Clepsydra 21

Clepsydra 21

… she left me
          at the lighthouse
               rising tide
                    beach diminishing

and grew smaller
     as she walked away

I search the sand for sea-gems
     sand-dollars
          cerulean sea-glass
               rarest of all the reds

ground down
     polished
          sanded to perfection

so many worlds
     in a grain of sand
          their words going unspoken
               carried away by the sea-wind

the wind that haunts
     caves and cliffs
          hooting like a ghost train
               in a forlorn
                    tunnel of love

love lost
     love found
          an old love
               rediscovered
                    only to be lost anew

what is this thing
     called love …

Commentary:

Listen! “Can you hear the music?” “No, but I hear singing even though there’s no one there.” I know, I know, we have had this conversation before. Moo didn’t have a painting along the lines of ‘what is this thing called love’, so he dug out this one – Walking on Air – the painting, not Moo. But then, Moo’s a silly old romantic and verses and songs settle in his mind. All too often, when he walks he finds he’s ‘walking on air’! The two of us, Moo and me, have always loved that song. Great to work it into a commentary on a poem (again).

Love – what is this thing called love? And how many types of love are there? We use the word so frequently, or infrequently, if we are Mr. Grinch. But what does it mean? Love of self, love of other? And how many others can we love – I know that Minnie had a heart as big as a whale, but how many loves can fit into it? Love of father, mother, daughters , sons, brothers, sisters, cousins – how far do we go? Winning sports teams – everybody loves everyone on the team when they win they cup. That love is so much harder if they lose it – especially if there is a goat on the team, and I don’t mean greatest of all time! I mean sacrificial.

I love you with all my heart! Does that include the pacemaker and the stent? What does atrial fibrillation mean in that situation? Good questions. Neither me nor Moo have the answers. Write your answers on a postcard and send it to – where? With Canada Post on strike, you will need a team of real snails. Hitch your postcards to them. Threaten them with the salt shaker. And off they go. Snail mail is back. Or you could place them on a dog sled, hitch up the huskies and Mush, Moo, mush! Away they all go hauling the mail. Why does it always be the mail? Why can’t it be the Femail? Mail – Femail. Oh, but I love that. There, you see. We’ve just added another meaning to love. Let’s hope none of the huskies lies down to rest. That’s called a Canadian flat tire. Oh, I love that one too.

I am running out of time, space, and ideas. And that’s only one word from the poem that we’ve looked at. Oh, shame and scandal in the letter-box.

Clepsydra 18-20

18

… as free as the birds
     a sky full at North Cape
          where shores retreat
               year after year
 
the big red mud diminishes
     under advancing waters
          sea-threatened cliffs
               undermined roads
                    houses
                         the lighthouse

gulls follow the fishing boats
     herring gulls
          blotting out
               sun and sky
                    above the reef

with its seals
     basking in sunshine
          knowing themselves
               being themselves
                    thinking themselves safe

kings and queens
     of their sealdom
          never questioning …

19

… an osprey
     sudden the swoop
          turned into a stoop

water shattered
     total immersion
          then emerging
               with lusty thrusts of wings

claws clasping
     imprisoned prey
          prised from the sea
               raised to the skies
                    up and away
                         murderer and victim

oblivious below
     the black horse
          with cart and farmer
               gathering seaweed

all of them
     having no doubts
          safe in the security
               of their roles …

20

… while lost in the labyrinth
      I searched for a thread
               on life’s loom

a thread woven
     by an unknown
          unseen hand
               a hand and thread
                    I could never control

yet one day
     that thread
          will lead me out
               from the dark

then shall I see
     the sun’s great candle
          beneath which red rocks
               wave and water battered
                    crumble

here at North Cape
     in a way that nobody
          can understand …

Commentary:

The osprey “emerging with lusty thrusts of wings, claws clasping, imprisoned prey prised from the sea, raised to the skies, up and away, murderer and victim.” The words are based on the photograph. A quiet day, somebody shouted, and pointed, and clickety-click, I was lucky enough to capture the whole thing on my digital camera. This one shot summarizes it all.

The stanzas (16 & 17) that precede this moment are available here. Clepsydra, the book, is one single poem, one single sentence, that rambles on and on. Each stanza stands alone, each poem (numbered) stands alone, and the whole book stands alone as a single sentence summarizing what I have seen and where I have been. Bakhtinian Chronotopos – my dialog with my time and my place. In this case, my many dialogs with my multiple times and multitudinous places.

Albert Camus lent me the phrase ‘murderer and victim’. ‘Nous sommes, ou meurtrier ou victime‘. Quoted from memory. I hope I am not too far wrong. My memory fades as I age. Louis Aragon suggested I borrow his line “rois tombés de leurs chariots” – that I found in his collection Il ne m’est Paris sans Elsa. Here, I have applied it to the seals at North Cape, PEI – “seals – basking in sunshine – kings and queens of their sealdom.” Intertextuality – texts talking to texts and recalling segments of texts within other texts.” Wonderful. Alas, I fear the coming days when the memory may no longer be so clear. ‘What will be, will be’ said the Osprey as he pulled the flounder from the sea and carried him too his nest in a nearby tree.

Absence

Absence …

… makes the heart grow
callouses scabs you can
pick at with your finger
nails bleeding fresh blood

they remind you that you have
a heart feelings something
buried so deep you need
a pick and a shovel to dig
a shaft with wooden slats
placed carefully at the sides
so your mine won’t collapse

you dig deeper and deeper
until in the gloom you see
the feathered fluttering —

a broken-winged canary
sacrificed in its cage
so part of you can escape
flee the mine
and come out alive

Commentary:

A golden oldie. Moo thought Poppy Day (11/11/2024) would be a suitable painting. Those who survive rarely forget those they were forced to leave behind. Kindred spirits, they travel though life together, the live one carrying the other on his shoulders as he would have done earlier, had he been able to.

Moo still has a teddy bear. He tells me he has always slept with one. His first teddy was an Australian Koala, a real stuffed koala given him by his Australian family, back when he was born. Moo was reading a book on the Battle of Britain (15 September 1940). It had a picture of the gunner from a Bolton Paul Defiant, sitting in the gun turret. Behind him, he had his little teddy bear. Moo couldn’t stop crying. He thinks he might have been an air gunner in another life, and when he saw that teddy, it brought back so many memories – flak, night fighters, search lights, tracer bullets, pain, flames, and then the unending darkness. So many did not come back, especially the tail-gunners. Their absence is still a presence to someone in their families. And so it should be.

Clepsydra 16-17

Clepsydra 16 & 17
Click on the following link for the previous stanzas
Clepsydra 14 & 15

16

… would this be the beginning
     or the end

men and women
     on the street
          hands out
               fingers splayed
                    panhandling

their eyes
     black holes in empty faces
          not brain dead
               just drained of hope
                    brains deadened
                         by blow after blow

loaf after loaf crisping
     blackening in life’s oven
          fit only for preacher crows
               flitting from tree to tree

descending on garbage day
     to feast on desperate souls
          marooned kerbside
               for garbagemen to find …

17

… no soul allowed
     to weigh more than forty pounds
          each one swaddled
               in a plastic garbage bag
                    that serves
                         as a winding sheet

dust to dust
     to grey-faced ashes
          wound up by brawny arms
               swung flung skywards
                    into the truck

then ferried away
     to that place where crows
          and hunch-backed vultures
               gulls and humped eagles
                    wait for merciless ferries,

they cross into the shadow lands
     who was the one who found me
          who untied the ties that bind
               freed me from my cell
                    the shell of myself
                         and set me free …

Commentary:

Poetry explains itself.
If it doesn’t, it’s inexplicable.

Autumn Leaves

Autumn Leaves

I used to run,
jump, and catch them
in mid-air,
one, two, three
in each hand.

Now
I stand and wait
for them to fall
and land, perhaps,
on my clothes
or catch in my hair

the Leprechaun luck
of my Irish heritage,
so long-denied,
with its pot of golden leaves
waiting for me
at summer’s cast-off
rainbow’s end.

Commentary:

Autumn Leaves, but where does it go to. Good question. Moo asked me that the other day. I just had to tell him that I didn’t know. However, he did offer me the perfect painting for the fall and the changing leaves. Fall Folly Age. I never realized that he could play with words like he plays with paint. Anyway, I know that last winter he painted a picture of little white dots with wings. “What are they?” I asked him. “Snow flies,” he replied. “You know, when the snow flies …” “When the snow flies do what?” “I don’t know.” Moo and I live in a mysterious world, as you have probably come to realize.

Any way, the combination of fall foliage and fall folly age is quite a good one and it shows the folly of ageing and trying to chase down falling leaves when gadding about in the garden with two sticks, one in each hand. Of course, in case you don’t like that painting, and I hope you do like it, because I do, then here’s another one for you.

The text reads – “Autumn leaves – catch them if you can – while you can -and close the door behind her – when she leaves.” Oh witty Moo. Painting and occasional poetry too.

OAS

OAS

I take up my pen to scribble
my name and a riddle in the sands,
neither seen nor understood
by folk in far off lands.

Yet here I stand on foreign strand
my body twice marooned
by friends and fate and oft of late
my achievements all lampooned.

I bid you spare a thought for me
and also for my fate:
I came, I saw, I got a job,
but retirement ain’t great.

A pittance for a pension,
a life on OAS,
a walking stick and SOS,
that’s all that’s left, I guess.

Commentary:

A Golden Oldie from way back (2013 or so). Things get worse, in many ways, but yma o hyd – we’re still here. And that’s the main thing. We need rain, more rain, and yet more rain. Yet the damp really gets to those of us who suffer from osteo-arthritis. Maybe we should put a tariff on it (250%) and then it would be priced out of existence. Then it can rain as much as it wants and the aches and pains will stay in Aix-les-Bains and not come running after me.

I asked Moo for a painting of rain drops falling on my head, but he didn’t have one. So I found a photograph of a real rain storm falling on the back porch, a year or so ago. We need one of those right now. Moo is nodding his head as I type. Oh dear, he just snored. He must have fallen asleep. He does much more noddy now than he used to. And so do I. Maybe I’ll do a photo of a big yawn next. Or he can paint one.

Monkey Turns Down Promotion

Monkey Turns Down Promotion

“I hereby appoint you head of the asylum.”

The young office monkey with the plastic stethoscope
was dressed neatly in a white sheet.

“Dr. Freud, I presume?”
Monkey held out his hand
but his witticism was lost in a flood of water
flowing from the flush and over the floor.

Monkey stood there, paddling in piddle.
Inmates with crowded heads and vacant faces,
fools grinning at a universe of folly,
paddled beside him. He wiped
a sick one’s drool from his sleeve.

The office boy spat on his hands,
slicked down his hair, and placed
his stethoscope on monkey’s heaving chest.

“You have no pulse.”
“How do you know I have no pulse?
Surely, you cannot hear my heart
for you have a banana stuck in your ear.”

“Speak up!” said the doctor,
“I cannot hear you:
I have a banana stuck in my ear.”

Then monkey felt fear.

Daylight diminished
and waters closed over his head.
He spurned the proffered paw,
the life belt thrown
by the offer of a new position.

Exit monkey left,
pursued by a chorus:
“Run, monkey, run!”

Commentary:

A Golden Oldie from Monkey Temple (2010). I came across it by accident as I thumbed through some older books – wow, fifteen years ago that came out. A Golden Oldie indeed. I had forgotten all about Monkey Temple. However, the last couple of days I have watched New Zealand vs Canada and England vs France (Women’s Rugby World Cup). Both semi-finals took place at Ashton gate, Bristol. That’s when I started thinking about Bristol and Bristol Zoo.

We had family in Bristol (Westbury-on-Trym) and from an early age we visited Bristol Zoo. One of my favorite places was the old ruined Monkey Temple, full of monkeys that impressed me with their antics. A small, walled zoo, it was full of innovations and I remember well Alfred the Gorilla and Rosie the Elephant. I loved the rides on Rosie’s back. The camels too offered lifts to young children and the elephants took apples from my hand with their long trunks. I also remember the bear pit, and loved watching the brown bear climb to the top of his pole and catch food thrown to him by the visitors.

I think everybody’s greatest thrill came with feeding time for the seals. What a racket when the attendant appeared with his / her pail of fish and he/she threw them to the waiting seals. Almost as thrilling was the penguin house with its aquarium and glass windows. Animals that seemed so clumsy, waddling on land, turn into sea-angels when they dived and we could meet them, face to face, so to speak, almost in their own environment.

My love of zoos reached out and I recall the zoo in Madrid, established when Columbus returned from his voyages with species of animals hitherto unknown. And who could forget Copo de Nieve, the albino gorilla in Barcelona zoo.

Alas, my zoo day’s are over. But the world is wonderful. Today, two deer entered our front yard, lunched on the fallen crab apples, and went to sleep underneath the trees outside our window. Joy to the world and the world brings me joy -sunrise and sunset, colored clouds, the deer in my yard, a fox passing through. However, I must admit I am not impressed by the little red squirrel that nests under the hood of my car and gnaws my cables. Nor by the porcupine who loves the salt in my garage doors and nibbles at the door frame every chance it gets. The love of nature – red in tooth and claw – I guess we have to enjoy the good and put up with the bad. Life’s like that. “Ask the animals, they will teach you.” Bristol Zoo motto.

Dog Days

Dog Daze

1

A dry storm lays waste the days that dog my mind.
Carnivorous canicular, hydropic, it drinks me dry,
desiccates my dreams, gnaws me into nothingness.

At night a black dog hounds me, sends my head spinning,
makes me chase my own tail, round and round. It snaps at
dreams, shadows, memories that ghost through my mind.

Tarot Cards and Tea Leaves are lost in a Mad Hatter’s
dream of a dormouse in a teapot on an unkempt table.
Hunter home from the hill, I awake to find my house
empty, my body devastated, my future a foretold mess.

Desperate I lap at salt-licks of false hope but
they only increase my thirst and drive me deeper
into thick, black, tumultuous clouds. Dry lightning.
The drought continues and no raindrops fall.

Dog Daze
2

The drought continues and no raindrops fall.
Desperate I lap at salt-licks of false hope but
they only increase my thirst and drive me deeper
into thick, black, tumultuous clouds. Dry lightning.

Tarot Cards and Tea Leaves are lost in a Mad Hatter’s
dream of a dormouse in a teapot on an unkempt table.
Hunter home from the hill, I awake to find my house
empty, my body devastated, my future a foretold mess.

At night a black dog hounds me, sends my head spinning,
makes me chase my own tail, round and round. It snaps at
dreams, shadows, memories that ghost through my mind.

A heat wave lays waste the hopes that dog my days.
Carnivorous canicular, hydropic, it drinks me dry,
desiccates my dreams, gnaws me into nothingness.

Dog Daze
3

The drought continues. No raindrops fall.
No fresh water. None at all.

Dark clouds gather in the sky.
No rain falls. The ground is dry.

Grass all burned. No more hay.
How much livestock will they slay?

No rain comes, but a flash of light
sets the woods and fields alight.

Home from the fields, some farmers confess
their future is an unpredictable mess.

Desperate farmers are losing hope.
Out in the barns, they keep some rope.

The roof beams are sturdy and built high.
One little jump and problems good-bye.

Commentary:

Dog Daze 1 is a reverse sonnet. Instead of being structured 4-4-3-3 it moves in reverse 3-3-4-4. What fun to pretend to be Milton Acorn, and to turn my sonnet upside down. It should rhyme, but I abandoned rhyme in favor of metaphor a long time ago. Was I right to do so? What, if anything, catches you unawares in Dog Daze 1? Does it work for you? What would happen if we turned it upside down? You be the judge.

Dog Daze 2 is more or less the same sonnet returned to its normal stanzaic shape 4-4-3-3. In what ways has the poem now changed? Clearly there is a structural difference. Obviously some of the lines and images have changed. Is the poem stronger? Weaker? Does each one affect you in a different fashion? Do you prefer one version to the other?

Mission Impossible – How many more adaptations can we make to this poem and how would each one affect the poem and the reader’s reception of it? For example – Dog Daze 3 sees our sonnet turned into a poem composed of seven rhyming couplets. Couplets are easy to rhyme. But do they simplify the thoughts too much? Is the poem now too dark? Can you lighten the mood? How? Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to rewrite the poem in seven non-rhyming couplets. That will make a change from the Daily Sudoku and the Cross-word puzzle. If you do take up the challenge, let me see what you do! And remember, you can make it personal to you, your life, and your garden.

Hair Cut

Hair Cut 

Curly locks, wisps of grey and silver,
curve around my ears, cuddle my collar.
I stand in the bathroom, look at my scissors,
glance in the mirror, and start to hack.

I turn my head swiftly from side to side,
watching white hair falling, like snow.

“All done!” I look at myself in the mirror:
hair shorter, still sticking out in clumps,
but some curls still tickle and cling.

Not bad for front and sides. I still
can’t see the back, but if feels fine.
“Right” I say. “I’m ready for the show.”

What show? The one where I sit before
the computer screen and admire myself
before I click in the code, type the password,
and join the virtual meeting that today,
in the pandemic, passes for face to face.

Commentary:

Face to Face – Moo helped me with this one by allowing me to have one of his ‘face to face’ paintings. Thank you, Moo. Sorry I said you weren’t too bright yesterday. And we both got the singer of All Shook Up wrong – it was Tommy Steele of course. Also, as you explained to me, you may not be great at adding two and two and making four, and you may be unenlightened with words, but wow, when you add a colour or two to the palette you are enlightened and enlightening and dazzle people with the lightness of your enlightenment. There – hope we can be friends again now. I would miss your paintings if you withdrew your services.

And this is a Golden Oldie. In 2020, when Covid walked with us, I started cutting my own hair – hacking might be a better word – and I have continued to do so ever since. In fact, I have only been to the barber’s three times since 2020. Each time, the hair lay so thickly upon the floor behind the barber’s chair that we walked knee deep in the white stuff. Great fun. How the young lady made fun of me. Right down the middle of the back of my head she found a large mullet that I couldn’t reach with either hand. She found that so funny. Asked me if I wanted to keep it. Of course, I said no!

I remember those face to face on the computer days. At least we couldn’t catch Covid from an image talking back to us on a screen. I always find those online meetings so difficult and awkward. I love the awkwardness of that word – awkward. The facilitator always began with – ‘Now, let’s all introduce ourselves.’ What on earth do you say on such occasions. ‘Easy,’ Moo told me. ‘I always say “Hi. I’m Moo. I’m a painter.” Nobody bothers me after that. Once somebody asked me what I painted and when I replied ‘houses’, everyone lost interest and the facilitator moved on.’

I always get tongue-tied and can never manage to be coherent. In fact, I am neither coherent nor cohesive and I often fall apart. “Hi! I’m Roger. I’m a writer.” This always opens the doors and the windows to all sorts of questions. ‘What do you write?’ ‘Have you published anything?’ ‘What’s your latest work?’ Of course, if I had any sense – and often I have less sense than Moo – when someone asks me ‘What do you write?’ I should reply. ‘English.’ Or ‘Italics.’ Or ‘Greeting cards.’ That last would be as much of a show stopper as Moo’s response – ‘houses’! Of course, I could get really inventive and say ‘Bilingual jokes for Christmas Crackers.’ Another pet peeve – have you noticed how the French and the English don’t match up? I could have a great old rant about that one. But don’t let’s talk about Fortune Cookies!

And suddenly, we have strayed a log way from the act of getting our hair cut during Covid. But, like many diversions, the journey is often more important than the destination, especially if we are amusing ourselves! And I hope you had some fun and took some joy from my words.

On reste ici

On reste ici

The double meaning
troubles my brain,
tugs heart strings,
sings a violin strain
or strums a throbbing
double-bass tightly
enclosed in my chest.

Rest, reste: here
we will remain and rest.
I like the sound of it.

Outside my window,
the mountain ash weeps
red autumn tears.
Robins flock, grow tipsy
feasting on its berries.
Ici on reste.

You and I, now,
and here we will remain
until, at last, in peace,
we will rest.

Commentary:

I live in a functionally bilingual province in a legally bilingual country. Yet I am consistently told that poems should contain only one language and should not wander between two (or more) of them.

This always reminds of the old joke – “I know what CBC Radio means, but what do the initials EC mean in ici [EC] Radio Canada?” This draws attention to one of my pet hates – the translators who translate for our politicians as they transfer their thoughts from one language to another. Suddenly, without warning, the husky-voiced male prime minister starts speaking French and his deep voice immediately changes into the high-pitched feminine interpreter’s alto. Most disconcerting. I flick back and forth between channels to catch those politicians in both languages. Alas, they rarely deliver the same message in both languages as the nuances and emotions change. Listen carefully and you’ll see (or hear) what I mean.

And so it is with poetry. I love the play on English – rest (to rest or to stay) and French rester (to stay or remain). Why shouldn’t I use that type of play in my poetry? It lends infinite shades of meaning and emotion to the verse. Ah well, the jury’s out. But don’t put foreign words (NB in Canada, French is NOT a foreign language) in your poems. You won’t get published and you won’t win any competitions, even if you do explain what the words mean. And remember, T. S. Eliot didn’t translate the foreign words he used in his Four Quartets. And he wasn’t a bad poet!