six reminiscences of other poets, ones that have influenced me to a lesser or greater extent. A couple of novelists lurk in the shadows as well. Fascinating, eh? Do these voices echo in any other ears than mine? Good question – and does it matter if they do or they don’t? The main thing is that they harmonize, the old world with the new, the centuries that went before with the one that is with us now. Quevedo – “Vivo en conversación con los difuntos y escucho con mis ojos con los muertos.” I live in conversation with the defunct and I listen with my eyes to the dead.

And look at that painting. No, not the Banks of the Seine, but the banks of the Fundy, near St. Andrews. And it’s Moo, at his best, doing a cross between a cartoonist, a genuine artist, a surrealist, and an amateur artist who lends his paintings to friends when they want a picture of water, or a river bank, or something or someone else that will add to the intertextuality of his works. Yea, Moo. Go Team Moo, go. Long may you survive and work together.

Carved in Stone 53

Carved in Stone
53

Nor do I belong
in the Aztec city of Tenochtitlán
with its cruel stone gods.

Built originally
in the middle of a great lake,
it defied all comers, and held
the mighty Cortés at bay.

Human sacrifices, night and day –
what is it that makes some people,
carve and shape the living flesh
of others, as if it were wood or stone?

Who could admire a culture,
based on human sacrifice,
death, blood flowing,
just to keep the sun in the sky,
red at its dawning,
westering in the evening
into a sea of blood.

Commentary:
“Man’s inhumanity to man.” Robbie Burns, if I remember correctly. Thus it was and thus it always will be. Man’s need for space, for room around him. The need to establish himself and his own tribe and oust the other. The need to target the other to prove the weakness of those who do not belong. So many ways to target, including humor and jokes, all pointed at the targeted individual.

“What’s the most dangerous job in Ireland?” – “Riding shotgun on the garbage truck. “The jokes never change, just the targets. For Ireland, substitute England, France, Canada, Wales, Scotland. For a country, substitute a town – Fredericton, Island View, Saint John, London, Cardiff, Dublin, Paris. Okay, so they are cities, not towns, but you know what I mean.

Let’s change the joke. “How do you get the [choose one or more] English, Irish, Scottish, French, Welsh, Germans, Italians, out of your front yard?” “Put your garbage cans in your back yard.” And so it goes on and on. Like old Father Thames, who just keeps rolling along, down to the deep blue sea.

Why, I ask myself, why, why, why, do we have to diminish someone else in order to appear strong ourselves? Is it just human nature? Is it the nature of some people? Do all people behave in the same way? If you have the answers, or any answer, the same instructions as usual, send it to me on the back of a postcard, by dog sled, via the North Pole. And if you’re feeling generous, put a $5 bill in the envelope. It will help me pay the lawyer’s bill for suggesting such outrageous nonsense.

Carved in Stone 50

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.

Carved in Stone 43

Carved in Stone
43

Back home, in that little cul-de-sac,
the husbands are away,
working their night shifts,
while the wives are at home,
entertaining the truckers,
those long-distance drivers,
who park in that street and lodge there,
overnight, in the houses.

The children, boys and girls,
go out into the street,
climb into the trucks,
duck under the tarpaulins,
and, with all of us sworn to silence,
practice what their elders
are doing back home.

Commentary:
Monkey see, monkey do. And who knows what Monkey sees or does when the lights are turned out, darkness descends, and the honor of the blood cult takes control. Ask the animals, they will teach you. That was the motto of Bristol Zoo, where the Monkey Temple ruled, and Alfred the Gorilla and Rosie, the Elephant, were King and Queen of the beasts.

Knowledge – where does it come from? How do we attaint it? Is there a difference between knowledge, what is known, felt, and worked out for yourself, and education, when you obey orders and do what you are told to do (and how to do it). “We don’t need no education, we don’t need no thought control.” I have always loved Pink Floyd and The Wall. So many walls, so many barriers, so many things to break down in order to build them up again. Songs – Frank Sinatra – “I did it my way!” And who teaches what and to whom, underneath the tarpaulin when the lights are out? “Hey, teacher, leave those kids alone.”

And beware of anyone who tells you that “we teach you to think outside the box.” That person will only give you a slightly bigger box, of his or her own making, inside of which you will be forced to think.

Of course, there are other ways in which we can think about education. How about this one? Filling empty heads with knowledge. How many ways are there to do this? And what is the exact content of the jug from which the knowledge will flow? And how many sows’ ears does it take to make a silk purse? “Hey, teacher, leave those kids alone.” Giddy up, Neddy I’m on my hobby horse now.

Carved in Stone 42

Carved in Stone
42

After school, in a cul-de-sac
that backs on to the railway yards,
the street boys show me
how to hold a knife,
how to approach a man,
how to ask for a light,
for a forbidden cigarette,
while other boys,
knives in hand, lie in wait
to ambush the victim.

How old am I?
Five or six.

I would go to Woolworth’s
with my friends and distract
the shop girl while the others
stole whatever they could.

Then we would go
to the public washroom,
boys and girls together,
and share the spoils.

Something for everyone,
and everyone sworn to secrecy,
a blood cult, knives
or razor blades inserted,
and wrist pressed to wrist.

Commentary:

Free will or determinism? How does one escape from the back-street poverty of a run-down neighborhood and emerge from the shadows to bask in the light of the sun? Or is it all a dream, a made-up picture of a childhood that never was in a neighborhood that never existed? Vanishing point – the railway tracks fading away into the distance. Point of vanishing – to lose oneself in the mysteries of a past that never was in order to establish a future that never will be. Dream, dream, dream – all I have to do is dream!

And then there are the nightmares, when the dreams are true and the memories are so exact that you can see the blood on the razor blade and feel the almost silent slash of this particular slice of life. Secrecy – and who can tell whether I am telling the truth, or not, here in a foreign land, not the land of my fathers – and I only had one father, that I am aware of, and one mother too – where nobody knows me and the children from that imagined back street would never think of visiting.

For Jorge Luis Borges, whom I met twice, once in Bristol and once in Toronto, – Canada was a land so distant and so cold that it lacked reality. And thus I can dream my dreams, rewrite my past, reimagine myself, in whatever way I want to and I can vanish at any vanishing point I choose and emerge wherever I want to, and do it over and over and again, and who knows the truth? Over the points, over the points, and Liza none the wiser, whoever Liza happens to be!!!

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.

Carved in Stone 35

Carved in Stone

35

My eyes draw sound
out of the white space
of silence.

Silent the pen,
gliding smooth,
over unlined paper,
a skater leaving marks
on fresh ice.

Each mark is a signifier,
or a series of signifiers
constituting a signified,
a message engraved
in the reader’s mind.

Commentary:

Each mark is a signifier, part of a series of signifiers constituting a signified, a message written on paper, then engraved in the reader’s mind. But, of course, the message has to be read, and the reader has to be diligent enough to burrow into the meaning of the message. And what is the meaning of meaning? Ah, we have been down that rabbit hole before and Alice has been through the looking glass, and we have seen ourselves in our daily mirrors, slowly fading as the years go by.

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. And there’s a 2,000 year history behind those words. 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 looked out of the window at the crows’ prints on the white surface of the garden. My eyes drew silence out of the white space with its runic language written by the crows.

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

Carved in Stone 23 & 24

Carved in Stone

23

It isn’t true that art
lives longer than life,
for all too often art and artist
are destroyed together.

Words, all words,
and words emerge
from the silence of blood,
bone, and stone, breaking
that silence the day they are born,
and the word once spoken
cannot be recalled.

24

Here, among the ruins of my life,
I have learned how to be alone,
how to sink into silence,
how to smother at birth
that world of words,
and that world, still-born,
becomes a lost world
whirled on the silent wind that fans
the unborn fires within.

I sit here
brushed by a tadpole’s solitude
as it swims through the sultry silence
of blood, bone, and stone,
into its own metamorphosis.

The wind that blows unspoken words
tugs at the spider web of my mind
twisting and untwisting
its frayed, fragmented ends.

Commentary:

The fragility of life. The single puff that turns the dandelion into a dandelion clock. The multiple puffs that dowse the candles on the birthday cake. And then, one day, there are no more candles, no more cakes, just the heart ache of multiple absences, family and friends all gone and each of us alone with our individual loneliness.

That’s when we finally turn in and seek the inner roads that lead us to ourselves. The selves that were, the selves that are, the selves that always will be. Crack the walnut – inside is the map of a brain – your brain? If it is you will have found yourself in this labyrinth. But if it is the brain of another, you must not give up, you must seek yourself, walnut after walnut.

And when you go to the library, you must check book after book, because one day, if you are lucky, you will find the book of your life and it will tell you who you were, what you are, and what you will always be.