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.

Fear

Fear

Now is the time of fear:
ice on the morning step,
a child’s slide on the sidewalk,
a parking space too narrow
for me to get out of the car.

Sometimes the shopping cart
lurches beneath my weight
and I clutch at thin air:
each fall a precipice.

An emptiness in the gut,
a tightening of the elastic band
clamped around chest and heart,
a chill through the bowels
in the washroom’s dark:

 a long night that threatens.

Commentary:

Things happen, from time to time, and seem inevitable. With the coming of fall and the threat of frost comes the fear of ice. All year round, the fear of wet and slippery floors walks beside me. I am very careful about how and where I place my canes.

Shopping brings the fear that someone will park so close to me that I cannot get back into the car. Shopping carts can be treacherous. In one shop, their light-weight carts always seem ready to tip up or lurch over. The tell-tale leap in my chest reminds me that yes, this can and does happen. I am ultra careful in that particular shop.

Oh yes, and don’t forget the diuretics that upset the tummy and leave one struggling for time, and space, and the right place. Such things arrive so suddenly. They make the night seem dark and long.

Funny how the same thoughts change shape when published in prose, rather than poetry. The narrative is the same, but the emotional impact can be so different. Góngora wrote about such moments, a long time ago, in the early seventeenth century. “Cada pie mal puesto es una caída, cada caída es un precipicio. / Each false step means a fall, every fall is down a precipice.” The fear of falling is inherent to those of us who age. It is interesting that precipicio (Spanish) ends in -ice, precip-ice (English). How many readers note such seemingly minor coincidences?

Accident or deliberate? Who knows when the shopping cart or the cane slips out beneath us and we stumble as the ground comes suddenly rushing up, with us on the way down.

October

October

… and the wind a presence, sudden,
rustling dusty reeds and leaves,
the pond no longer a mirror,
its troubled surface twinkling,
sparking fall sunshine,
fragmenting it into shiny patches.

It’s warm in the car, windows raised
and the fall heat trapped in glass.
Outside, walkers walk hooded now,
gloved, heads battened down
beneath woollen thatches.

A wet dog emerges from the pond,
shakes its rainbow spray
soon to be a tinkle of trembling sparks
when the mercury sinks
and cold weather closes the pond
to all but skaters. Then fall frost will turn
noses blue and winter will start to bite.

Comment:

I was the first to like Moo’s painting, and indeed I do.
I hope someone likes my poem, too.

Apocalypse when?

Apocalypse When?

A strange, milk-cloud sky, skimpy, with the sun
a pale, dimly-glowing disc and my pen scarce
casting a shadow as the nib limps over the page.

Out on the west coast, fires still range free and this
is the result, these high, thin clouds casting a spider
web cloak over the sun face and darkening the day.

The west coast: five or six hours by plane and three
whole days to get there by train, even longer by bus,
all chop and change with multiple stops.

The wind blew and the clouds came widdershins,
backwards across the continent. Today they reached
across the ocean to claw the sun from European skies.

It is indeed a small world after all. Isostasy:
you push the balloon in here, and it bulges out
over there in the place you least expected.

Now we are all interconnected in an intricate network
of a thousand ways and means. What does it all mean?
Ripples ruffle the beaver pond’s dark mirror.

The forest mutters wind-words, devious and cruel,
that I sense, but cannot understand. High in the sky
clouds turn into horsemen on plunging steeds.

Fear, fire, flood, foe, poverty, pandemic, crops destroyed,
unemployment, and, waiting in the wings, the threat of civil
unrest, leading to the apocalypse and the war to end all wars.


Hello again – our old friend is back!

Hello again – our old friend is back!

Co-[vidi]-s
17 March 2020

I saw time change with the clocks
and my body clock
is no longer in sync
with the tick-tock chime
that denounces each hour.

Hours that used to wound
now threaten to kill.
They used to limp along,
but now they just rush by
and I, who used to run
from point to point,
now shuffle a step at a time.

Around us, the Covidis
thrives and flowers.
Wallflowers, violets,
we shrink into our homes,
board up the windows,
refuse to open doors.
We communicate by phone,
e-mail, messenger, Skype.

Give us enough rope
and we’ll survive a little while,
fearful, full of anguish,
yet also filled with hope.

Comment:

A Golden Oldie, written on 17 March 2020, St. Patrick’s Day.

Only yesterday, I read that Covid is back once more, in a new and mutated shape. Masking is once again demanded in the local Horizon hospitals especially in areas where patients and the public gather. I lost a couple of good friends to Covid last time round. I hope I don’t lose any in this new session. Guess I’ll be continuing to get my vaccinations and keep them up to date.

Whoever is reading this, I wish you all the best. May you stay Covid and illness free. May you also enjoy a long and happy life with sunshine days – and enough rain to keep the forests cool, the trees happy, the flowers flourish, and the wildfires at bay.

If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?

1. If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?

That is a very hard question to answer. I think of all the material things that everyone else can think of, but I do not want to sell commonplace things – antique furniture, paintings, books, stamps, groceries – I could go on and on, but I will resist the temptation to do so.

When I lived in Santander, Spain, the local wines were sometimes called ‘sol embotellado’ / bottled sunshine. I wouldn’t want to open a wine shop, but I would love to bottle the essence of a warm sunny summer day and – why should I sell it? I wouldn’t. I would give it away, free of charge, to all the needy people, inner city boys and girls, the impoverished, those who live in the streets and sleep in doorways or under bridges at night. Oh, the joy and happiness that would come when they opened their bottle of summer sunshine and felt the warm fresh air gather around them so they could breathe it in.

But why stop there? I would also give away ‘essence of butterflies’, that special feeling that comes on the colored wings of a butterfly and combines with the joy of flowers and the gift of taking flight. How special that would be. But sell it? It is much too valuable to sell. Put a dollar, Euro, yen, rupee, or sterling price upon it, and all its powers would vanish, like fairy dreams fading away.

Among other things, I would also like to offer the gift of the joy of words. Colors, in the imagination of Blake, were ‘sky wounds’. What joy to take a normal word, add a second word to it and create a new verbal image – ‘sky wounds’. And what happens when the sky is wounded, you ask. Well, the wound opens, the blood pours out and ‘le soleil se couche dans son sang qui se fige’ ‘the sun sets in its own congealing blood’. Baudelaire, if I remember correctly, from Les Fleurs du Mal. What beauty in those new images. What joy in remembering and recreating them. I would bottle such gifts and give them away in my shop.

Fairy dreams – yes, I would offer them as well to those who needed them. And not the sort that fade away, but those fairy dreams that suspend us in the wondrous beauty of their ethereal light. And I would bottle hope, and self-belief, and the power to change oneself from what one is to what one is destined to be. And I would add essence of self-knowledge and powder of Davey Lamp light that would enable the seekers to seek in the darkest corners of their souls and find that elusive inner self, and bring it out from the darkness. And I would stock fragrant filaments of firefly that would also allow my customers to enlighten that darkest of nights, the dark night of the soul. And a map of hidden foot paths that would allow the wanderer to wander and never get lost.

How about an elixir of happiness and joy? A quintessence of rainbows, perhaps? Or a magic lantern that would shine out from heart and eyes and enlighten the soul friends of those lucky souls who were able to locate and enter my shop of conditioners, vital vitamins, and soul magic for all those lost and lonely people. And there, that mirror on the wall – look in it, gaze deep into your own eyes, and maybe, just maybe, you will find my shop.

And “What will your shop be called?”, you ask. Look into your heart and you may find the answer engraved therein. It will be called The Gift Shop of Hope Restored. I look forward to welcoming you when you open the door and step in.

Comment
1. The number at the beginning of this post, refers to its position in The Book of Everything. In that book, I have included 100 blog prompts (The Book of Everything) and 11 more (and a little bit extra) to give a total of 111 responses to prompts. Each one is a little bit crazy, just as this one is. But what fun to read, and write, and think slightly differently.

On Loneliness

Loneliness

58 What relationships have a positive impact on you?

I think one of my poems answers this question best. I write “one of my poems” but it is really my ‘free’ translation of one of Francisco de Quevedo’s sonnets – Retirado en la paz de estos desiertos. I have changed the poem slightly, but I am sure Don Francisco (1580-1645) will excuse Don Roger’s impoverished effort (2023).

On Loneliness
29 December 2023

Resting in the peace of these small rooms,
with few, but welcome books together,
I live in conversation with my friends,
and listen with my eyes to loving words.

Not always understood, but always there,
they influence and question my affairs,
and with contrasting points of view,
they wake me up, and make me more aware.

The wisdom of these absent friends,
some distant from me just because they’re dead,
lives on and on, thanks to the printed word.

Life flits away, the past can’t be retained.
each hour, once past, is lost and gone,
but with such friends, I’m never left alone.

And there are so many of those literary friends. I still read Rudyard Kipling and I have just finished Kim, Captains Courageous, Stalky and Co., Puck of Pook’s Hill, and Rewards and Fairies. I read these first when I was nine or ten years old, and I return to them regularly. Other friends include Garcilaso de la Vega, Fray Luis de León, St. John of the Cross, Quevedo, Góngora, Calderón, Miguel de Unamuno, Antonio Machado, various members of the Generation of 1898, the majority of the poets from the Generation of 1927… and these are just my Spanish literary friends. I have French friends, English friends, Anglo-Welsh friends, Canadian friends, Mexican friends, and, in translation, many, many more. My relationship with each of these friends has had an impact upon me.

A recent painting, by my friend Moo, is called Fiat Lux – Let There Be Light. It is reminiscent of Dylan Thomas’s poem, Light breaks where no light shines. Intertextuality – Quevedo drew inspiration from the Stoics. I drew inspiration from Quevedo. Moo drew inspiration from Dylan Thomas. The nature of creativity, and its continuing links throughout the ages, shines clearly through these wonderful associations. Long may they continue, and may others enjoy them and be influenced by them as much as I have.

Comment:
The funny thing is that I do not remember writing this blog prompt, nor do I remember having translated Quevedo’s poem into English. I wonder how many other forget-me-nots there are out there. Or, to be more precise, in my books and in my notes. A treasure trove – that’s my guess. Borges wrote of Quevedo that he was more a library than an author, and I am beginning to think that way about my self. A strange world, this, one in which the creator abandons, and then forgets, his creations. Perhaps we should change the image – not so much a library as an orphanage, and so many lost and abandoned orphans wandering around The Little World of Don Rogelio.

Absence in Presence

Absence in Presence

Just before her flight left,
she came up
from the basement,
her cleaning tasks
complete,
and smiled at me.

In the background, music,
a Golden Oldie,
the Rolling Stones playing
This could be the last time.’

Present in her eyes,
and in my heart,
the thought,
more than a thought,
the knowledge
that those words
might actually be true.

Clepsydra 4 & 5

Clepsydra 4 & 5

4

… candles and the clepsydra
     marking time
          witnessing
               the transition
                    from day to night

drip-by-drop
     falling water
          flickering candle flames

less certain
     than the monotonous
          tick-tock
               of a pendulum clock
 
time and tide
     wait not
          for ship nor man

though time is marked
     on calendars
          and prison walls

days passing into weeks
     spring into summer into autumn

daylight lengthening
     shortening
          until bleak mid-winter
               comes again …

5

… black midnight
     all is lost
          who now can count the cost

stiff upper lips
     forget how to pray
          fingers clasping
               unclasping
                    never grasping
                         life’s simple flow

with silent steps
     planets and stars
          slowly turning
               writing out our lives

sun by day
     moon by night
               the sky alight
                    with shimmering fires

midnight curtains
     burning lights
          crazy curtains
               drawn in night’s sky

a lost dog hurls
     his coyote cry
          who on high
               now listens to his call

not the planets
     nor the Archer
          nor the dog star
               who never barks
                     anything
                          but summer’s flames

pity the poor dogs below
     bitches in heat
          waiting alone
               for their lover’s paws
                    their welcome snuffles

locked and bolted
    the door
          heightened
               the canicular heat …

What’s your favorite word?

Daily writing prompt
What’s your favorite word?

What’s your favorite word?
Seems like a daft question to me. Just one word?

Llanfairpwllgwyngylldrawbwlchllantisilioggogogoch – how’s that for a single word? And what’s wrong with married ones anyway. Or should I go for something like – home, health, morning (good or bad), night, how? -as in How! And what about the vast quantity of expletives that are found in so many languages? Many of them are single words, although many others are found in fertile and creative compound structures.

Of course, wrth gwrs, we are thinking of how many single words in how many languages? Or are we? I personally think that phrases might be more important than single words. Thank you becomes gracias (in Spanish) or te / se lo agradezco (more formally). It changes to merci (in French) or merci bien, or merci beaucoup, or grand merci, or merci mille fois, or je vous remercie. Then, in Welsh it becomes diolch, though many prefer diolch yn fawr.

Mind you, when living in Mexico, especially in some of the more isolated villages where food and water are not always the cleanest, bathroom may be a key word. Quick is also an important one. Put them together and you get bathroom quick! Help is also very useful when travelling alone and lost. As is Please! Por favor, in Spanish – two words of course!

Single words, in isolation, can be very dangerous. Especially when using a second language that one doesn’t dominate. Examples of embarrassing mistakes are multiple in the language-learning text-books. Speaking of which, it is interesting how infrequently they offer phrases like “Where is the bathroom?” or “I need the toilet. Now.” Alas, they also avoid the inevitable consequences like – “Too late!” “Sorry!” “Where is the nearest dry cleaners?”

A funny thing, language. And other people’s languages are equally funny. By funny, I mean weird, strange, and unpredictable, especially without a sharp cultural knowledge to permit the speaker to actually understand what he or she wants to say and how to phrase it correctly. Simple example – embarazada, in Spanish, does not mean embarrassed, it means pregnant. You would be surprised at how many young ladies, learning Spanish in Spain, have amazed their hosts and teachers by the simple announcement, often in class, that ‘estoy embarazada’‘I am pregnant’ – and I have seen the looks of amazement adorning the sympathetic faces of the families gathered round the table or the looks on the faces of the classes being so addressed.

So, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I can think of very few words, single words, that I would use on their own. But I can think of many, many phrases, most short, that I would be happy to use, and many more that I would avoid at all costs. As the students in the lower grades of Spanish used to say – “Buenas Nachos” and “I only want to be able to ask for a beer.” “Can’t we watch the Smurfs?” Have you ever tried to understand humor in another language, another culture? It is one of the hardest things to master, especially when it depends on the double-meaning of words, words which, all too often, only have one meaning in the pocket dictionaries people carry around with them. Caveat emptor. Buyer beware. And tread carefully, for you may not know just whose toes you are treading on, nor why, nor how they will react – the people, not the toes. Dangerous things those pronouns.

On the other hand, we can always go religious and turn to the Bible for advice. There we find “Faith, hope, and charity, and the greatest of these is charity.” So. Problem solved. I have found my one word – Charity. That said, I do like the painting Moo offered me for this prompt. He calls it Hope. And remember, you can’t go wrong with any of those three words – Faith, Hope, and Charity. Tolle lege. Amen.