The Red Table - Haiku Mind

A round tuit. What does that look like? I know what it feels like when I don’t get around to doing something that I should have done days, weeks, months ago -  frustrated with myself.

For nearly two weeks I have been struggling with a fold-up red table that has become unstuck at one of its main struts. I use it every day, and so have spent many minutes realigning a metal rod through both struts and then replacing the unstuck strut only to have it fall apart the next time I use it.

Today, I opened my copy of “Haiku Mind” to this Gary Snyder poem:

“After weeks of watching the roof leak
I fixed it tonight
by moving a single board”.

I love both the literal and metaphorical interpretations. And so within ten minutes and a small amount of glue the table is mended.

 

Now what else do I need to get around to…

Live in the Layers

In September 2011 a massive felling operation started in the forest where I live. I understand that pine trees are regarded as a crop and that harvest time had approached. However, it was still hard to watch a landscape I was so accustomed to, change so drastically.

 

During the cutting many of the small paths were ploughed up and widened, and, in my opinion, spoiled. These paths were my familiar running routes and for a long while I couldn’t bear to run on them, to such an extent that some parts of the forest became like a stranger to me. This September I decided that, for better or worse, I would reacquaint myself with the changed forest. My decision was inspired  and supported by these lines from a Stanley Kunitz poem - “live in the layers not on the litter”.

About his own work, Kunitz has said: “The poem comes in the form of a blessing—‘like rapture breaking on the mind,’ as I tried to phrase it in my youth. Through the years I have found this gift of poetry to be life-sustaining, life-enhancing, and absolutely unpredictable. Does one live, therefore, for the sake of poetry? No, the reverse is true: poetry is for the sake of the life.”

Stanley Kunitz

The Layers   I have walked through many lives, some of them my own, and I am not who I was, though some principle of being abides, from which I struggle not to stray. When I look behind, as I am compelled to look before I can gather strength to proceed on my journey, I see the milestones dwindling toward the horizon and the slow fires trailing from the abandoned camp-sites, over which scavenger angels wheel on heavy wings. Oh, I have made myself a tribe out of my true affections, and my tribe is scattered! How shall the heart be reconciled to its feast of losses? In a rising wind the manic dust of my friends, those who fell along the way, bitterly stings my face, Yet I turn, I turn, exulting somewhat, with my will intact to go wherever I need to go, and every stone on the road precious to me. In my darkest night, when the moon was covered and I roamed through wreckage, a nimbus-clouded voice directed me: “Live in the layers, not on the litter.” Though I lack the art to decipher it, no doubt the next chapter in my book of transformations is already written. I am not done with my changes.

Stanley Kunitz - life-long gardener I would love to know what "live in the layers, not on the litter" means to you.

When is a Blackbird not a Black Bird - Pantoum

For some time now I have been catching sight of a blackbird that has a flash of white around the tail feathers. Yesterday I decided to look up any information there might be about this phenomenon. The following comes from the British Trust for Ornithology website. http://www.bto.org/

Across the country, people have been seeing Blackbirds with strange white markings. The condition, typically referred to as ‘leucism’, is one of a number of plumage abnormalities to have been reported through the BTO Abnormal Plumage Survey, preliminary results from which have just been published. In less than a month, the survey has clocked up nearly 700 sightings, encompassing more than 35 different species. Three quarters of records have been of leucistic birds and, of these, nearly half have been Blackbirds. Leucistic birds may be confused with albino individuals, but the latter have pink, instead of dark eyes, and only account for 12% of survey records to date.It is not yet clear why Blackbirds appear to be particularly affected. It could be that they are unusually susceptible to the condition. However, being black or, in the case of female Blackbirds dark brown, any light-coloured feathers show up particularly clearly. Indeed, several other species with all-black, or mostly black, plumage have been spotted with white feathers fairly often, including Carrion Crow (49 records) and Jackdaw (40).

from the British Trust for Ornithology January 2012



A few years ago a persistent blackbird came pecking at the window. My old border collie, Gwen was in the final days of her life. I used the old myth about birds tapping windows being an omen of death, to write this poem in the form of a pantoum. 

Blackbird

The blackbird came to call the week she died,
knocking his golden beak against the pane.
Insistent to be heard he left his mark
in streaks of hieroglyphs across the glass.

Knocking his golden beak against the pane,

I thought the storm had sent the wind chimes wild.
In streaks of hieroglyphs across the glass,
I read his ragged black edged calling card.

I thought the storm had sent the wind chimes wild,

but tapping his urgent message was the bird.
I read his ragged black edged calling card.
I knew the time had come to bear the blow

but tapping his urgent message was the bird,

a script time writes and has the final word.
I knew the time had come to bear the blow
like death a deadline desperate to be met.

A script time writes and has the final word,

insistent to be heard he left his mark.
Like death a deadline desperate to be met,
the blackbird came to call the week she died.

The Pantoum tradition as a poem first appeared in France, in the work of Ernest Fouinet in the nineteenth century. Victor Hugo and Charles Baudelaire made the form fashionable. The Pantoum's name and form derive from the Malayan pantun.  Historically, the Pantoum became popular in Europe and later North America in the nineteenth and especially the twentieth century.

In a Pantoum :

- The lines are grouped into quatrains (4-line stanzas)

- Lines may be of any length.

- Pantoums can be written in free verse, metered or rhyme 

- The final line of the Pantoum is the same as its first line (opinions differ on this)

- The Pantoum says everything twice.

- A Pantoum has any number of quatrains.

Although there is no length restriction to a pantoum, they are generally kept within a few verses - five to seven stanzas.

The pantoum can be very effective for conveying emotional subject matter.

This shows the pantoum's repeating format:

Stanza One – Line1, 2, 3, 4
Stanza Two – Line 2, 5, 4, 6
Stanza Three – Line 5, 7, 6, 8
Stanza Four – Line 7, 9, 8, 10
Stanza Five – Line 9, 3, 10, 1

THE 2^nd AND 4^th LINES MOVE UP A POSITION IN EACH NEW STANZA

Ideally, the meaning of lines shifts when they are repeated although the words remain exactly the same: this can be done through punctuation, punning or re-contextualising. Each line means something slightly different in its second context.

The pantoum's repetition and circular quality give it a mystical chant like feeling. Its cut-up lines break down linear thought.

Sacredness of Tears

"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love".

Washington Irving

 

Today's NaBlMoPo is to write about the last time I cried. The answer is that I don't remember. Not because it is a rare occurrence. I attach no judgment to crying or not crying. Like Joni Mitchell says in her song, "People's Parties" - "laughing and crying...it's the same release".

Wild Horses in The Rhondda

This is a poem I wrote for my father.



War Paint

I remember your stories told only to me

in the darkness we shared before sleep.
Of souls loving the untamed land,
of feather and bones, and paint made from the earth.

I dreamed then, of wild places, of horses

the colour of prairie rainbows,
a line of warrior joining earth with sky.

The circle of years brought us to barren land. 

We fought, rattling like empty pods,
war paint dripping in the blaze of an angry sun.

Returning home after your sudden death,

you had left one moccasin lying in the dark.
I wept then for the endings I would miss,
and those shared wild places of our separate hearts.

 

A Great Place to Read - Poets House, NYC

Reading has always been something of an obsession. My parents were not avid readers although they read to me and taught me to read before I went to school.When I was ten I went to the local library during the school holidays and chose my books, went home and read them. I returned to the library later that day to choose more. The librarian thought that because I was bringing the books back on the same day I couldn't have read them. She told me to stop messing her about and to make sure I chose books I would actually read. I don't remember if I told her that I had read them. I just remember the frustration of being misread. Thankfully, she didn't put me off libraries.

My father often took me to the local working men's club where they had a library for members. It was from here that I got my first copy of "The Ragged Trousered Philanthropist".

I usually have three or four books on the go at any one time, as well as a couple of audio books. I also have a Kindle which is like my travelling library.

Poets House in NYC is an amazing place to go to read poetry. It is free and open to the public. It has a national archive of 50,000 volumes of poetry. The Reed Foundation Library at Poets House includes books, chapbooks, literary journals and the Axe-Houghton Multimedia Archive. It is the largest and most comprehensive independent poetry collection available to the public in open stacks anywhere in the USA.



 

Library and Reading Room at Poets House, NYC

At Poets House, poets and poetry lovers can read, work on their computers using free WiFi, listen to poetry on tape, watch poetry video, view art exhibitions or attend a workshop or reading. An extensive network of support services includes reference materials, low-cost photocopying and the help of a professional staff. An active bulletin board and material from literary organizations around the country make Poets House a clearinghouse for information about poetry and poetry resources.

http://poetshouse.org/

"The End of his Triumph" - Jack Gilbert

Poet Jack Gilbert 1925-2012

I have just learned that one of my favourite poets, Jack Gilbert, died a few days ago. A few years ago he was interviewed by Sarah Fay in The Paris Review. This was the introduction:

      

"On the rare occasions when Jack Gilbert gives public readings—whether in New York, Pittsburgh, or San Francisco—it is not unusual for men and women in the audience to tell him how his poems have saved their lives. At these gatherings, one may also hear wild stories about Gilbert: he was a junkie, he was homeless, he was married numerous times. In reality, he has never been addicted to drugs, has been impoverished but never homeless, and was married only once. The fascination with Gilbert is a response, above all, to the power of his poetry, but it also reflects the mystique of a life lived utterly without regard for the conventions of literary fortune and fame".

Today's NaBloMoPo prompt was to talk about the opening of my favourite book. The challenge for me would have been to choose that one favourite book. Reading through the interview with Jack Gilbert, I came upon this:

INTERVIEWER: Can you name some of your early influences?

     GILBERT: Almost any book in the library—knights saving ladies, cowboys trying to kill the bad guy. I just devoured books; each new story opened a new vista.

Poets like Jack Gilbert open up such vistas. Here is one of my favourite poems that he wrote.

Failing and Flying

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.

 

Ekphrastic Poetry

 Ekphrasis or ecphrasis is the graphic description of a visual work of art. In ancient times it referred to a description of any thing, person, or experience. The word comes from the Greek ek and phrasis, 'out' and 'speak' respectively, verb ekphrazein, to proclaim or call an inanimate object by name.

Ekphrastic poetry is the conversation between two pieces of art. The writer interprets a work of visual art and then creates a narrative in verse form that represents his or her reaction to that painting, photograph, sculpture or other artistic creation.

This is a poem I wrote from "The Hallucinogenic Toreador” by Salvador Dali

Lost Boy

O lost boy

O blue boy
Cornered
with your horn.
An army of flies,
a pestilence
heading your way.

Venus is armless,

expressionless.
Bears herself back
into a mist of time
she has no memory of.
How could she
hold on
to any
recollections?

Do you see it all?

The body in flames
beating its own retreat,
the coloured charms
raining down,
the molten pool?

There is a bridge

on some horizon.
Statued
between arches
are gods and heroes.

Lost

blue boy,
step across
the abyss
of your heart.
Your future face
is golden.

Creative Writing and Dementia

I have just got back from a very stimulating training day provided by Bangor University, in partnership with Literature Wales at Ty Newydd, as part of their Creative Writing & Dementia Programme. The training is for creative writers to work directly with care home residents who have been diagnosed with Dementia.

John Killick did the morning presentation and workshop. John is a freelance writer who works with people with dementia by recording their conversations, and with their permission, writes and publishes their words in poetic fashion.

In the evening John presented and read poetry that had emerged from his work with persons with dementia. This was an extremely uplifting and inspiring experience.

www.dementiapositive.co.uk

 This is a poem I wrote about my grandmother who had dementia in the later stages of her life.

 Last Orders

Those final years

you kept The Colliers Arms,
bartered pale ale
for piano lessons
from the self taught drunk
banging the bar
for one more tuneful pint.

You never relished calling time,

turning out familiar faces,
emptying their dregs,
tables sticky with spills,
spit in the sawdust.

That August,

strident with missed notes,
I stood beside your bed,
turned pages while you read
the score like Braille.
All sense of timing lost,
those soured slops of days.

The Sketchbook Project - "Milltir Sgwar / Square Mile"

“It's like a road trip, but with sketchbooks”.

 “The Sketchbook Project is a global, crowd-sourced art project where participants from all walks of life are sent a sketchbook … fill the pages and return it for inclusion in a traveling exhibition and permanent collection at The Brooklyn Art Library. Anyone – from anywhere in the world – can participate in the project."

During my annual visit to New York, I visited the Brooklyn Art Library in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. There I signed up to participate in their 2012 Sketchbook Project. You get a Moleskin sketchbook 5”x7”, and are then invited to respond to one of their many themes in any way you chose, regarding technique and materials. You can deconstruct and reconstruct the book if you wish but it must be returned the same height to fit their shelves. The term Sketchbook can indeed be interpreted very loosely and can be in any medium suitable to your own way of working .You also have the option to digitize your book which then becomes an online companion to the one in The Brooklyn Art Library.

I chose to work on the project with Welsh artist and printmaker, Linda Davies. Living in the forest as I do, one of their given themes seemed very fitting, and we decided on “A Path Through The Trees” as our working title.

As writer and artist, we have both previously incorporated the concept of Milltir Sgwar into our work.

“Milltir Sgwar/ Square Mile”is a phrase much used in Welsh to define your patch of land, the place that created you, the location that tugs your heartstrings when hiraeth – another uniquely Welsh concept for  a yearning that is tied to a particular place - kicks in.”

Although not the place of my birth, my deep connection with the forest, inspired me to focus on this immediate environment.

During the autumn of 2011, the forest I live in had undergone a massive harvesting programme which dramatically altered my close surroundings. With all of the pines cut down the aspect was opened up and light was let in but something impenetrable and mysterious was lost. I had to learn to live with a changed landscape, to reconcile myself to lost and altered paths. We set out to record and respond to these changes.

Book One – “A Path Through The Trees I"
 – was for the 2012 touring exhibition.
Work on Book One began with me taking a notebook when I ran in the forest to record my observations and emotional responses. Then Linda went walking with her camera and the words I had written, and recorded her own images, choosing those that best worked with my words. Images and words were collated and printed by hand using the paper lithography technique.Text was added through xerox transfer. The original sketchbook paper was removed and the book re-created with Somerset newsprint 300gram paper inserted into the original Moleskin cover. The cover was also printed on.

Book Two – “A Path Through The Trees II”
– was for the 2012 The Limited Edition Book Series 
“Every contributor to the Sketchbook Project Limited Edition Vol. 1 will be included in a series of art books documenting the project. Together, the series will provide insight into the imagination and process of each artist participating in the project. Bound by the Brooklyn Art Library Press and hand-finished in our Brooklyn workshop, the book series will be published in the fall of 2012”.
Book Two was a companion book to Book One, but this time Linda selected a range of photographs and I responded with words. Both books had a red elastic band around them lengthways. My post, often bound by a red elastic band, is delivered to a box attached to a tree and we often found these red bands during our field trips.

The format for both the books was a concertina artist's book to give a narrative to image and text.

Selected words and images

Book One

Unknown paths
taught me to be patient
and call lost by another name

Touch the gnarled bark
and think of everyone
you’ve ever loved

There is a peace amongst trees
that have lost all green
and are reconciled

Book Two

I cannot tell
if the fallen branch
feels less betrayed
than the felled

Cedar heart
with rippled
growth rings
your lifelines
rooted to cold earth

I look for you

in the runes
of scarred bark
the scattered leaves
my oracle

http://www.arthousecoop.com/projects/sketchbookproject2012

Long Pale Corridors

I have just picked up a message left earlier today by a very close friend. She tells me that her father died yesterday. There is so much sorrow in her voice, heart and soul saturated with sadness. Her mother died some years ago and, like me, she has no siblings. The burden of loss is all hers.

My mother died in 1996. I stayed with her for the last three days as she faded away.  It was a wrenching loss. My world literally tipped up on its axis and I lost my balance. My father died in 1997. This often happens. One partner dies and the other dies soon after.

I had strange thoughts. It felt disloyal to be still in the world when they had both left it. They were unconditional in their love. They were my points of reference.

An anthology of poems about bereavement out at the time was called “The Long Pale Corridor”. This felt such an apt title. I found my grief exhausting and isolating. I needed to read and re-read poems like this one by Tony Harrison. They didn’t make me more sad; they were a comfort and company on the journey

Long Distance ii

Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas,
put hot water bottles her side of the bed
and still went to renew her transport pass.

You couldn't just drop in. You had to phone.
He'd put you off an hour to give him time
to clear away her things and look alone
as though his still raw love were such a crime.
He couldn't risk my blight of disbelief
though sure that very soon he'd hear her key
scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.
He knew she'd just popped out to get the tea.

 I believe life ends with death, and that is all.
You haven't both gone shopping; just the same,
in my new black leather phone book there's your name

and the disconnected number I still call.

 So the prompt for today is “Right now, what would I change about my life?” Easy.  I would like my parents back.

Gwen and the Yellow Flower

Sunday, 17 January 2010




















For some time now I have seen my lovely old dog Gwen become more frail and sick. Her spirit has always been strong and part of my deep sadness was witnessing her determination to survive.















Grief is an Open Door
(for Gwen)

Look in and see all
that has been.
I took love in through
your flame and fed its fire.
The crimson rowan berries
that lined our path,
sweet fallen plums
and soured apples.
The hunger for it all.

Look out and see all
that is.
The oak tree, bare now
with crow its one dark leaf
ready to fly.
And you, my beloved,
like the one yellow flower
that refuses to yield
until it is time.





After the recent harsh frost and heavy snow the flower wilted. Gwen finally succumbed and died yesterday, January 16 2010.
Posted by Jill Teague at 14:39 0 comments

Fallen Plums

Today
I collected the plums,
fallen without sound
into the tall grass.
One half
was sweet with ripeness,
the other soured green.
My tongue
sprung
alive to the wholeness.