Kingsbrae 7.2
7 June 2017
Time
Where is it going
when it overtakes me
in its speeding car
and leaves me lumbering
along life’s highway?
10:00 AM, 11:00 AM,
the hours flash by
like milestones marking
time’s passage over
the face of the clock.
What am I going to do?
I have left the last
gas station way behind
with my motor failing,
and me running out of gas.
Kingsbrae 7.1
7 June 2017
Visitors
Bees to flowers,
they come to visit,
their sojourns just as brief.
Hummingbirds hovering,
they push pointed noses
here and there.
How much and what
will they understand?
Perhaps they retain
an impression of raindrops
falling, or dust motes rising
to dance in the sunlight.
Maybe my words
will sting like tiny blackfly
and leave small red bites
that will burn with a wild
itch to hear more words.
Un Verraco
a Celtic Stone Bull
One of the four
Toros de Guisando
700 BCE (?)
Kingsbrae 6.3
6 June 2017
Petroglyphs
&
Other Myths
(for Elise)
Writing on rock,
the words carved in stone,
imposed on earth’s bones,
sentenced for meaning.
This wise woman,
gifted with second sight,
looks deep in the rock
where stone spirits dwell,
sees with unearthly eyes
the stone soul in its residence.
She carves and shapes,
plucks out rare beauty
holding it up
for those of us who have eyes,
but cannot see.
Gentle her fingers,
harsh the rock,
troublesome the birth
that is beauty
drawn from the entrails
of our earth.
Proud mother,
birthing the soul-stone
from its amniotic
sea of rock.
Comment: The four Toros de Guisando are pre-Christian stone bulls, carved by the Vettones, the local Celtic tribe of the Spanish Province of Avila, north-west of Madrid. The Vettones carved sheep, pigs, and horses as well as stone bulls. The carvings were probably used as route markers, land markers, and markers for pasturage rights. In addition, they are often associated with burials and deaths and may have been used as grave markers. There are many such carvings in the Province of Avila, and the squares, streets, and parks of the capital city abound with them.
There is something about the texture of their stonework, especially on a warm summer’s day. Place your hand upon them and they seem to be filled with a secret life, flowing like blood beneath the stone’s surface. Graffiti were plentiful in the Roman Empire, and here the pre-Roman Celtic carvings were defaced by one of the Roman legions as they passed through. The following video will give some idea of the bulls. Alas, there was no orchestral music when I visited the bulls: we were surrounded by a stony silence.
Kingsbrae 6.1
6 June 2017
Small Corner
And this is the good thing,
to find your one small corner
and to have your one small candle,
then to light it, and leave it burning
its sharp bright hole in the night.
Around you, the walls you constructed;
inside, the reduced space, the secret garden,
the Holy of Holies where roses grow
and no cold wind disturbs you.
“Is it over here?” you ask: “Or over here?”
If you do not know, I cannot tell you.
But I will say this: turning a corner one day
you will suddenly know
that you have found a perfection
that you will seek again, in vain,
for the rest of your life.
Journal: I had the pleasure of reading this poem to the artists and committee of the KIRA program after the evening barbeque on Saturday, 3 June, 2017. It is indeed a Golden Oldie, but it summarizes with remarkable accuracy my own feelings about Kingsbrae and the surrounding area. There are places of peace within the world and, as our world becomes more crowded and our cities overflow with urgency, these peaceful places take on more and more importance. It is essential for us to escape the concrete and tarmac of the so-called civilization and to take refuge in nature. The cultivated garden has a long tradition going back to Medieval times, le jardin enclos and its sacred space, for example, and the monastery cloisters and their enclosed serenity,
Following in this tradition, Kingsbrae Gardens has established an oasis of cultivated peace within the larger peaceful space that is New Brunswick. We are indeed lucky to be permitted to enter these places, to renew our contact with nature in all its beauty and bounty, and to be able to refresh our spirits and drink deep of the peace that flows, and fills us, and blesses our endeavors.
The photo that accompanies this poem is of the crab apple trees in full blossom on the front lawn of the house in Island View where Clare and I have lived and worked together for a quarter of century or more. This is the view from my writing room window. It is no wonder that poetry flows from this subtle spring beauty.
Kingsbrae 4.2
4 June 2017
Hymn of Praise
Woodhenge, Stonehenge,
bay and shore henge,
the sun rising out of the sea henge,
this forest older by far
than the Christian God,
and those Druids, my ancestors,
late-comers, five thousand years ago,
bound to this earth by the same
rays of sunshine that bind me now.
No man kills
in praise of the life-giving Sun,
that Celestial Father
who raised with Earth Mother
the beauty of our flowers,
the bounty of our fields.
Here, at Kingsbrae,
sitting at my window,
I raise my Sunday hymn of praise
to the Sun who gifted me my life
and who’ll still be there
when I end my days.
Kingsbrae 4.1
4 June 2017
Love
Love wore a mummer’s mask.
Cloaked in mystery, it came,
tumultuous, to my door,
and sold me a pig of promises
wrapped in a colored cloak.
When love broke my heart,
I swore I’d never love again.
I chose instead a steady friend,
a singular flower growing
wild in the hedgerow.
Wine, I offered, distilled in
my own winery. Drawings
and paintings, poems, simple
things that rooted deep
and blossomed when least expected.
No passion now, no smoldering fire,
just a slow growing old together,
hand in hand, and a settling down
in comfort and joy, our glasses
filled with the sunshine and un-
tarnished gold that spell true love.
Journal: Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say. Sitting here, at my window in Kingsbrae, at 6:00 am on Sunday morning, the sunlight sews gold threads through my heart and I realize how much my life has been enriched by the person I have left behind in Island View. Those same gold threads that descend from the sun have bound us together across the years. Apart, we are not alone and I feel her fill me with light even as I sit here at this window, typing these words, watching the sun rise up over Passamaquoddy Bay.
Kingsbrae 3.2
3 June 2007
Ireland in my Mind
(for Anne)
That cottage, stony and cold,
on Galway’s shore
where sunsets redden
the bay as the sun’s slow
candle burns low
across untroubled waters.
Overhead, the planets
await their call to emerge
from the sky-dark
and perform their Platonic
dance steps back and forth
as they have always done.
This limestone, barren
at first sight, now teems
with a hidden life that
emerges when the time
is right and its particles
dance their earthly dance,
the one that burgeons
into paint and flows with
beeswax down the canvas
to create a poetry woven
with lichens and moss, as soft
as this Irish accent
that leaves word footprints
and worlds, as dark as song,
with memories drawn, like water
fresh from the well, as starlight
twinkles and the day recreates
itself in memory and dream.
Journal: Last night, a magnificent and very entertaining supper, hosted by Mrs. Flemer, was held for the invited artists and the KIRA Residency Team. Afterwards, the residency group, consisting of Anne (Encaustic) , Carlos (Piper), Elise (Sculptor), Hanna (Cuisine), Roger (Poet), and Ruby (Painter) gathered in the residence at KIRA and began the first of many discussions on the new cultural world we are creating.
Carlos explained, through his interpreter, how he listened to other people’s music. First comes the rhythm. Then the structural division, segment by segment. Finally, there is the melody. In addition, Carlos looks at what techniques and themes he may incorporate into his own compositions. A general discussion followed on the nature of art and inspiration. Included in the discussion was the weight of responsibility that many of the residency artists felt. This was expressed in a need to produce something special while we are here.
This need to produce came in part from the desire to return to KIRA the faith shown in selecting this group of people, most of whom expressed their surprise at having been chosen. A discussion followed on how each member had felt upon receiving the news of the selection. A fierce desire to repay the KIRA Team with works of value was felt by the chosen artists. However, the artists also realized that while some results might be immediate, the long-term development of the individual’s art, as a result of the KIRA Residency, might take some time to come through. Patience, belief, and envisionment were three of the themes that then surfaced. After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day and Kingsbrae would never be revealed in all its glory on the first day of a 28 day residency.
Anne Wright presented a signed copy of her book Change Artistry to each member of the group. She also gifted us a delightful card collection of inspirational sayings. My own favorite for the day: “There is a thread you follow. It goes among things that change. But it does not change” (William Stafford). Other exchanges of gifts, some visual, some verbal, some musical, will occur, we are certain, throughout this residency.
Kingsbrae 2.2
2 June 2017
The Red Room
Carlos makes music on his flute.
He lives in the Green Room,
an open door opposite mine.
He creates the highest note of all
and it floats before me in the air,
a trapeze artist caught in a sunbeam,
suspended between the hands
that fling and those that catch.
His musical rhythms are different.
I try to follow his fingering.
In the space between notes,
hummingbirds flash their ruby
throats as they flit between flowers.
With a whirring of wings, all music
stops, save for the robin’s song
refreshing the early summer
with the sound of his eternal joy.
Journal: As I unpack my bags and start to settle in and arrange the room to my own liking, Carlos who will stay in the room opposite mine, starts to play his flute. I listen to the notes and, as I am listening, a robin joins in the song. I rest for a moment and sit at the small writing desk by one of the windows. From here I can see white clouds floating their ice-berg shapes across a sea-blue sky. Beneath them, Passamaquoddy Bay sparkles and crackles with filtered sunshine.
My mind goes back to another, more desperate time, two years ago, when I sat by the hospice window in Moncton and looked out at the car park. My car sat out there, abandoned, lonely, waiting to take me home for the welcome respite of a weekend free from radiation and treatments. Now, looking out of the window towards Minister Island, I feel as if I belong, as if this place had been waiting a long time for me to arrive and bear witness to it. I feel deep inside me the joy I feel when I walk in the door and enter the warmth of my own family and home.
Kingsbrae 2.1
2 June 2017
Pan Pipes
(for Carlos)
Lips form to make sounds
and the pan pipes speak
the international language
of love and lost love,
of a breeze through river reeds,
of fire on the snow high above
on Huascaran, Misti,
and wherever the pan pipes
roam, the piper will be at home,
his magic moving hearts and minds,
entering fingers that tap
and feet that move to the music’s beat,
yet beat is too harsh a word
for music that moves
like a breeze through the reeds
to pierce our souls
with its rhythmic breath
of a life now shared
with its mastery of that sacred art
older by far than other music,
save for the tapping
of stone and stick.
Zampoña andina
(para Carlos)
Los labios se comprimen
para formar sonidos
y habla la zampoña
la lengua internacional
de amor y amores perdidos,
de una brisa entre las cañas,
de fuego en las altas nieves
de Huascaran, Misti,
y dondequiera que viaje la zampoña
estará en casa el zampoñista,
su música penetrando
el corazón del oyente
haciendo bailar sus dedos
y danzar sus pies
al compás de la música,
aunque compás es una palabra
demasiado dura para describir
esta música que mueve y nos mueve
penetrando el alma
con el suspiro rítmico
de una vida ahora compartida
con su dominio de esta arte sagrada
más antigua que toda la música
salvo el batir de bastón contra piedra.
Journal: Last night, I picked Carlos up at the airport and we loaded the car. It was getting late, and between thunderstorms, water on the highway, poor visibility, the spring presence of moose on the highway, the gathering dark, and the hydroplaning that was a part of the storm, we decided to spend the night in Fredericton rather than arrive late and in the dark. My Spanish, very rusty, is improving under Carlos’s guidance. I am helping him with his English as he helps me with my Spanish.
This morning we are up early. Breakfast is ready. I will post this and then we will be on our way.
Kingsbrae 1.2
Huezeequichi
1 June 2017
Pen on paper,
words fall like tears,
waters that will erode
the hardest of stones.
This man bears witness
to thought, word, and deed.
He’s the outsider who sees
the interior world
and drags forth its spirit
for others to see,
not painted in paint,
not sculpted in stone,
no breeze through the reeds,
just words on the page
lined up in thin lines
to flower and flourish
like an army that conquers
the world of the soul,
and leaves fresh foot
prints on eternal snow.
Journal: The packing is being done. I have gathered my books and my writing material, my notebooks, my pens, my colored inks for cartoons, my drawing paper … it is all in a large box that I call my office. Next I must pack the laptop and the files / USBs and music that I need. After that comes camera and accoutrements, including a tripod in case I want some videos. Finally, the clothes that I need, working clothes and something slightly more elegant, not that I have much good clothing that fits me any longer: alas, I have put on size and weight. The ones who wear white coats told me I would … and they were right.
Carlos will be catching the Fredericton plane in an hour or so. I will have supper when I have packed and I’ll go to the airport after supper to meet him. Then I have to decide whether to drive down to St. Andrews tonight or whether to come back home and sleep here. Decisions, decisions: if the flight is delayed, as it often is, then we’ll spend the night here. If we spend the night here, we’ll leave tomorrow and head for St. Andrews early, just after breakfast.
There is so much to do, so much to think about. Luckily, I made a list and I am just following the instructions I gave myself when my mind was calmer.
Huezeequichi: the one who bears witness.
rogermoorepoet 