Joy of Words

Rage, Rage 35

Rage, Rage
35

Now,
once a month, they stick
a needle in my arm
and check the levels
of my PSA, cholesterol,
and testosterone.

Is my blood pressure rising?
Is my cholesterol high?
Are my electrolytes
ticking slowly down?

The doctor keeps telling me
it’s a level playing field
but every week
he changes the rules
and twice a year
he moves the goal-posts.

What game is he playing?
A man in a black-and-white
zebra shirt holds a whistle
to his lips while another
throws a penalty flag.

It comes out of the tv set
and falls flapping at my feet.
Now I know for certain that
I’m living in the Red Zone
and I’m running out of time.

Comment:

Now, once a month, they stick a needle in me! Not always in the same place. But, I sometimes feel like a pin cushion. “The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” have turned into the “probing instruments of innumerable doctors.” Try repeating those lines at speed and you will end up repeating the message, from lips to ear, like the battalions waiting to go over the top, used to do in the trenches of WWI.

Original message – “Send reinforcements, we’re going to advance.” Last message in sequence – “Send three and fourpence, we’re going to a dance.” Funny how times change. I am re-reading Don Quixote (yet again) and am bowled over by the length and complexity of the sentences. Then I realize how words, culture, times, and attitudes have changed. “Change and decay in all around we see…” – indeed we do.

How many people now know what ‘three and fourpence’ means? And how about LSD – and no, it’s not a psychedelic drug, it’s code for pounds, shillings, and pence. Well, for the original Latin terms for them anyway.

Oh the joys of AI – “The terms libra, sestercia (commonly sestertius), and denarius are the direct Roman ancestors of the British pre-decimal currency system (£sd), which was in use until 1971. The system was adopted from the Roman/Frankish model where a pound (libra) was divided into shillings (solidus) and pence (denarius).”

Oh the wonders of the British pre-decimal currency system (£sd). Four farthings = one penny; 12 pennies / pence = one shilling; 20 shillings = one pound; 21 shillings = one guinea. What fun we had adding and subtracting British coinage in those days, let alone multiplying and dividing for those wonderful state examinations.

Ah well, it’s all forgotten now, as are the jabs, the needles, and the tests. Anyone got a Wills’ Woodbine? Or a Player’s Navy Cut? And how about a Lucifer to light your fag? There weren’t any fags in my boarding school. Fagging was strictly forbidden. As was smoking. And drinking. And loads of other things that we did anyway.

Rage, Rage 30 & 31

Rage, Rage
30

A pack of miniature wolves
infiltrated the midnight forest
flourishing in my other lung.

When the pibroch played,
they pointed their noses
at the spot where the full moon
would have been, if
I had invited her in.

They mingled their howls
with the bagpipes’ caterwaul
and I lay awake all night
with my heart beating
arrhythmic suspicions
on its blood red drum.

The drum played,
the pibroch wailed,
the wolves howled,
my body lay scarred by
an absence of sleep
and the presence of moonlight
that drove stars from the sky
and filled the room with shadows
and shifting shapes.

31

The full moon drew up water,
imposed high tides,
drew the wolves
by their drawstrings
out of my chest.

The piper paid his rent,
packed up his pipes,
took a sip of his whisky,
Bell’s – ‘a drop before ye go,’
and marched away,
leaving me alone.

Now silence rules my lungs.
Five deer stand silent
in the woods beneath my window.
I watch them watch the piper
pipe himself away.

It’s all over now,
the cough, the splutter,
the aches and pains
that told me I was alive.

I miss
the swish and roar
of my incoming,
outgoing breath.

Comment:

The piper marched away, leaving me alone. That’s the funny thing about pain, especially in our old age. It lets us know that yes, we are still alive. I know we are better off without it, but when it is there, it is better than the emptiness that will follow when we slip into the dark night that awaits us. Or perhaps it will be the golden dawn of another age. Many people tell us many things, but I don’t know how many people really and truly know. As I get older, I speculate more and more.

I once asked my grandfather if he was worried about dying. He looked at me for a long time. Then he said, “Well, one thing’s for certain. I know I am going to die. I’ll die if I worry about it and I’ll die if I don’t worry about it. So why worry about it?” He was a wonderful man with a wonderful attitude about so many things. But then he had survived the trenches in WWI and there weren’t many things he hadn’t seen. He rarely talked about it, but when he did, he told the most wonderful stories. And he sang all the old WWI songs too. A one man entertainment act for the small boy that would climb up onto his lap and say “Grandpa, tell me a story….” and he would begin “Once upon a time…” and that was the start of the magic.

And it’s the magic that we need. The magic that is so often missing in this age of information overload. “What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare.” Nor do we have any time to crawl into grandpa’s lap and seek those magic words – the words that start the willing suspension of disbelief – “once upon a time, a long time ago …” And, with a wave of the magic wand we are transported into a wonderland of dream and magic.

Rage, Rage 28 & 29

Rage, Rage
28

Two small gnomes
camped, one in each
of my lungs.

All night long
they played
their squeeze-box,
wheeze-box concertinas,
never quite in unison.

Sometimes they stamped
their feet and my body
rattled in time
with their dance steps.

Their wild night music
caught in my throat
and I coughed
unmusical songs
that spluttered
and choked me.

29

This morning, the bailiff,
Mr. Koffdrop, evicted
the two gnomes from my lungs.

Landlord Bodie
placed an ad on Kiji.

He rented the free space
in the left lung
to a tiny bag-piper
who took up residence
by my heart.

All night this piper piped me
a highland pibroch
on his whisky-worn pipes.

Comment:

All night this piper piped – and there is nothing stranger than having a clogged up, congested chest and hearing your own breath whistling in and out of your lungs. It certainly kept me awake. And I lay there remembering all the pipers I have ever heard piping. One very special one, from the Canadian Black Watch, gifted me the last image “a highland pibroch on his whisky-worn pipes”. A flask in his jacket and a nip every now and then to keep the music and the energy flowing. Scotch of course. None of the Japanese or Irish whisky varieties for that kilt-clad friend of mine. I can hear him now, as I type these lines – “A drop before ye go?”

As for the accordion, well, I have always liked the small, hand-held ones – squeeze boxes – wheeze boxes – and did those lungs of mine ever squeeze and wheeze. I called them Mr. Teasy-wheezy and Mr. Teasy-squeezy. And all night long they serenaded me. And I lay there, wide awake, not even drowsing, watching  Orion gradually striding his lonely way towards the western horizon. No rest for those afflicted with the squeezy-wheezy lung syndrome. And long may it stay away.

Rage, Rage 27

Rage, Rage
27

Last night
an east wind blew
outside my window.
It whistled and groaned
as it herded the stars
from left to right.

The stars pursued
the westering moon
and planets danced
to the rhythms
of the accordion playing
music in my chest.

The sky’s planetarium
folded and unfolded
its poker hands
of silent cards
marked with my fate.

Comment:

The photo is of the Hunter moon, as seen from Island View. It is quiet out here, very quiet, with very little light pollution. At night the stars shine bright and the constellations to North and South are clearly visible. Not so much so to East and West where the older trees tower. Occasionally, we get to see the Northern Lights. They can be incredible – great curtains of light hanging from the Northern Horizon. So bright, so clear, you can almost hear them crackle.

I have always loved the image of the planets dancing. If you have followed my poetry you will know that the idea of the Master of the Terracentric Universe, in Platonic and Neo-Platonic Theory, plays a large harp. The planets dance, forwards and backwards, to the sound of that harp. Of course, all that poetic beauty disappeared with the work of Galileo, Kepler, and all the students of the helio-centric universe. It is good to remember it though.

My beloved, born a Leo, loves to follow the progress of the sun. Each day she times its first appearance as it peeps above the ridge. Then she watches for it to arrive on the kitchen walls, and times that too. It is as if we lived as they lived thousands of years ago, in touch with nature, communicating with nature. And yet we are but a ten minute drive from the city centre.

The accordion playing music in my chest – you will have to wait until stanzas 28 & 29 for me to clarify that sound for you. I have been remiss in my postings. Very irregular, like my recently diagnosed A-Fib heart beat. Perhaps, after all, everything is linked, right down to the tiniest details, like posting blog notes and remembering all my e-friends out there. The known and the unknown.

Speaking of the known – Orion is gradually striding his way to the west. He dominates the southern sky at this time of year. He reminds me a lot of the Naked Man of Cerne Abbas. Except the Cerne Abbas man doesn’t move, while Orion definitely does. Or is it us who move around him. Your answer to that question will make you heliocentric – an observer, a measurer, like my beloved. Or it will make you Terracentric – a poet like me, well, an aspiring poet, who prefers the beauty of myth to the cold realities of science. Well, sometimes. Not always. But certainly in terms of my affinities to Plato and his celestial followers.

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.

Rage, Rage 26 with Bonus Poem

Rage, Rage
26

In my dreams, I track 
the sails of drifting ships,
white moths fluttering
before the wind.

I think I have caught them
in overnight traps,
but they fly each morning
in dawn’s unforgiving light.

I give chase
with pen and paper,
fine butterfly nets
with which to catch
and tame wild thoughts.

I grasp at things
just beyond my fingertips.

I wake up each morning
unaware of where
I have traveled
in my dreams.

Comment:

White moths fluttering before the wind – my dreams at night. How do I trap them, catch them, squeeze them between my fingers, hold them, pin them to the show case of memory? I remember in Oaxaca – the young boys, trapping the moths. Huge, gigantic butterflies, moths, as large as birds. They severed their wings, and sold them to the passing tourists. Such beauty, such colour.

I heard an angry buzzing, looked down, and saw flightless bodies, wings clipped, rowing their stumps of bunt oars, skidding sideways across the gutters, and dreaming painfully of the stars.

Bonus Poem

Dreams

White moths fluttering
before the wind
my dreams at night.

How do I catch them,
trap them,
pin them
in memory’s showcase?

In Oaxaca
young boys traps moths.
Gigantic moths,
huge jungle butterflies,  
as large as birds.

They cut off their wings,
sell them like postcards
to passing tourists.

I hear
an angry buzzing
and look down.

Flightless bodies,
wings clipped,
rowing stumps of blunt oars,
skidding sideways
across the gutters
dreaming painfully
about the stars.

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.


Rage, Rage 24

Rage, Rage
24

Breakfast time –
butter-fingers:
slippery tableware
totters and falls

A delicate cup
hovers
over the table cloth,
a flying saucer
poised in flight.

It crashes down
and its broken body
rests in pieces
on table and floor.

Bottle tops
screwed up too tight,
or cold from the fridge,
refuse to undo.

Plastic wrappings,
defy all efforts
of inarticulate,
arthritic fingers

So many slips, now,
between cup, fingertip,
and trembling lip.

Comment:

Moo is sulking. He decided that he had no paintings with grubby little insensitive fingers in. Go find another friend, he told me, if you’ve got one, and we’ll see what that one can do to help. So I checked and found this lovely pair of gloves, photograph by Geoff Slater, himself an established artist – which is more than I can say for Moo. Now, now. Cool down. No point in opening hostilities. Especially at your age. Okay, okay. Sorry, Moo. But I do love Geoff’s photo. It is an example of what my hands feel like when I am in arthritis mode. Or should that be arthwrongus? Those cups and saucers are very unstable. Well, don’t shake the table, and keep your relationship stable. Or you’ll be coughing and stamping like a hoarse.

Puns are the lowest form of wit. So – is arthwrongus a pun? If so, it strikes me as the highest form of neologism-style wit. And yes, arthwrongus certainly is what I feel when I knock things around, spill drinks, and generally make a mess of the table cloth. There doesn’t seem to be anything right about that.

And it’s getting worse. Yesterday, I spilled the ink when I was refilling my fountain pen. The day before, I had a cheap bottle of wine – it lasted three days – but on the third day, I knocked the penultimate glass all over the new table cloth. That was a disaster, for the table cloth, a blessing for me. Good riddance, I said. I threw away the last of that bottle and opened a new one to celebrate. And this time I chose a decent wine.

And I guess that’s the secret of growing old. Turning our disasters into opportunities. I like that idea. Maybe I’ll tell you about some more disasters another. But first, I’ll apologize to Moo and see if I can get him painting again. He doesn’t work well with a sulky paintbrush!

Rage, Rage 22 & 23

Rage, Rage,
22

I trace dark contours,
scarred desiccated lines
blurred on the back
of my wrinkled hands.

Blood maps, they are,
unremembered encounters
with immovable objects,
wounds that bleed freely,
deep below the surface,
subcutaneous.

23

When I dream,
I imagine the sky
to be a crystal ball,
twinkling with stars
that tell the time
and my fate.

With silent steps
they creep and steal
hours, days, weeks, years,
whittling my life away,
splintering it
a little bit more
every day.

Time, like golden sand,
trickles through
night’s fingers.

I hold in my hands
an hourglass
through which my life,
secretly, silently,
slides down
and trickles away.

Comment:

“Unremembered encounters with immovable objects,” – oh dear. Anti-coagulants, blood-thinners for short. Moo’s skin is dry anyway. Now that he’s on anti-coagulants, he bruises every time he bumps into something. And Moo bumps into things. He’s one of those people who fall out of bed and go bump in the night. How do I know? He stole my teddy bear and my teddy bear told me. Anyway, his cardiologist calls it collateral damage. A sort of side dish that arrives when ever he stumbles into anything. That’s Moo, not the cardiologist.

As for me, I miss the old myths. I love the idea of the platonic, terra-centric universe. The planets move back wards and forwards around the earth in a slow dance. In order to dance, you need music. So the Platonic creator is a master musician who pays the harp. The stars dance to his music. Fray Luis de León uses this Neo-Platonism in his poetry. For him the sky is ‘un gran transunto donde vive mejorado todo lo que es, lo que será, y lo que ha pasado’. – a large space where, much improved, dwells everything that is, that will be, and that ever was. A lovely thought. Nothing is lost. Everything is saved – but in a state of betterment, all mistakes erased.

Moo would like that. His collateral damage all turned back into perfect skin. Oh dear. He wouldn’t be happy. He’d have nothing to paint. I am sure he paints his bruises when he runs out of inspiration.

Rage, Rage 20

Rage, Rage
20

Words emerge
from the silence 
of blood and bone.

They break that silence
the day they are born.

Silence, once broken,
cannot be repaired
and a word once spoken
cannot be recalled.

The greatest gifts –
knowing how and when
to sink into silence,
knowing how to be alone
in the middle of a crowd,

So many word-worlds
smothered at birth
and those worlds, dismissed,
forgotten, still-born,
their names never spoken.

Comment:

So, are you paying attention? Did you notice anything? Has something gone missing? Moo tells me that he doesn’t think anyone will notice what I have. Can you prove him wrong? Good question! Whatever, as they say, or “So what?” as Miles Davies plays. Or, as Buddy Holly once sang “I guess it doesn’t matter any more.”

Moo wants me to tell you that he painted this painting last night. He calls it No More Blues. Guess what? There are no blue shades in it. Cunning, eh? And daylight hours are back up to 9:30 – 9.5 hours sunlight on this cold, wintry day. And it is cold at -14C. On the other hand, Moo’s painting is toasty warm and you can hold up your chilled fingers and warm them on his painted fires.

As for me, I am having great fun preparing my writing for competitions that I never win. I am also paying to enter them. But I choose carefully nowadays – so many publications and competitions want so much money just for sending them a manuscript they will possibly never read and probably (nay, almost certainly) reject. I am so happy that I do not have to live off my earnings. I have 17 books on KDP Amazon and guess what? I received $3.61 in earnings in 2025. And I must declare it on my tax forms. I hope it doesn’t send me up a tax bracket!

I guess it’s a case of Fly me to the stars and let me see what writing pays on Jupiter and Mars. Not much probably. I bet they don’t read poetry in any of those Mars Bars I am always reading about. That said, I wonder what language Mars Barmen speak? And do they have Mars Bar Flies, like we have Bar Flies here on earth? Oh the wonders of language and the Joy of Words. The Joy of Six, as well – and that’s Sex in Latin. Get the joke? Oh, to be multilingual, now that spring’s a coming. Easy now. Don’t get too excited. And look at all those little white angels flying in Moo’s painting.