John the Barman

Storm of Love

2012-01-04T14:50:00.000Z

Storm of Love
In howling storm,
you are alive, waiting for me.

Here, now!

I see you!
Waves surge,
break over your rocks.
stream over you.

Here, now!

On sea cliffs in wet black rags,
a thin lone girl clinging,
sea streaming o’er
silver etched rocks,
crying for all to see.

Here, now, uncovered,
I long to touch…

Seascape

Once,

In this seascape of cliffs, I tried to reach her
And lost both her and nearly myself in the spray.
I thought to take her to the dunes and give her my warmth-
Though she cares as little as the dark lichen.
Now,
I wait,
On the cliffs,
Clothed in yellow and gold,
Till she comes.
Ah, Golden Light.

Ikonnikov's Scribblings from 'Life and Fate' by Grossman

2011-12-02T11:20:00.000Z

In great hearts the cruelty of life gives birth to good; they then seek to carry this good back into life, hoping to make life itself accord with their inner image of good. But life never changes to accord with an image of good; instead it is the image of good that sinks into the mire of life – to lose its universality, to split into fragments and be exploited by the needs of the day. People are wrong to see life as a struggle between good and evil. Those who most wish for the good of humanity are unable to diminish evil by one jot.

Great ideas are necessary to dig new channels, to remove stones and, to bring down cliffs and fell forests; dreams of universal good are necessary in order that great waters should flow in harmony … Yes, if the sea were able to think, then every storm would make its waters dream of happiness. Each wave breaking against a cliff would believe it was dying for the good of the sea; it would never occur to it that, like thousands of waves before and after, it had only been brought into being by the wind

.…

I have seen the unshakeable strength of the idea of social good that was born in my own country. I saw this struggle during the period of general collectivization and again in 1937. I saw people annihilated in the name of an idea as fine and humane as the ideal of Christianity. I saw whole villages dying of hunger; I saw peasant children dying in the snows of Siberia; I saw trains bound for Siberia with hundreds and thousands of men and women from Moscow, Leningrad and every city in Russia – men and women who had been declared enemies of a great and bright idea of social good. This idea was fine and noble – yet it killed some without mercy, crippled the lives of others, and separated wives from husbands and children from fathers.

Now the horror of German Fascism has arisen. The air is full of the cries and groans of the condemned. The sky has turned black; the sun has been extinguished by the smoke of the gas ovens. And even these crimes, crimes never before seen in the universe have been committed in the name of good.

Once when I lived in the Northern forests, I thought that good was to be found neither in man, nor in the predatory world of animals and insects, but in the silent kingdom of the trees. Far from it! I saw the forests slow movement, the treacherous way it battled against grass and bushes for each inch of soil … First, billions of seeds fly through the air and begin to sprout destroying the grass and bushes. Then millions of victorious shoots wage war against one another. And it is only the survivors who enter into an alliance of equals to form the seamless canopy of the young deciduous forest. Beneath this canopy the spruces and beeches freeze to death in the twilight of penal servitude.

In time the deciduous trees become decrepit; then the heavyweight spruces burst through to the light, executing the alders and beeches. This is the life of the forest – a constant struggle of everything against everything.

Good is to be found neither in the sermons of religious teachers and prophets, nor in the teachings of sociologists and popular leaders nor in the ethical systems of philosophers … And yet ordinary people bear love in their hearts, are naturally full of love and pity for any living thing.

Yes, as well as this terrible Good with a capital ‘G’, there is everyday human kindness. The kindness of an old woman carrying a piece of bread to a prisoner, the kindness of a soldier allowing a wounded enemy to drink from his water flask, the kindness of youth towards age, the kindness of the peasant hiding an old Jew in his loft.

The private kindness of one individual to another; a petty, thoughtless kindness; an unwitnessed kindness. Something we could call senseless kindness. A kindness outside any system of social or religious good.

But if we think about it, we realize that this private, senseless, incidental kindness is in fact eternal. It is extended to everything living, even a mouse, even a bent branch that a man straightens as he walks by.

This kindness is both senseless and wordless. It is instinctive, blind. When Christianity clothed it in the teachings of the Church Fathers, it began to fade; its kernel became a husk. It remains potent only while it is dumb and senseless, hidden in the living darkness of the human heart – before it becomes a tool or commodity in the hands of the preachers, before its crude ore is forged into the gilt coins of holiness. It as simple as life itself. Even the teachings of Jesus deprived it of its strength.

But as I lost faith in good, I began to lose faith even in kindness. It seemed as beautiful and powerless as dew. What use was it if it was not contagious?

How can one make a power of it without losing it, without turning it into a husk as the Church did? Kindness is only powerful when it is powerless. If Man tries to give it power, it dims, fades away, losses itself, vanishes.

Today I can see the true power of evil. The heavens are empty. Man is alone on the Earth. How can the flame of evil be put out? With small drops of living dew, with human kindness? No, not even the waters of all the clouds and seas can extinguish that flame – let alone a handful of dew gathered drop by drop from the time of the Gospels to the iron present …

Yes, after despairing of finding good either in God or in Nature, I began to despair even of kindness.

But the more I saw of the darkness of Fascism, the more clearly I realized that human qualities persist even on the edge of the grave, even at the door of the gas chamber.

My faith has been tempered in Hell. My faith has emerged from the flames of the crematoria, from the concrete of the gas chamber. I have seen that it is not man that is impotent in the struggle against evil, but that the power of evil is impotent in the struggle against man. The powerlessness of kindness, of senseless kindness, is the secret of its immortality. It can never be conquered. The more stupid, the more senseless, the more helpless it may seem, the vaster it is. Evil is impotent before it. The prophets, religious teachers, reformers, social and political leaders are impotent before it. This blind love is man’s meaning.

Human history is not the battle of good struggling to overcome evil. It is a battle fought by a great evil struggling to crush a small kernel of human kindness. But if what is human in human beings has not been destroyed even now, then evil will never conquer.

On the Mountain

2011-11-30T22:47:00.001Z

To travel the world explicit
in its fault and fold.

To enter the background

as each thought discards itself:

pine-needles on the tree line,

scree beyond.

To move small, sleep low

and dream new depths

of emptiness and order.

To be troubled by neither.

The loosening air

concentrates your blood

and your heart has the simple grip

of speedwell or gentian.

You forget what it is

to elaborate or qualify.

You breathe

white against white sky.

By Lavina Greenlaw “The Casual Perfect” 2011

Newly Born Twins by Helen Farish

2011-11-12T13:15:00.000Z

Link A Moving Poem

Newly Born Twins by Helen Farish - Poetry Archive

2011-11-12T13:08:00.000Z

Link

Dionysus (Bachus) and his followers, the Bacchantes, as seen by Euripides

2011-09-26T14:46:00.000Z

The Bacchantes
By Written 410 B.C.E

First then we sat us down in a grassy glen, carefully silencing each footfall and whispered breath, to see without being seen. Now there was a dell walled in by rocks, with rills to water it, and shady pines o'erhead; there were the Maenads seated, busied with joyous toils. Some were wreathing afresh the drooping thyrsus with curling ivy-sprays; others, like colts let loose from the carved chariot-yoke, were answering each other in hymns of Bacchic rapture. But Pentheus, son of sorrow, seeing not the women gathered there, exclaimed, "Sir stranger, from where I stand, I cannot clearly see the mock Bacchantes; but I will climb a hillock or a soaring pine whence to see clearly the shameful doings of the Bacchanals." Then and there I saw the stranger work a miracle; for catching a lofty fir-branch by the very end he drew it downward to the dusky earth, lower yet and ever lower; and like a bow it bent, or rounded wheel, whose curving circle grows complete, as chalk and line describe it; e'en so the stranger drew down the mountain-branch between his hands, bending it to earth, by more than human agency. And when he had seated Pentheus aloft on the pine branches, he let them slip through his hands gently, careful not to shake him from his seat. Up soared the branch straight into the air above, with my master perched thereon, seen by the Maenads better far than he saw them; for scarce was he beheld upon his lofty throne, when the stranger disappeared, while from the sky there came a voice, 'twould seem, by Dionysus uttered-

"Maidens, I bring the man who tried to mock you and me and my mystic rites; take vengeance on him." And as he spake he raised 'twixt heaven and earth a dazzling column of awful flame. Hushed grew the sky, and still hung each leaf throughout the grassy glen, nor couldst thou have heard one creature cry. But they, not sure of the voice they heard, sprang up and peered all round; then once again his bidding came; and when the daughters of Cadmus knew it was the Bacchic god in very truth that called, swift as doves they dirted off in cager haste, his mother Agave and her sisters dear and all the Bacchanals; through torrent glen, o'er boulders huge they bounded on, inspired with madness by the god. Soon as they saw my master perched upon the fir, they set to hurling stones at him with all their might, mounting a commanding eminence, and with pine-branches he was pelted as with darts; and others shot their wands through the air at Pentheus, their hapless target, but all to no purpose. For there he sat beyond the reach of their hot endeavours, a helpless, hopeless victim. At last they rent off limbs from oaks and were for prising up the roots with levers not of iron. But when they still could make no end to all their toil, Agave cried: "Come stand around, and grip the sapling trunk, my Bacchanals! that we may catch the beast that sits thereon, lest he divulge the secrets of our god's religion."

Then were a thousand hands laid on the fir, and from the ground they tore it up, while he from his seat aloft came tumbling to the ground with lamentations long and loud, e'en Pentheus; for well he knew his hour was come. His mother first, a priestess for the nonce, began the bloody deed and fell upon him; whereon he tore the snood from off his hair, that hapless Agave might recognize and spare him, crying as he touched her cheek, "O mother! it is I, thy own son Pentheus, the child thou didst bear in Echion's halls; have pity on me, mother dear! oh! do not for any sin of mine slay thy own son."

But she, the while, with foaming mouth and wildly rolling eyes, bereft of reason as she was, heeded him not; for the god possessed her. And she caught his left hand in her grip, and planting her foot upon her victim's trunk she tore the shoulder from its socket, not of her own strength, but the god made it an easy task to her hands; and Ino set to work upon the other side, rending the flesh with Autonoe and all the eager host of Bacchanals; and one united cry arose, the victim's groans while yet he breathed, and their triumphant shouts. One would make an arm her prey, another a foot with the sandal on it; and his ribs were stripped of flesh by their rending nails; and each one with blood-dabbled hands was tossing Pentheus' limbs about. Scattered lies his corpse, part beneath the rugged rocks, and part amid the deep dark woods, no easy task to find; but his poor head hath his mother made her own, and fixing it upon the point of a thyrsus, as it had been a mountain lion's, she bears it through the midst of Cithaeron, having left her sisters with the Maenads at their rites. And she is entering these walls exulting in her hunting fraught with woe, calling on the Bacchic god her fellow-hunter who had helped her to triumph in a chase, where her only prize was tears.

Following Dionysis can lead to dire consequences but so can not following him. Maenads are always invited to the dance.

1st Photo - Dionysus in 69 by Max Waldman

2nd Photo - Eden Project 2008 by me

Metaphor - no escape?

2011-09-01T03:29:00.000Z

We live through metaphor.

Tibetan Buddhism took this to an extreme. Science,Maths and the arts are Metaphor.
Shivha is a metaphor as are her silks, adornments, perfumes and dance and her other half, Shiva, skyclad in a blue illusion.

Poetry and the arts articulate metaphors in beautuful domains pleasing the mind and senses.

We live by allusion and illusion.

"Foucault demonstrates that the semantic and syntactic structures does not suffice to determine the discursive meaning of an expression Depending on whether or not it complies with these rules of discursive meaning, a grammatically correct phrase may lack discursive meaning or, inversely, a grammatically incorrect sentence may be discursively meaningful - even meaningless letters, e.g. "AZERT" may have discursive meaning. Thus, "statements" depend on the conditions in which they emerge and exist within a field of discourse; the discursive meaning of a statement is reliant on the succession of statements that precede and follow it." Wiki

Ghazal by Mimi Khalvati - Poetry Archive

2011-08-20T06:44:00.000Z

Link

To Seedrum, alias Stoney and Leopold Gursky.

2011-07-22T11:15:00.000Z

You'd like this book by Nicole Krauss.

The last pages are exquisitely beautiful. I finished them in bed and that wonderful rich world remains with me, a so real fiction full of emotion and poetry.

The book is 'The History of Love' by Nicole Krauss but based on Leopold Gursky's book of the same name about his love, Alma, lost sixty years ago in Poland .

"When I looked up, she was standing there. Plain as day, a girl of fifteen, her hair in a braid, not five feet from me. She lifted her violin, the one her brother had brought her from Vilna, and lowered her chin to meet it. I tried to say her name. But. It lodged in my throat. Beside, I knew she couldn't hear me. She raised the bow. I heard the opening notes of the Dvorak. her eyes were closed. The music spilled from her fingers. She played it flawlessly, as she'd never played it in life."

The crowning of Dreaming John of Grafton by John Drinkwater

2011-07-05T05:48:00.000Z

The crowning of Dreaming John of Grafton by John Drinkwater

I

Seven days he travelled
Down the roads of England,
Out of leafy Warwick lanes
Into London town.
Grey and very wrinkled
Was Dreaming John of Grafton,
But seven days he walked to see
A king put on his crown.

Down the streets of London
He asked the crowded people
Where would be the crowning
And when would it begin.
He said he'd got a shilling,
A shining silver shilling,
But when he came to Westminster
They wouldn't let him in.

Dreaming John of Grafton
Looked upon the people,
Laughed a little laugh, and then
Whistled and was gone.
Out along the long roads,
The twisting roads of England,
Back into the Warwick lanes
Wandered Dreaming John.

II

As twilight touched with her ghostly fingers
All the meadows and mellow hills,
And the great sun swept in his robes of glory-
Woven of petals of daffodils
And jewelled and fringed with leaves of the roses-
Down the plains of the western way,
Among the roads of scented clover
Dreaming John in his dreaming lay.

Since dawn had folded the stars of heaven
He'd counted a score of miles and five,
And now, with a vagabond heart untroubled
And proud as the properest man alive,
He sat him down with a limber spirit
That all men covet and few may keep,
And he watched the summer draw round her beauty
That shadow the shepherds the world to sleep.

And up from the valley and shining rivers,
And out of the shadowy wood-ways wild,
And down from the secret hills, and streaming
Out of the shimmering undefiled
Wonder of sky that arched him over,
Came a company shod in gold
And girt in gowns of a thousand blossoms,
Laughing and rainbow-aureoled.

Wrinkled and grey with eyes a-wonder
And soul beatified, Dreaming John
Watched the marvellous company gather
While over the clover a glory shone;
They bore on their brows the hues of heaven,
Their limbs were sweet with flowers of the fields,
And their feet were bright with the gleaming treasure
That prodigal earth to her children yields.

They stood before him, and John was laughing
As they were laughing; he knew them all,
Spirits of trees and pools and meadows,
Mountain and windy waterfall,
Spirits of clouds and skies and rivers.
Leaves and shadows and rain and sun,
A crowded, jostling, laughing army,
And Dreaming John knew every one.

Among them then was sound of singing
And chiming music, as one came down
The level rows of scented clover,
Bearing aloft a flashing crown;
No word of a man's desert was spoken,
Nor anyword of a man's unworth,
But there on the wrinkled brow it rested,
And Dreaming John was king of the earth.

III

Dreaming John of Grafton
Went away to London,
Saw the coloured banners fly,
Heard the great bells ring,
But though his tongue was civil
And he had a silver shilling,
They wouldn't let him in to see
The crowning of the king.

So back along the long roads,
The leafy roads of England,
Dreaming John went carolling,
Travelling alone,
And in a summer evening,
Among the scented clover,
He held before a shouting throng
A crowning of his own.

__________________

I strode along my beaches like a sea, Wallace Stevens.

2011-02-16T23:34:00.002Z

I

I strode along my beaches like a sea,
The sand before me stretching firm and fair;
No inland darkness cast its shadow there
And my long step was gloriously free.
The careless wind was happy company
That hurried past and did not question where;
Yet as I moved I felt a deep despair
And wonder of the thoughts that came to me.

For to my face the deep wind brought the scent
Of flowers I could not see upon the strand;
And in the sky a silent cloud was blent
With dreams of my soul's stillness; and the sand,
That had been naught to me, now trembled far
In mystery beneath the evening star.

II

Come, said the world, thy youth is not all play,
Upon these hills vast palaces must rise,
And over this green plain that calmly lies
In peace, a mighty city must have sway........

Reefs by the Seashore 1824 by Casper Friedrich

Socrates said:
"Well then, Phaedrus, this is how it was . I was walking on the very edge of the sea. I was following an endless shore...I was going I know not whither, overflowing with life, half intoxicated by my youth. The air deliciously rude and pure, pressing against my face and limbs, confronted me - an impalpable hero that I must vanquish in order to advance. And this resistance, ever overcome, made of me, too, at every step an imaginary hero, victorious over the wind, and rich in energies that were ever reborn.... That is just what youth is. All things around were simple and pure: the sky, the sand, the water."

The Way of Love

2011-02-14T11:19:00.002Z

The way of love is not

a subtle argument.

The door there

is devastation.

Birds make great sky-circles

of their freedom.

How do they learn it?

They fall, and falling,

they're given wings.

by Rumi in a translation of Coleman Barks

Messier 101 galaxy by Nassa

Persian Calligraphy and Rumi (Mevlana)

2011-02-05T23:16:00.000Z

Persian calligraphy of a Rumi poem:

‘Do not say ‘Who will guide me on the path of love?’ Just get on the road and God gives success’.

I'd been thinking about typefaces and was drawn to Islamic Calligraphy which didn't have type set characters. It took me a while to remember where I'd first seen them. Yes, 40 years ago in Rumi's tomb in Konya, Turkey. It came back to me when I found Amber's blog about her exchange visit from America.

"Later, we went to the Tomb/Mosque of Rumi-Mevlana. Usually mosques seem to be done with tiles in intricate patterns, but this one was different. Prayers from the Qu'ran looked to be carved out of wood, then hand painted to create incredible beauty. It was worn, the history and stories that passed that place obvious, but still glorious, covering the ceiling and walls around us. It was the most beautiful mosque I have seen yet on my exchange. On display in glass cases, were his instruments, The Original Versions of the Qu’ran, his rugs and clothes from his home as well as Muhammad The Prophet’s beard. The feeling in that place was so intense. I have never been in a place is with such a forceful spirituality prior to this. Women cried and wailed as they raised their hands up to Allah in dua, fell to their knees as they pressed their noses to the box with Muhammad's beard to catch a whiff, people sat all over on the floors deeply engrossed in the Qu'rans words, others sat in circles professing their love for Rumi and their religious beliefs. Absolutely unforgettable."

Since reading about Rumi in the superb, "The Forty Rules of Love" by Elif Shafak I was delighted that so much was coming together and then after much searching I found a comprehensive and inspirational Rumi site with calligraphy, poems, readings and more:

http://sologak1.blogspot.com/2009/02/sufi-art-rumi-calligraphy.html

Turkish Grafitii artist Mohammed Ali's work continues the tradition.

Islamic Calligraphy:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Islamic_calligraphy

History of Persian Scripts:
http://persiancalligraphy.org/History-of-Calligraphy.html

Amber's blog:
http://amberinturkey.blogspot.com/2010/01/absolutely-unforgettable.html

On the way to the bus

2011-01-17T21:40:00.000Z

On the way to the bus

Granite sculpture, inspired by Giacometti's method

2010-12-21T10:36:00.000Z

"This was followed by a unique artistic phase in which his statues of Isabel became stretched out; her limbs elongated.Obsessed with creating his sculptures exactly as he envisaged through his unique view of reality, he often carved until they were as thin as nails and reduced to the size of a pack of cigarettes, much to his consternation. After his marriage to Annette Arm his tiny sculptures became larger, but the larger they grew, the thinner they became. Giacometti said that the final result represented the sensation he felt when he looked at a woman."

I want to have a go with my local rock, Lewisian Gneiss, the same rock used for the Callanish stones. It is not uniform like granite and I'd like to follow the natural flow of the material. The challenge of the material is that it is very hard. Giacometti's creative process resulting in these figures has got me interested.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alberto_Giacometti

17 Dec1273 Anniversary of Rumi''s death.

2010-12-16T02:41:00.000Z

Oh Beloved,
take me.
Liberate my soul.
Fill me with your love and
release me from the two worlds.

If I set my heart on anything but you
let fire burn me from inside.

Oh Beloved,
take away what I want.
Take away what I do.
Take away what I need.
Take away everything
that takes me from you.

Translated by Shahram Shiva
Hush - Don't Say Anything To God

http://www.bestirantravel.com/culture/poetry/rumi_poetry.html

'The Forty Rules of Love' by Ilif Shafak 2010

Kore = Κόρη ( Greek) =maiden

2010-12-14T21:35:00.000Z

Kore = Κόρη ( Greek) =maiden

Callanish Stone Circle 7th December 2010

2010-12-14T21:34:00.000Z

Callanish Stone Circle 7th December 2010

Fragments of ‘Immortality’

2010-12-14T21:32:00.000Z

Fragments of ‘Immortality’

Twelve young artists at an autumn exhibition

2010-11-27T12:28:00.007Z

Twelve young artists at an autumn exhibition
and we their only visitors.
The brief day dawns, auspicious, cold, a silent breeze.

Palettes dance with oranges and lemons
as cuspid shapes drift into place
in golden pools around each tree.

Proudly the artists stand
and in the coming days
blush briefly to a scarlet brown.

to twelve twenty-five year old Norway maples. Acer platanoides

with apologies for this work in progress.

My Remembrance - 1999 Kashmir

2010-11-14T13:03:00.000Z

In Brolmo, Kashmir, nothing new ever happened. At least that’s the way it seemed to Fatima, at age ten. She remembers looking into her older sister’s face when the sky began singing its unfamiliar song, and seeing her own surprise echoed there in Aamina’s wide eyes, a look that said ,”Here is something new.”

But after the firestorm of flying metal from the first 155 millimetre shell, Fatima chooses to remember as little as possibly. There were bodies, and parts of bodies in the wheat field and explosions came so close together they became a single scream. They ran towards caves to escape the sky.

About the shell that exploded just outside the cave Fatima has no memory at all. All she can say is that her sister’s hayaat, or spirit was broken and neither of their lives was ever the same.

Under shelling they escaped to Skardu. Fatima says that Aamina lay down and would not get up,

“No one could revive her and not even being safe with our father and her uncles seemed to cheer her. She died after a few days.”

Abridged extract from, ‘Three Cups of Tea’ by Greg Mortenson and David Relin 2006

Fatima’s friend Nargiz Ali says,

“Life was very cruel in the caves. Our village, Brolmo, was a very beautiful place, with apricot and even cherry trees, on a slope by the Indus River. I couldn’t leave to play outside or care for animals, or even pick the fruit that we watched ripening and then rotting.”

Losing my Memory

2010-10-29T17:02:00.002Z

Immersed in reading ‘Immortality’ by Kundera he refers to,’ the glasses incident’. I remember the broken glasses, but whose and why and refer back to chapter 12.

I forget why I said that. I’m like a drop of water babbling in the stream, there for a moment and then forgetting everything in a dark ocean current or a wave, a crystal moment in the clouds or a drop of water on a late rose. Piles of old letters, mine and others are spread on the floor, turning to dust, mingling. Memories,

“………..The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity.”

“………..But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.”

Quotes are from ‘Four Quartets’ by T S Eliot.

http://www.tristan.icom43.net/quartets/

The Silver Lily and A Garden in Shoreham

2010-10-27T08:37:00.001Z

The nights have grown cool again, like the nights
Of early spring, and quiet again. Will
Speech disturb you? We're
Alone now; we have no reason for silence.
Can you see, over the garden-the full moon rises.
I won't see the next full moon.

In spring, when the moon rose, it meant
Time was endless. Snowdrops
Opened and closed, the clustered
Seeds of the maples fell in pale drifts.
White over white, the moon rose over the birch tree.
And in the crook, where the tree divides,
Leaves of the first daffodils, in moonlight
Soft greenish-silver.

We have come too far together toward the end now
To fear the end. These nights, I am no longer even certain
I know what the end means. And you, who've been
With a man--

After the first cries,
Doesn't joy, like fear, make no sound?

Poem by Louise Gluck
Picture by Samuel Palmer

Samuel Palmer, "Early Morning" (1825), A Tree-Hugger Ahead of His Time

2010-10-24T23:06:00.001Z

Palmer's sepias take us deep into the mysterious harmony of the natural world. Animals and humans are often present — note the hyperalert rabbit and half-hidden villagers in the resplendent "Early Morning" — and houses and barns crop up in the distance. But the main character is nature, in its wholeness and divineness, measured out in slightly stiff renderings of effulgently leafy bushes, glimmering birches, massive oaks and gnarly rocks, and in occasional moments of breathtaking ambiguity.

Posted by Jeff at March 19, 2006 11:45 AM

Kirsty MacColl "In These Shoes?"

2010-10-24T12:06:00.000Z

Over all Hilltops is Peace... Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh...

2010-10-24T10:38:00.000Z

Over all Hilltops is Peace... Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh...

‘The Seventh Seal’

2010-10-24T10:36:00.000Z

‘The Seventh Seal’

The Song on Reaching the Mountain Peak

2010-10-24T10:34:00.000Z

The Song on Reaching the Mountain Peak

2010-10-15T08:33:00.000Z

Hearken, my sons! If you want
To climb the mountain peak
You should hold the Self-mind's light,
Tie it with a great "Knot,"
And catch it with a firm "Hook."
If you practice thus
You can climb the mountain peak
To enjoy the view.

Come, you gifted men and women,
Drink the brew of Experience!
Come "inside" to enjoy the scene --
See it and enjoy it to the full!
The Incapable remain outside;
Those who cannot drink pure
Beer may quaff small beer.
He who cannot strive for Bodhi,
Should strive for superior birth.

- Milarepa

Translated by Garma C. C. Chang

Wave Dance by Paul Lee

2010-08-30T07:48:00.002Z

Wave Dance

Sea Wall, Dawlish

Charge to the sea wall, slap it hard, roll back with the swell and
merge…

Charge to the sea wall, slap it hard, roll back with the swell,
meet the next wave charging in, present your crest
and make high fives, pass on through back with the swell and
merge…

Charge to the sea wall, slap it hard, roll back with the swell,
meet the next wave charging in, slap it hard
with white hurrahs, recoil to the sea wall, cuff its base,
roll back with the swell and merge…

Charge to the sea wall, slap it hard, roll back with the swell and
merge…

The Dance by Divya Mathur

2010-08-29T17:36:00.001Z

The Dance by Divya Mathur

The shimmering moonlight
Came down to make illuminate
The dry sand dune

Her skirt was made of
Sixty rays
Her blouse was stitched but with
one
And her scarf!
As if it was dipped into
Blue, red, green, yellow and
Myriad bright colours

What a tiny waist!
What a sweet voice!

And as she touched the ground
And Lo and behold!
The sand started to dance!

Dance of the Will to Freedom.

2010-08-29T05:59:00.002Z

"-not only in the rhythm of proportions, but in the rhythm of wills."

-a quote from Tagore, which made me think of creative dance, its beauty and will to freedom.

tonight we are going to the Alonzo King Ballet from San Francisco-looks good.

Rabindranath Tagore-life a poem.

2010-08-20T04:15:00.001Z

A few days ago I was book by Tagore. It was old, 1917 and the page edges were ragged and soft as blotting paper but the words were bright as spring flowers.

" From this we find our ideal. Perpetual giving up is the truth of life. The perfection of this is our life's perfection. We are to make this life our poem in all its expressions; it must be fully suggestive of our soul which is infinite, not merely of our possessions which have no meaning in themselves. The consciousness of the infinite in us proves itself in our joy in giving ourselves out of our abundance. And then our work is the process of our renunciation, it is one with our life. It is like the flowing of the river, which is the river itself."

Reading the book was, for me like reading T S Eliot's Quartets. I think he was an influence on Eliot. The idea I also come away with is that the One is manifest in the Particular. I am imagining a paticular field of Himalayan primula.

because we live... blessed with water..

2010-07-12T05:01:00.000Z

... and all in all I seek the intimate connection of words and music and the place that puts a passion in me to share all of this with you.

Thanks Stoney.

Phalacrocorax aristotelis on cliffs

2010-06-21T10:35:00.000Z

Chaffinch Baby and Dad

2010-05-20T03:37:00.000Z

More Chaffinch and Chicks with a Bumble Bee

2010-05-10T03:52:00.000Z

Chaffinch Nest and Chicks

2010-05-03T02:21:00.000Z

Chaffinch Nest and Eggs

2010-04-18T08:12:00.000Z

Climbing a mountain to find you a poem.

2010-03-14T09:32:00.006Z

Silence,
just an ocean of mountains
and the rhythmic crunch,
stopping when I stopped,
in the icy snow.
Silence jangling my thoughts,
heart drumming with excitement
and she, between the peaks of untouched snow
flashed icy diamonds.

I was alone,
dark clouds and evening closing in,
the summit path a crampon track of giant caterpillars,
dark clouds and evening closing in
as slowly I returned.

Beside a solitary birch I read its frozen waterfall,
the story of a glacier,
of giant boulders that had fallen since
and waited the returning ice
to journey on.

The birch spoke too
of woodland days,
and nights,
warm with its fire.

Scotland-Russia Forum at Edinburgh Uni for lecture on Georgia

2010-02-27T22:01:00.004Z

Ambassador MacLaren of MacLaren top left, myself bottom right.

'What next for Georgia' a lecture by our ambassador 2004-2007

2010-02-27T11:55:00.012Z

Donald MacLaren gave a frank and informative lecture to the Scotland Russia Forum last night. He compared Georgia to Scotland. Same size, rich cultural background, mountains and powerful neighbour. He impressed us with their real wish for democracy, freedom and western alignment. He also made us aware of the manpower they had supplied to Iraq and Afghanistan.

The longing for a free press, judicial independence and other freedoms had, he said, been thwarted by what some would call the egomania of president Saakashvili. Donald blames the EU's ineffective diplomacy for the recent war. All the EU said was, 'We urge restraint on both sides'. He thinks we should have adopted the stronger American diplomatic view. The evening ending with Georgian wine. So good I drank too much. I ended up on the set of a Burke and Hare film. Luckily I awoke alive and alone in my own bed. The Scotland Russia Forum, like the Georgians was a good group of people.

Ref: 'A Little War that Shook the World' by R. D. Asmus Feb 2010
http://us.macmillan.com/alittlewarthatshooktheworld
www.scotlandrussiaforum.org
http://evolutsia.net/?p=1331

Footnote:
According to the article: 'Ossetia's connection to Scotland' by Tim Whewell,

"Centuries ago, possibly during the great migrations of the Dark Ages, some Ossetians went down from the Caucasus and set sail through the Black Sea, the Mediterranean, the Atlantic, and arrived eventually in a landscape they recognised: Caledonia. In fact, though, they did not just occupy Scotland. They occupied the whole of Western Europe on their fast horses, spreading the chivalrous respect for women that is originally an Ossetian concept. And how do we know they reached Britain? Easy: place names. England's greatest national hero, King Arthur, was Ossetian too, apparently. His name means "solar fire".

The Ossetians are not just like the medieval Scots. As far as they are concerned, they are the Scots. And the Scots are them."

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/programmes/from_our_own_correspondent/7701614.stm

Often I hear a child’s voice softly speak

2010-02-15T17:30:00.001Z

Often I hear a child’s voice softly speak
and though I cannot understand,
I know she speaks to me.

Is it a language of the North?
If I could hear her words maybe the key
would be as simple as TGA and ACT.

Or is she untranslatable,
a primordial language,
a background radiation,
musical, mathematical,
the Word?

Listen!...
My baby whispers in my ear…

‘Sweet Nothings’
She knows the words I like to hear,
‘Sweet Nothings’.

Good Morning with Pan Pipes

2010-02-07T11:51:00.004Z

From our bedroom window we were enjoying the first pale green of dawn when my wife mentioned, ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’, a chapter in Graham’s, ‘Wind in the Willows’. I’d never read it but as a teenager it was her favourite book. So as the red then yellow sunrise unfolded behind the trees she read me this passage…

'Clearer and nearer still,' cried the Rat joyously. 'Now you must surely hear it! Ah--at last--I see you do!'
Breathless and transfixed the Mole stopped rowing as the liquid run of that glad piping broke on him like a wave, caught him up, and possessed him utterly. He saw the tears on his comrade's cheeks, and bowed his head and understood. For a space they hung there, brushed by the purple loose-strife that fringed the bank; then the clear imperious summons that marched hand-in-hand with the intoxicating melody imposed its will on Mole, and mechanically he bent to his oars again. And the light grew steadily stronger, but no birds sang as they were wont to do at the approach of dawn; and but for the heavenly music all was marvellously still.
On either side of them, as they glided onwards, the rich meadow-grass seemed that morning of a freshness and a greenness unsurpassable. Never had they noticed the roses so vivid, the willow-herb so riotous, the meadow-sweet so odorous and pervading. Then the murmur of the approaching weir began to hold the air, and they felt a consciousness that they were nearing the end, whatever it might be, that surely awaited their expedition.
A wide half-circle of foam and glinting lights and shining shoulders of green water, the great weir closed the backwater from bank to bank, troubled all the quiet surface with twirling eddies and floating foam-streaks, and deadened all other sounds with its solemn and soothing rumble. In midmost of the stream, embraced in the weir's shimmering arm-spread, a small island lay anchored, fringed close with willow and silver birch and alder. Reserved, shy, but full of significance, it hid whatever it might hold behind a veil, keeping it till the hour should come, and, with the hour, those who were called and chosen.
Slowly, but with no doubt or hesitation whatever, and in something of a solemn expectancy, the two animals passed through the broken tumultuous water and moored their boat at the flowery margin of the island. In silence they landed, and pushed through the blossom and scented herbage and undergrowth that led up to the level ground, till they stood on a little lawn of a marvellous green, set round with Nature's own orchard-trees--crab-apple, wild cherry, and sloe.
'This is the place of my song-dream, the place the music played to me,' whispered the Rat, as if in a trance. 'Here, in this holy place, here if anywhere, surely we shall find Him!'
Then suddenly the Mole felt a great Awe fall upon him, an awe that turned his muscles to water, bowed his head, and rooted his feet to the ground. It was no panic terror--indeed he felt wonderfully at peace and happy--but it was an awe that smote and held him and, without seeing, he knew it could only mean that some august Presence was very, very near. With difficulty he turned to look for his friend and saw him at his side cowed, stricken, and trembling violently. And still there was utter silence in the populous bird-haunted branches around them; and still the light grew and grew.
Perhaps he would never have dared to raise his eyes, but that, though the piping was now hushed, the call and the summons seemed still dominant and imperious. He might not refuse, were Death himself waiting to strike him instantly, once he had looked with mortal eye on things rightly kept hidden. Trembling he obeyed, and raised his humble head; and then, in that utter clearness of the imminent dawn, while Nature, flushed with fullness of incredible colour, seemed to hold her breath for the event, he looked in the very eyes of the Friend and Helper; saw the backward sweep of the curved horns, gleaming in the growing daylight; saw the stern, hooked nose between the kindly eyes that were looking down on them humorously, while the bearded mouth broke into a half-smile at the corners; saw the rippling muscles on the arm that lay across the broad chest, the long supple hand still holding the pan-pipes only just fallen away from the parted lips; saw the splendid curves of the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic ease on the sward; saw, last of all, nestling between his very hooves, sleeping soundly in entire peace and contentment, the little, round, podgy, childish form of the baby otter. All this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered.
'Rat!' he found breath to whisper, shaking. 'Are you afraid?'
'Afraid?' murmured the Rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love. 'Afraid! Of HIM? O, never, never! And yet--and yet--O, Mole, I am afraid!'
Then the two animals, crouching to the earth, bowed their heads and did worship.
Sudden and magnificent, the sun's broad golden disc showed itself over the horizon facing them; and the first rays, shooting across the level water-meadows, took the animals full in the eyes and dazzled them. When they were able to look once more, the Vision had vanished, and the air was full of the carol of birds that hailed the dawn.

Pan and Psyche by Reinhold Begas 1858, Alte Nationalgalerie, Berlin http://www.flickr.com/photos/pantherman/1983767833/

'Stop Thief! You're that kid Prometheus with his Blackbird.'

2010-02-05T11:04:00.012Z

Stop Thief! You're that kid with his Blackbird.'

Real and imagined guilt stalks me, outruns me, guns me down, a would be Prometheus chained to Mount Kazbek, his liver consumed by eagles.

Little maggots prey on my mind. Am I a plagiarist?

I wrote my simple little poem about a blackbird and afterwards, in an unasked for Christmas present book, read ‘The Blackbird of Glanmore’ by Blabbermouth Seamus Heaney. I’d never read him! I didn’t like his poems, his Irish accent and his gift of the gab. Prejudice, but perhaps his popularity and superiority was what I really disliked and me too thick to understand.

p.s. I have since read some of his poems and find them excellent.

Unearthing sins, stirring the leaves,
for I have loved another bird,
black as sequined night,
dancing in the dark.

I don't know who did the engraving of Prometheus. Click to enlarge.

Poor old Prometheus. He thought he did Right. He brought us Fire. But he's OK. On Mount Kazbek I saw his rusted chains.

Irsis replied,

A master called his three servants to him and gave them each a chicken. He told them to take the chicken and go some place where no one can see and kill it. So the three servants left to kill their chickens.

The next day the three servants returned to the master but one of the servants still had his live chicken. So the master said to him, "why didn't you do as I told you and kill your chicken?" And the servant answered," where ever I went the chicken was always looking."

So remember whatever you do or where ever you go the chicken is always unearthing sins.

Seedrum replied,

"Dingo Dawg....... the farmer's chickens.... and his wife ! "

Krishna and Gopis

2010-01-27T03:58:00.004Z

For 40 years, Krishna and the Gopis, has been for me a significant erotic and spiritual image.

This is one of many images of the story. All the Gopis think they dance with Krishna and he also is dancing with each of them.

Last Grasp before Thaw

2010-01-09T18:54:00.002Z

The River by Ellery Channing

2010-01-09T16:22:00.003Z

There is an inward voice, that in the stream
Sends forth its spirit to the listening ear,
And in a calm content it floweth on,
Like wisdom, welcome with its own respect.
Clear in its breast lie all these beauteous thoughts.
It doth receive the green and graceful trees,
And the gray rocks smile in its peaceful arms,
And over all floats a serenest blue,
Which the mild heaven sheds down on it like rain.
O fair, sweet stream, thy undisturbed repose
Me beckons to thy font, and thou vexed world,
Thou other turbulent sphere where I have swelt,
Diminished into distance touch'st no more

To a Blackbird (for Auld Lang Syne )

2009-12-31T15:27:00.004Z

Familiar, commonplace,

unnoticed

beneath the trees

a blackbird works the leaves.

Searching, delving,

stops,

and through gold rings

looks up at me,

then stirs the fallen leaves of fate

with golden beak.

Familiars,

since the wood's birth,

our passing easy,

you working the leaves,

me tending the trees.

http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=1396

Herschel Uranus Keats

2009-12-13T13:06:00.003Z

On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer by Keats

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star'd at the Pacific--and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

"Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;"

The telescopic image first seen by Hershel would have been a watery one swimming across his field of view. He first thought it was a comet. The 'Eureka!' moment, if that's what it was, came weeks later when he discovered that it was a planet.

What is fascinating is that later in his life Hershel talks about his discovery of Uranus in same terms as Keats, surely the finest example of poetry expressing a scientific discovery.

I am indebted to tonight's BBC radio programme, 'Adventures in Poetry' by Peggy Renolds for relating the story.

Picture: Voyager 2 1986

Sad Girl and Her Acorn

2009-12-06T15:34:00.007Z

The sad girl thought about the acorn
she’d buried in the wet black peat;
her small treasure rotting in the unrelenting rain?

She thought about the lonely boy’s Lego
and into her dark, wet bog a pile of red and white blocks clattered.

Taking a single red block
soon huge,
white, asymmetric wings
pixilated out with tiny white bricks,
a fractal formula
(of six dimensions)
that grew soft warmth
till she lifted away
and the oak shed a pool of red leaves.

After watching the film, ‘Lilya4ever’ in Swedish by Lukas Moodysson, a relentlessly miserable story of Lilya, an Eastern European victim of sex trafficking.

The acorn is Swedish, the Lego Danish and the image from:
http://fc01.deviantart.net/fs15/f/2007/078/2/1/___White_Agel_Wings_1024x748___by_PinkMonkeyLove.jpg

FROM THE HUNGARIAN OF SANDOR FOLDALATTI translated by John Glendale

2009-11-25T09:10:00.005Z

I - BLUE

Blue: sweet colour of far away,
the colour of farewell, the colour
I remember from your eyes.

A childhood blue once trembled
where the city stutters
into dusty scrub and empty

marshalling yards.
The last grim veil of innocence
was blue.

If I were asked to construct
a world that wasn’t there,
I’d make its every surface

scrupulously blue
and you, the only
resident.

II - TODAY, I AM A NEW MAN

Today, I am a new man,
a stranger in the town that bore me.

How simple it is to become a ghost -
just one word, one gesture, and we slip

through the fretwork of other people’s lives
as easily as water through a stone.

Gradually, my heart sheds its weight,
this once familiar rock has hatched a swallow.

Just for today, if I were to pass myself in the street,
I wouldn’t even raise my hat, or say hello.

VI - REMEMBER THOSE WILD APPLES

Remember those wild apples
we would gather in the autumn, stained
with a half-faced blush, or the viridescent
shadow of a vanished leaf?
They clung to the early cold like a young girl’s heart.

Grandfather said they were all seeded
from that first tree God espaliered in Paradise;
its fruit so bitter, even Adam felt compelled
to spread softened honey on the flesh
before he could savour exile, and the world.

Author Note:

Sándor Foldalatti was born in Budapest on March 29th 1952. Since graduating from the University of Pezs with a combined Honours Degree in Fruit Husbandry and Applied Transport Mechanics, he has worked as a ticket collector on the Budapest underground. He is the author of two collections of poems: ‘The Straw Clock’ (Sobor Press, 1989) and ‘A Bicycle of Feathers’ (Ferihegy Books, 1995). He lives in a one bedroomed flat in central Budapest with his German wife Erika, five children, a large black dog, a three legged cat and a dwarf ocelot.

The translator would like to thank Janos Kukorelly, Director of Traffic Flow with the Hungarian State Subterranean Railways, for providing the literal translations from which these English versions derive.

Johnthebarman note:

Sandor's poems take me and tell me of places so close yet on the other side.
Tonight I hope to go to John Glendale's book launch in Edinburgh.

Song of the Moon, Rusalka's aria from Dvorak's Opera 'Rusalka'

2009-11-08T07:42:00.002Z

O moon high up in the deep, deep sky,

Your light sees far away regions,

You travel round the wide,

Wide world peering into human dwellings

O, moon, stand still for a moment,

Tell me, ah, tell me where is my lover!

Tell him. please, silvery moon in the sky,

That I am hugging him firmly,

That he should for at least a while

Remember his dreams!

Light up his far away place,

Tell him, ah, tell him who is here waiting!

If he is dreaming about me,

May this remembrance waken him!

O, moon, don't disappear, disappear!

Translation by Jules Brunelle (brunellejules@videotron.ca)

Mesiku na nebi hlubokem
Svetlo tvé daleko vidi, 
Po svete bloudis sirokém,
Divas se v pribytky lidi.
Mesicku, postuj chvili
reckni mi, kde je muj mily
Rekni mu, stribmy mesicku,
me ze jej objima rame,
aby si alespon chvilicku
vzpomenul ve sneni na mne.
Zasvet mu do daleka,
rekni mu, rekni m kdo tu nan ceka!
O mneli duse lidska sni,
at'se tou vzpominkou  vzbudi!    
Mesicku, nezhasni, nezhasni!

Unnatural Death

2009-10-30T04:40:00.006Z

Goya 1808

They shot the six ministers at half-past six in the morning against the wall of a hospital. There were pools of water in the courtyard. There were wet dead leaves on the paving of the courtyard. It rained hard. All the shutters of the hospital were nailed shut. One of the ministers was sick with typhoid. Two soldiers carried him downstairs and out into the rain. They tried to hold him up against the wall but he sat down in a puddle of water. The other five stood very quietly against the wall. Finally the officer told the soldier it was no good trying to make him stand up. When they fired the first volley he was sitting in the water with his head on his knees.

from In Our Time by Ernest Hemingway

Great-hearted Tydeides, why enquirest thou of my generation? Even as are the generations of leaves such are those likewise of men; the leaves that by the wind scattereth on the earth, and the forest buddeth and putteth forth more again, when the season of spring is at hand; so of the generations of men one putteth forth and another ceaseth.

from Book VI of The Iliad, Before attacking Tydeides asks his opponent to identify himself and this is Glaukos's reply (Lang, Leaf, and Myers trans)

Matthias Grunewald about 1500

Carpet Bazaar

2009-10-25T09:50:00.013Z

Leave your shoes and cameras. Be absorbed in the bright magical patterns, as alive today as thirty centuries ago. Patterns within patterns. Motifs of trees and leaves repeated through the ages. Pink and yellow leaves of sycamore. Yellow willow blades and long brown pine needles in deep soft piles.

Pools of light radiate from the trees and an autumn sun choreographs a path as sun beams run along spider silk tightropes. By day walking among the carpets feeling the texture beneath my feet and passing the same place many times seeing more, the two sides to the leaves, two tones, two colours and how they dry curling upward and how more leaves are upside down. The smells change as one moves, transient subtle decays, exotic perfumes, the clamour of voices.

In those evenings I leave the bazaar, cross the Bosporus bridge to work the arc light for a dancer's performance, returning at night to sleep in a melon stall, behind the shutters in the pile of green melons.

Today is all wind and rain. The Sycamore leaves madly shake themselves to death, a dance of death as they brake free. Yesterday's yellow ash leaves like discarded fish bones are now only pale spines.

The 19th century rug is Persian with a Tree of Life pattern and made by the Baluch people.

http://www.persiancarpetguide.com/sw-asia/Rugs/Baluch/Guide_to_Baluch_Rugs.htm

http://www.rugs-oriental.net/persian-rugs.html

The rustling of the silk is discontinued,

Dust drifts over the courtyard,

There is no sound of foot-fall, and the leaves

Scurry into heaps and lie still,

And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them:

A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.

Liu Ch’e by Ezra Pound (post-Cathay)

Autumn evening walk on a Swedish shore.

2009-10-01T17:07:00.003Z

Ripples in the Baltic.

Rock and thin soil

emerge

from from glacial ice.

Birch and Pine

find peace

in the setting sun.

Depressed

2009-08-23T15:31:00.005Z

I am depressed.

-
My house of cards has blown down
from the draft of a closing door.
-
I walk, drink coffee, read a good novel but,
I am depressed.
-
Intimations of depression
often rise like waves
and pass.
-
Yesterday the wave crashed on the shore.
I am so cold, so depressed.
-
I gather wood for the stove and soon fill a creel.
A flickering flame becomes that homely fire
in a Bavarian wood, long ago,
where all my fairy tales are spent.
-
ЕВГЕНИЙ ОНЕГИН by А.С.Пушкин.
XXXVIII. XXXIX
-
Прогулки, чтенье, сон глубокой,Лесная тень, журчанье струй,Порой белянки черноокойМладой и свежий поцелуй,Узде послушный конь ретивый,Обед довольно прихотливый,Бутылка светлого вина,Уединенье, тишина:Вот жизнь Онегина святая;И нечувствительно он ейПредался, красных летних днейВ беспечной неге не считая,Забыв и город, и друзей,И скуку праздничных затей.
-
EUGENE ONEGIN by A. C. Pushkin.
XXXVIII. XXXIX Translated by Charles Johnston
-
Books, riding, walks, sleep heavy laden,
the shady wood, the talking stream;
sometimes from a fair black eyed maiden
the kiss where youth and freshness gleam;
a steed responsive to the bridle,
and dinner with a touch of idle
fancy, a wine serene in mood,
tranquillity, and solitude -
Onegin’s life, you see, was holy;
unconsciously he let it mount
its grip on him, forgot to count
bright summer days that passed so slowly,
forgot to think of towns and friends
and tedious means to festive ends.

John the Barman (poem by J)

2009-08-21T10:34:00.002Z

The only thing that stands between
the end of work and bed
is a man with eyes between
the back-sides of his head.
Just a dram,
a cup of tea
words that float within the sea
he swills with you
as time goes soft
productive plans that go aloft.
The horizontal barrier,
the bearded ouzo carrier
a cloven hoof, a missing tooth
the barman smiles again.

Dictatorship by Local Government on Isle of Barra, Scotland

2009-08-17T20:35:00.000Z

Failure of local grassroots democracy has left half of our island without an economic internet connection. Amongst other things it means we can only send a few pictures to our friends and relatives away or only listen to the odd music track after hours on line.

To provide the service requires only a days work and a little cash but we are kept begging while local goverment offices feed us their propoganda.

We have been forced to go to the European Parliament.

Please sign our online petition as we need numbers for this issue to be taken seriously. It will be passed to the Committee on Petitions at the European Parliament.

I will then be able to send great pictures to you all of the opening of the updated telephone exchange.

http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/betterbroadband/index.html

Her Little Birch Tree (poem, please comment)

2009-08-11T03:50:00.005Z

Yellow maple leaves are wet and brown.

earth sick, earth thick,

with rotting leaves.

A birch shines out of the decay,

brown skin uncurling to silvery white.

She planted it years ago and loves it.

Gently she peels the thin brown bark,

revealing, stroking the birch naked limbs,

surprisingly warm and breathing

through its many mouths.

She feels it sway rhythmically in the wind,

the wind in its branches through her fingers.

She listens to the whispering stories

in the sloughed off tatters of the year falling away.

There was one tree.

whose skin glowed silver and rosy dawn.

It was her serpent in her arms.

and when they kissed

she delighted in its tongue not forked.

Song of Songs in love they played,

writhing and jiving in the sun and wind.

till the glowing sunset when she eats

the last, sharp

red rowan fruits

and he wraps her, blushing, in his silver bark.

There was one tree.

A most feminine of trees.

Mobile Phone causes Airplane to Vanish?

2009-08-05T17:21:00.001Z

Shortly after the pilot transmitted this prop blade picture via his mobile phone the aircraft vanished from radar screens. Although this incident has been kept from the press for over a year I believe it is a scientific phenomena that should be explained. It may also give a clue to the whereabouts of the passengers.

Tom (and Sam) Circumnavigation of Skye by Kayak

2009-08-05T16:19:00.001Z

My son Tom celebrates start of Circumkayak of Skye

www.sustainableexpeditions.org

The Body Banquet, a poem by Carla Jetko

2009-08-04T16:32:00.005Z

I am a handful of soft, red fruit. I sit heavy waiting for you. Oozing sweetness, I sweat a love sweat. Crimson satined and chambered, I wait for the touch of the match, laying my tongue on the carpet like a fuse. I am a soft, red fruit exploding in your mouth. The taste of a Picasso painting, all bulls and warm blood. I have a roundness that your hands need. When I am touched I hold back, willing you to devour me, like Eskimos lapping up the still-beating heart of a seal kill. I am whole. I am naked. I am ready.

From 'The Body Banquet Poems' by Carla Jetko

http://redmilearchive.freeuk.com/jetko/index.htm

In the Forest.

2009-07-31T22:28:00.000Z

We bring on the gale,
the dark starless night.

No pools of sunshine or flickering light on the forest floor.
No singing birds.

They hang dead in line,
fluttering in the wind,

while above the trees take on a violent life.

Beauty is in the eye of the boulder

2009-07-21T12:33:00.004Z

redloheb-redloub nup

Georgia Caucasus-Shatili 1st June 2009

2009-07-19T07:50:00.013Z

6th to 12th century towers of Shatili, largely abandoned in the 1950s, painted by a local artist.

Pagan symbols? Please send me more information.

A recently renovated tower for tourists. Comfortable, romantic, affordable and you should book.

The sacred burial ground. No women allowed.

Flowers of Shatili

Hyoscyamus niger Henbane (poisonous)

Cynaoglossum officinale Hounds-Tongue

The new village built by Shevardnadze in 1950s (beautiful socialist architecture).

And on the other side of the road their byres and bee hives.

A large ferocious Caucasian dog. They guard flocks and homesteads and if a snarling, barking pack bounds towards you are so glad when the owner calls them off. This one guards the whole village but we played together. They don't always like being nasty.

Ref 'Georgia Brandt Travel Guide' by Tim Burford

Illustrated Love Poem 'Your Clouds Open' (please comment)

2009-07-13T01:07:00.014Z

Your clouds open,

bathing you in light.

Your Sea opens and through the sparkling cool green

I swim,
into your dark lens.

Then dry in the sun
watching you
open.

Water lily
in the coffee black loch
of my dark lens.

I rise at midnight
like the red moon,
float cream on sweet black coffee
and write,
for you.

White water lily is Nymphaea alba, Red one is the hybrid 'James Brydon'

'Love and Passion in Tantric Buddhist Art' by Nitin Kumar click below.
http://cosmiccoyote.multiply.com/journal/item/125/Love_and_Passion_in_Tantric_Buddhist_Art_by_Nitin_Kumar

Georgia Caucasus - Barisakho to Shatili

2009-07-06T08:47:00.017Z

Fantastic 6^th century tower blocks.

This was my destination, a few days walk from Barisakho but the road was still blocked by snow and it was still snowing at the Datvis-Jarvis Pass (2676m).

People said it was dangerous to attempt the road on foot and I waited a few days for the the road to be bull-dozed opened but it didn't happen so when I awoke to blue sky with high hopes I decided to go . Soon I met shepherds breakfasting in old Russian buildings and cheered by a horn of wine and a friendly welcome I was ready for anything.

Happy day! The road men had also set out to clear the road and gave me a lift up to their bull-dozer. This is our Russian van at at Gudani where we stopped for a smoke.

And this is the bull-dozer. I was told that you can self drive it if you are in trouble.

After a gentle trek up to the pass and fine mountain views I crossed into the next valley. The road had been cleared. Otherwise walking through deep drifts would have been very slow and difficult.

to be continued......

Nino, a Georgian Girl at Uplistsikhe Cave City

2009-07-04T15:18:00.004Z

“Nino Kipiani - a beautiful Georgian name, respectable parents with European tastes. What did it matter? Nino had fair skin, big laughing Caucasian eyes under long delicate lashes. Only Georgian girls have such sweet and gay eyes. No other girls, European or Asiatic. Delicate half-moon eyebrows and a Madonna’s profile. I was sad. The comparison made me feel melancholy. There are so many comparisons for a man of the Orient. But these women can only be likened to the Christian Mirjam, symbol of a strange and incomprehensible world.”

From ‘Ali and Nino’ by Kurban Said - a superbly romantic book.

Uplistsikhe Cave City is in Georgia near the Silk Road. It was a trading centre from about 5th century BC.

Photo 7 June 2009

Georgia Caucasus - Barisakho

2009-06-18T19:56:00.004Z

My first climb in the Caucasus. Clouds hid the summit of the pass and as I climbed the rain turned to hail. Thunder echoed round the hills. Briefly the summit cleared for this picture. After a slippery climb to the top I was rewarded with level ground, a break in the clouds and these magical old sycamore trees. Beyond were more remote mountains, valleys and paths to explore.

It wasn't all scary black and white. On the way up Caltha palustris and Primula burst into colour from the snow's meltwater.

From the snow an Aconite,

and at the summit this unidentified 'bluebell'.

Georgia Caucasus Trek, Shatili - Planning

2009-05-24T16:50:00.004Z

Last night and this morning I researched routes on Google Earth and manually transfered waypoints to my Geko GPS. It has almost driven me daft but a mistake could be dangerous.

*
Its too early in the season and the passes at about 3000m are snow covered, but that should make it more interesting. The advantage is that below the snow line I should find spring flowers.
This afternoon, with my son Tom's help, we successfully tried navigating round Fife.

*
Shatili picture is from http://www.paatu.ge/

Georgia 10 April 09. Hope for Peace?

2009-04-11T07:39:00.008Z

Lali Bezhanishvili looks at a portrait of her daughter, Eka, who died on April 9 1989 during the dispersal of the protest rally. (Photo by Temo Bardzimashvili for EurasiaNet)

GEORGIA: TBILISI PROTESTORS START STREET BARRICADES
Molly Corso and Elizabeth Owen 4/10/09

Hours after Georgian President Mikheil Saakashvili rejected the opposition’s ultimatum to step down, opposition leaders threatened to seize systematic control of the country using civil disobedience.

Opposition leaders announced a blockade of streets in front of parliament, the presidential residence and the Georgian Public Broadcasting headquarters every day between 3 pm and 9 pm in Tbilisi.

Levan Gachechiladze, the former presidential candidate, told EurasiaNet that the opposition plans to extend these blockades throughout the capital and, eventually, to the rest of the country until Saakashvili resigns.

At an afternoon briefing, National Security Council Secretary Eka Tkeshelashvili told reporters that the government "will not obstruct" protestors from closing the three roads, two of which are major thoroughfares.

"We will have to see for tomorrow how the situation develops," Tkeshalashvili said, noting that the government’s official policy is to allow people to demonstrate. "We are counting on the wisdom of our public as well." Uniformed police in the Georgian capital remain minimal, but alert.

Roughly 90 minutes into the blockade’s 6pm start on April 10, police had partly closed access to one of the blockaded roads, outside of Georgian Public Broadcasting. Yelling slogans, opposition supporters on foot and in cars were loosely grouped on the road outside the TV station, but did not extend much beyond the building.

Meeting with foreign journalists in his office, the Georgian president showed no sign of disquietude at the protests or the opposition’s demands. "I’ve been facing these ultimatums every other month for the past five years," Saakashvili said, calling the demonstrations a "normal part of the Georgian political scenery."

But while neither government nor opposition shows signs of acceding to the other side’s demands, Saakashvili and one opposition leader both are repeating calls for dialogue.

"The way forward is by sitting down together, by listening to one another," Saakashvili said. He listed the election code, constitutional amendments to increase parliament’s powers and the direct election of "some" mayors and "local government officials" as topics up for discussion. (A separate English-language statement specified direct election of the mayor of Tbilisi, now selected by the city council).

"This offer is real. This is profound. This is substantial," he continued, speaking in English. "And I’m sure that this will produce real results."

Within a few hours, Irakli Alasania, the leader of a moderate opposition coalition, publicly invited Saakashvili to a discussion with opposition leaders.

"[I want] to personally meet with him, to explain what is the base for the demand for early presidential elections, and, hopefully, this will be the opportunity for us all to sit down and calling from the street - and him calling from the presidential residency," Alasania, Georgia’s former United Nations ambassador, told journalists in a briefing room set up in a downtown Marriott Hotel.

National Security Council Secretary Tkeshelashvili told journalists after Alasania’s statement that while it is too early to comment on the offer. "Generally," the government has never been "restrained" from "open dialogue" with the opposition, Tkeshelashvili insisted, adding that the government does remain in some form of contact with the opposition, although those contacts have diminished since the April 9 protest began.

Aside from Alasania, opposition leaders gave little public sign of being ready for discussion with Saakashvili. Earlier such offers - to discuss the economic crisis, national security and election reform -- have also been rebuffed.

Former Foreign Minister Salome Zurabishvili told supporters in front of parliament that the only matter to discuss is Saakashvili’s resignation. Koba Davitashvili, leader of the People’s Party, also dismissed the offer, saying that Saakashvili "has nothing to do" with the economic crisis so there is no point in talking about it or other issues with him.

How long protestors will opt to see the blockade through remains open to conjecture. The number of rally participants outside parliament was noticeably less than on April 9, although the turnout was sufficient to close the street, Tbilisi’s central Rustaveli Avenue.

Stressing that there will be "enough" people to force Saakashvili to resign, former Parliament Speaker Nino Burjanadze told EurasiaNet that the opposition is not afraid to split up into three separate protests - one at each of the street barricades.

For now, if his reading material is any indication, the 41-year-old president looks set to wait the barricades out.

On his desk, alongside copies of Jane’s Defense Weekly, the Russian tabloid Moskovsky Komsomolyets and an iPod, lay "The Hole in the Flag," a non-fiction account of Romania’s transformation after its violent 1989 revolution. "Georgian democracy showed its maturity yesterday," he told reporters. Holding peaceful demonstrations without incident, he added, "was a major step forward."

Editor's Note: Molly Corso is a freelance reporter based in Tbilisi. Elizabeth Owen is EurasiaNet’s Caucasus news editor also based in Tbilisi.

Posted April 10, 2009 © Eurasianet
http://www.eurasianet.org

Hermaphrodite Alder, Alnus cordata

2009-04-08T11:27:00.000Z

Red female flower surrounded by male catkins.

The female flower becomes a cone.

Sea Beast

2009-04-05T11:33:00.001Z

After an early morning journey by sea,

for days I searched for a description

as even a camera

wouldn’t have captured that image.

The sea was a dark tough skin,

texture of leather.

I was trying to remember where I had seen anything like it.

so unblemished, so alive and rippling,

its folds and creases clean and new.

An awful animal,

a vast living surface,

healing immediately,

leaving no trace

of the passing ferry.

Alone in my kayak the fear would be real

but on the ferry I was safe

and would arrive on time

for another day.

Salix matsudana 'Tortuosa' in March

2009-03-27T12:18:00.003Z

Red pointed covers open and from beneith a delicate sheath male willow catkins emerge, expand and shed their pollen to the wind.

Birch Bark with Lenticel Eyes (please comment)

2009-03-15T14:47:00.009Z

In Spring

a snake

awakes

and sheds its thin paper skin,

paper thin

between

its world

and you.

Within are

pictures

images

mirages

waves.

Alexandria

unscrolls its runes.

A Charm of Goldfinch on Barra

2009-03-09T18:15:00.000Z

Charming, pretty birds but they name call and get quite aggressive.

Poem for Rexroth's Daughter (please comment)

2009-02-20T04:27:00.009Z

I'd been talking to Rexroth's daughter; a friend of a friend of mine.

She said she saw me
way out in the far north west
reciting poems to the sea
where poems find their rest.

She saw a stormy headland
only a few stones high
but far it reached into the storm,
big waves playing with the sky.

From ancient graves the wind it blew
voices of sailors gone
and women screamed like gulls
an endless magic song…….

Ssnowy peaks above the clouds
gave ‘Psyche!’ as the toast
and kneeling at her crystal font
uisge fuar slaked their throats.

And from that empty corrie
was birthed a trickling song
which breathless through the forest
danced with us along.

She asked, ‘What were your poems,
intoned to the waves?’
But all that I could answer was,
‘Completely blown away.’

Gaelic: uisge fuar - water cold uisge beatha - water of life - whisky

Greg Brown’s Rexroth’s Daughter poem http://ag.arizona.edu/~steidl/GB/RexrothsDaughter.txt

Poem: Myself (please comment)

2009-01-11T10:54:00.004Z

Today I am

the sacred peaks,

the melting snow,

a sparkling stream

at which you kneel and drink.

I am the breathing forest

and the empty corrie.

Touch me,

Like clouds

touch the mountains.

Dance with me,

like wind whips

waves to rise

in mountain peaks.

Intone your poems

on a wind

that silences the waves

in pure and endless dance.

Poem: Exquisite pain sings in my brain (please comment)

2008-12-07T12:35:00.003Z

At night within a mountain town
of dark and empty streets

from an upstairs room

a lone piano

echoes

songs of loss.

Echoes louder and louder still.

Painfully loud,

its strings,

my strings...

And your train

slowly, slowly, pulls away,

tearing my mind.

Exquisite pain sings in my brain

Poem: Paradise (please comment)

2008-11-08T08:27:00.005Z

Feet hidden in autumn leaves,

suddenly paradise.

Quiet and calm,

the light soft,

lighting a maple’s golden crown.

Trees, small plants and mosses

filled my vision all around

as earthly fragrance filled the air.

Yet thoughts were sharp.

“I’m in my wood

at the place where yellow poppies bloom.

Paradise, a rare coincidence

of space and time,

cold fusion in the inner world.”

I am reminded

of autumn in the Tatra,

when,

The Narrow Path

through rowans and birches

paused,

and turned

to face deep wooded valleys

and snowy peaks.

And on that magic rocky ledge,

We shared our joy,

a butterfly and I.

Poem: An Electromagnetic Bell in the Theatre (please comment)

2008-10-28T10:54:00.005Z

An electromagnetic bell rings:

in the ornate

nearly empty auditorium,

in the bar

where patrons perform set pieces,

in the cloak room

where fine furs hang patiently,

and dressing rooms

where nervous actors wait.

It rings again,

a final call.

The ringing stops.

The clapper’s silent

oscillations die.

Tantra Tatra (Thomas Merton)

2008-10-22T06:28:00.005Z

Be still.
Listen to the stones of the wall.
Be silent, they try
to speak your

name.
Listen
to the living walls.

Who are you?
Who
are you? Whose
silence are you?

Who (be quiet)
are you (as these stones
are quiet). Do not
think of what you are
still less of
what you may one day be.

Rather
be what you are (but who?)
be the unthinkable one
you do not know.

O be still, while
you are still alive,
and all things live around you

speaking (I do not hear)
to your own being,
speaking by the unknown
that is in you and in themselves.

“I will try, like them
to be my own silence:
and this is difficult. The whole
world is secretly on fire. The stones
burn, even the stones they burn me.
How can a man be still or
listen to all things burning?
How can he dare to sit with them
when all their silence is on fire?”

In Silence by Thomas Merton

Tantra Tatra Oct 2008

2008-10-20T14:12:00.000Z

What to say, when words follow so far behind.

Poem: Viking Shipwreck on a Scottish Island (please comment)

2008-06-15T15:47:00.024Z

Twice daily
on that desert isle
the mighty prow,
the dragon’s head,
festooned with sea wrack,
rises,
revealing,
exposed,
by ebbing tide,
a sinuous vision
of massive wooden ribs,
comfortably bedded,
diagonally rested,
in gentle curves
across the long white strand.

It voyages on,
a solid vessel,
of heavy, blackened planks
four inches thick,
grafted to ribs
by one inch doméd dowels,
a hallowed hull
in a timeless sea.

Collapsing cliffs of sand enclose the beach and from their edge hangs matted yellowed grass, coconut hair waving in the wind, hiding so many shrunken, blackened skulls, watching. Watching the caressing tide return to kiss each rib in little lapping waves, till only the prow remains and like a seal’s bobbing head is gone, submerged again in silence, sea and sand beneath a headland where wind and currents rule the dark green sea.

I paddled to the island and stayed the night, returning a week later to take the photos, though this time the tide wasn’t low enough to expose all the ship. I would like to find out more information on this shipwreck but here are a few references with pictures of Viking ships:

http://www.vikinganswerlady.com/scotland.shtml
http://www.mariner.org/exploration/index.php?type=shiptype&id=20

If you liked my poem then you will like this one by Robert Stephen Hawker. As with the wreck I’ve just discovered it.

The Figure-Head of the Caledonia at her Captain's Grave.

We laid them in their lowly rest,
The strangers of a distant shore;
We smoothed the green turf on their breast,
'Mid baffled Ocean's angry roar;
And there, the relique of the storm,
We fixed fair Scotland's figured form.

She watches by her bold, her brave,
Her shield towards the fatal sea:
Their cherished lady of the wave
Is guardian of their memory.
Stern is her look, but calm, for there
No gale can rend or billow bear.

Stand, silent image! stately stand,
Where sighs shall breathe and tears be shed,
And many a heart of Cornish land,
Will soften for the stranger dead.
They came in paths of storm; they found
This quiet home in Christian ground.

Robert Stephen Hawker

"Parson Hawker,” as he was known to his parishioners, was something of an eccentric, both in his clothes and his habits. He loved bright colours and it seems the only black things he wore were his socks. He built a small hut (that became known as Hawker's Hut) from driftwood on the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, where he spent many hours writing his poems and smoking opium. This driftwood hut is now the smallest property in the National Trust portfolio. Other eccentricities included dressing up as a mermaid and excommunicating his cat for mousing on Sundays. He dressed in claret-coloured coat, blue fisherman's jersey, long sea-boots, a pink brimless hat and a poncho made from a yellow horse blanket, which he claimed was the ancient habit of St Pardarn. He talked to birds, invited his nine cats into church and kept a huge pig as a pet.
The Harvest Festival that we know today was introduced in the small village of Morwenstow in 1843 by Hawker. He invited his parishioners to a Harvest service. He wanted to give thanks to God for providing such plenty in a more fitting way. This service took place on the 1st of October and bread made from the first cut of corn was taken at communion.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Stephen_Hawker

Aphids suck the Sycamore

2008-06-04T16:08:00.004Z

The weather has been unusualy hot and sunny for about six weeks and I’ve been busy in the garden, most recently watering the vegetables every day but yesterday I sat and relaxed among the trees…… hearing the occasional gentle rustle of the breeze in the birches and the ‘shush’ from the pine, sounds and memories of happy days.

I am beneath two tall birches, tiny leaves on delicate wands waving in the blue sky casting flickering shadows on my note book. One has two trunks like the DNA double spiral. Through the darkness of a pine I see a bloom, purple, deep and silent on a Rhododendron. The air too is deep scented with bluebell, lavender and pine. Aphids suck the sycamore. Two Polish lads finish mending the road and drive away and there is birdsong and the occasional gentle rustle of the breeze in the birches and the ‘shush’ from the pine. I could easy breathe more of Endymion’s narcotic scent to sleep again in Grecian moonlit hills, where fragrant pines say, ‘shush’.

We go away and the world becomes itself. In meditation or wild places sometimes we are surprised finding each other being ourselves. Goldfinch are beside me. Time to go..... but how long would it take to reach enlightenment; the life of a tree or the days of the restless flies. Voracious caterpillars seem too busy eating and yet they are transformed. A hover fly makes an urgent buzz. Two bubble bees hum purposefully. A wasp, quiet as a tiger, flies low through the tall buttercups.

Poem: Fritillaria meleagris

2008-06-04T15:29:00.007Z

from the dark earth

these native lilies

offer life games

on purple boards

Still Life

2008-06-04T13:42:00.001Z

Kayaking Expedition in Scotland

2008-05-08T20:10:00.005Z

My son Tom has just started on a kayaking expedition in the Outer Hebrides (also known as the Western Isles) off the NW coast of Scotland. He has written about it on his blog,

tomthehaggis.blogspot.com

Poem: Velicky stit in Tatra Mountains (my painting)

2007-12-23T16:57:00.001Z

A Larch in the Tatra

Her rust rosettes were veiled in pure, soft snow
and in the mist and silence,
she whispered,
‘Write for me!’

And because I loved her
and she was alone
and with no voice
I wrote,

‘I am waiting
in the dark forest of pine and spruce
till spring to give you:
bursting rosettes of young love,
joy in new life,
then summer sun and sparkling waterfall,
your princess of ‘The Emerald Lake.’

‘The lake freezes.
Icicles grow by the waterfall
and my needles lie on the snow.’

My Reply

Though torn by winter wind
we reach to sunlit snowy peaks.

My path, vertiginous,
lies along a ridge.

Your Way is not along a path,
unless it be by tracks of little creatures
or the bird that flies to your branches.

Rocks, fallen trees, deep snow
lie between us.

My green eyed princess,
we shared the fireworks
of spring, the sparkling waterfall.

Now winter freezes my blood
and your needles
lie on the snow,
bleeding a rusty juice.

Poem: Reply to the Larch

2007-11-21T12:01:00.001Z

Silence and Mist surround us
as I reach for you.

Rough marriage with The Winter Wind
has shaped your unique beauty
silent and serene,

though in a summer breeze
your flouncy branches bounced with joy.

I cannot touch, for in-between
and hidden in deep snow are rocks and fallen trees.
There is no path.

The Way,
The Way to you

is not along a path,
unless it be by tracks of creatures
or a bird that flies into your branches.

Remember spring.
We met with
bursting green rosettes.

Joy in life renewed,
my princess of ‘The Emerald Lake’,
now your needles lie on the snow
and bleed
a rusty juice.

The Winter Wind freezes my blood.
Silence and Mist surround us.

Poem: A Larch in the Tatra (please comment)

2007-11-02T18:20:00.001Z

Her rust rosettes were veiled in pure, soft snow.
Weeping she said,
‘Write for me!’

And because I loved her
and she was alone
and with no voice
I wrote,

‘I wait in the dark green forest of spruce and pine
till spring to give you:
bursting rosettes of young love,
joy in new life,
then summer sun and sparkling waterfall,
your princess of The Emerald Lake.’

‘Now, too soon the lake is frozen
and white with snow.
Icicles grow by the waterfall
And my needles lie on the snow.’

A Fern Sporangia

2007-09-06T20:37:00.000Z

Looking through a binocular microscope
at a fern frond
in reflected light

I saw the outer ring of a sporangia;

a golden broken annulus,
segmented centipede of a dozen single cells
curling back upon itself
as did its own fern crosier before
and underneath each fractal frond
beneath
those white black holes,
dark sporangia
on slender stalks
each with an explosive golden belt,
an annulus
dehiscing haploid spores.

picture thanks to Cornell University

Foxglove

2007-05-31T16:23:00.000Z

Heart of the wood,
this foxglove,
whose softly sensual mouths,
forgiving as dune sand,
are an enchanting choir,
enticing one in,
to the silence,
within.

Where each reveals,
on softest,
finest,
purple velum,
abstract patterns,
of dark forms,
haloed in light.

The wood is dark and green,
leaves various and fragrant.
My fur is red, sleek
and smells of life.

I listen,
and with a paw, I reach and touch,

then trot away.

Then Violets Bloom

2007-05-10T17:23:00.000Z

Then Violets bloom
From the hard rock
Awakening me.

Three Billion years,
Within a lifeless Earth
Deep, dark and hot,
Slowly was I,
In nightmare
Stretched and kneaded,
Wrought and wrung
To seaside rock-
‘Lewisian Gneiss’, *
Through and through,
Hard, cold and crystalline…..

Half a Million years ago,
Glacial ice
Licked my surface smooth,
Sculpting me to gentle curves.

Suddenly,

Explosions,
Shatter everything.
Make a cutting.
Build a road…..

Twelve more years
And in the cracks
Appear first ferns.

Then Violets bloom.
And from grey branches in the wood
Strange insects extend green wings,
As Elm buds
First reaching down,
Then up,
Are insects ready to fly,
Unfurling,
Into a forest of cherry blossom,
And birdsong.

*Gneiss is a hard, highly metamorphic rock, like granite but banded.

Snowdrops

2007-02-22T12:24:00.000Z

The evening sun just right

That foamy waves are brilliant white.
They break along a long slow curve

Towards a darkening sky.

Then sea grows dismal dark
Till moonlight lights on quiet waves
And slowly in the wood
From darkness
Little armies of white spears appear

As snowdrops swell to softest white
Bending and opening to the light.

Jungles of Imagination

2007-02-22T11:35:00.000Z

The Dream by Henri Rousseau, 1910 Oil on Canvas 6ft x 5ft; Museum of Modern Art, New York.

When my wife told me that at school she’d painted a Rousseau like jungle mural I returned to that magic jungle, for also on the bare block walls of my secondary school was a painting, a jungle of leaves and animals, (Rousseau like I now know).

Each day it offered an escape.

The girl artist I can’t remember, except that she was shy and part of adventure as we chased through well remembered school woods.

Now I live with my wife in my own wood rather like those remembered school woods though wilder. I have visited jungles in Nepal, Malaysia and Australia but the jungle of the imagination in those pictures has been a guiding dream, an image of escape from the mundane to the exciting.

Henri Rousseau was a customs officer in France and never visited a jungle.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henri_Rousseau

Winter Day, January 07, 2007

2007-01-07T18:31:00.000Z

Today, a brief winter day, we were together in my southern window, two small dark clouds in a grey sky but then the window filled with colour, a cloud all bright in orange and red as the sun rose and all day the sky was full of colour.

Outside in the quiet I talked to you as I moved rocks in a wheelbarrow, placing them around a favourite Cherry tree, ‘Taihaku’, to stop it falling in the rain and gales that sweep through the trees in winter. I was telling you about the cherry season in Japan and the admiration they had for their trees, but also I was seeing again those blossoms, such a delicate delight bursting from the bare brown wood.

Then I dug up all the brambles around my fruit bushes and strawberries and you were still with me.

Next I took a basket and axe to gather dead wood for the evening fire and picked some vegetables and wild toadstools. (Flammulina velutipes)

And as the sky gave a quiet, final, glorious glow I returned home to light my stove.

Winter Brambles

2006-12-21T13:41:00.000Z

Bramble stems in leaf,
untidy lines of a poem
with hooked thorns
snagging clothes and hands,
older stems, purple as wet ink,
spreading through trees
and over dried leaves.

Today I’ve cut them to the ground,
till my old dry hands too dripped bloody ink.

So now from easy garden paths
trees are skeletal, architectural.

But Wild and Waiting
the brambles soon regrow,
to grasp and bind and pierce
and make their presence felt.

Pizza Express

2006-12-15T14:13:00.000Z

I was waiting for my wife
in this empty restaurant
intensely reading.

The erotic book was “Written on the Body” by Jeanette Winterson,
and I’d identified with the narrator-

“Louise let me sail in you over these spirited waves.
I have the hope of a saint in a coracle”

My wife had surprised me
when she said the narrator was a woman.
I couldn’t believe it.

Looking for clues I finish the book.
There is no evidence,
either way,
the waiter smiles.