What is this all about?

Welcome to the Marcist Agenda.

It’s all about –

POETRY – My latest poetry collection, Marcism Today, is available at Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk Marcism Today front cover

PHOTOGRAPHY – I want to share images , from day to day life, work (and other) travels, sometimes landscapes, sometimes people or animals, and also quirky little things, odd angles, that catch my eye, and might please yours? More of these can be found on our website at http://www.thestudioatpenrallt.co.uk

HELEN CAREY’S BOOKS – And finally, I want to direct you towards the work of my favourite writer, my wife Helen Carey, because, if you like what I write – you’ll LOVE what she writes! see Helen’s page here on this blog.

So, here it is, The Marcist Agenda – please read on, hope you will enjoy and be stimulated by what you see and I would very much like to hear back from you on what you read.

Faster than a herd of turtles! Cheers! Marc


One hundred years ago – a lesson

August 4th 2014
My love lies sleeping in France
Whilst I walk the ancient parish boundaries here
Allegiances, ancient, modern too
Avowed.
Revelling in the
Summertime sun dance,
Though
The sunset tonight
Settles westwards
Muted by low cloud.

As the lights in our small seawards town
Were subdued
Laid down,
The ghosts of a century
Long passed
Screeled and swirled,
Banshees twisted
Twirled
Sighed amidst the chatter of the Information Age,
Which rolled and frolicked,
As noisy as any machine gun clatter.

The Last Post
Omnipresent,
Poignantly abundant.
Peace talks now,
As then,
Redundant.

37 days in 1914
26 in Gaza
Just gone by
How many more on the roll call
Of desperate days?
The disgust,disdain
Shellburst, rocketed, tanked
Agony and pain.
Libya, Syria, Iraq, Ukraine…
And what hope
Can possibly remain?

I could go on,
But am not that strong.

So little learned
Or so it would seem
In the 100 years between.

Obelisks and gravestones
Commonwealth war graves
For uncommon people.
Hymns are sung
Poems proclaimed
Sermons delivered
Other homilies.
For others
Unmarked furrows
Scarred the blistered earth and
Poppies flamed the surly skies.

Lest we forget?
Indeed so.
And yet,
We do not appear to be equipped to remember that
War is
Even now
(Sterilised and remote as we might try to make it)
Savage, relentless, unforgiving and
Ultimately
Pointless.

As so it was
One hundred years
And oh so many millions of tears
Ago.


A poem for my father in law

Poem for Derek Beazley. 16/7/24

 

Ten years on

You are remembered,

Cherished memories.

Perhaps ethereal ?

Substance, somehow , immaterial.

Yet,

Your cairn still stands solid,

The view sweeping Nevern, Newport Bay and into the great blue yonder.

The gorse whispering,

Catapulting

Honey dripping scents

Across mudded marsh,

Rocks streaked and grey,

And heather

Impervious to grazing

Imperious with weather.

Ever the day,

The green backed mountain

Bowling skywards away.

 

The sea stumbling over Cat Rock

Cat calling gulls

Wind wards sailing.

Larks rising in harmony,

Carningli too,

Cloud ridden and proud.

The ghosts

Iron aged

Must have gazed in wonder

When you emerged

Uphill riding

November misted

Your dogs, ponies

Unerring horse sense,

Picking your way along the paths

The bridle way swarthed and steep.

And now?

No more miles for you

” Before you sleep, before you sleep.”

 

Sometime farmer, gardener

Mountain man and guide,

Hotelier, meeter, greeter

So much more beside.

Husband, companion,

Fond father with the Laconic film star drawl.

Startling grandchildren by

Jumping

Wolf like

From behind the wall.

You were Everyman

Welcome friend

And “Speed the parting guest”

Now departed, yes

But ever shining steady

Amidst

The brightest

And

Amongst the very best.


Summer poem – of calves, community and being an outsider, an incomer….

“All things must pass. Mankind is as grass.”

 

Summer poem

Two calves adventured, maybe misdirected

or spooked? Perhaps, a dog?

dived into the grassy basket of Matilda’s field,

bovine misadventure,

not equine, resurrected.

 

In the morning,

a delicious day, already sun baked by nine

June, “in like a lion”,

jet steams, cats cradled patterns

streaked the blue backed, split of sunshine,

and I found one calf

nestled into a bower of bracken

nettled and serenaded by the marshmallow pink and white

of baby breathed hawthorn,

bordered by buttercups.

There it stayed, the whole lazy summer’s day,

nervous, ill at ease

unwilling to gambol or feed

unwilling to make hay.

 

Three farmers came

cattle calling

as the evening slipped away.

Stealthy summer sunset.

Dinas Head diminished,

shadowed

lost horizons

a fishing boat scarred by light

a duskling starshine

in the breathless bay.

 

“They’ve only been out a day or two,

everything a new sensation,

even the sunlight is new.

Don’t know grass

Nor bonded as a group.

They simply don’t understand

what it is

they’re meant to do.”

 

We herded the two runaways out of the gate

leading them lane wards

as opposed to astray

through the greened canopy

outfoxed by foxgloves

the elders floated subdued, ethereal amongst the elderflower

motes, particles, as we passed

behind Bryneithen

and into the railway sided field.

The man I walked alongside of

spoke wistfully

of those, “our friends” likewise lost,

of the ties of this small community

the roped weight of history.

And a hint, a nod perhaps,

towards the incoming stream

a Westwards eddy,

and suggested, maybe implied

the consequential claim:

fragmentation, discord, disunity.

 

In T shirt, shorts and wellies

no farmer, I,

we talked on, joked a little,

a slither of gossip, happenstance,

and yet, a sense, a fractioned hint

of difference

akin somehow, to distance.

Discontent with

the immigrant?

 

The calves were happy though.

For now,

“Let them eat cake”.

 

And then

Dusk dropped the lid

and we parted.

“Perhaps you’ll write a poem”

they ribbed.

And so,

I did.

 

 

Marc Mordey 12 7 14


Veterans ( 6th June 1944)

 

 

70 years before…….

Young men stumbling into the shell bound surf

Silver flying fish

Stunned

The boys, wading on and in

Falling, camouflaged no more

Booming, battling forth

Whistling bullets, the siren song of war

Deafening the ocean’s unerring roar.

 

Years ago

in Juneau

I watched ‘Saving Private Ryan’

With Pete Bibb

Self appointed ‘old timer’

Who left the movie house

“Cannot watch this, have to go”

he muttered

As the faux machine guns

Cinematically stuttered.

 

This D Day morning

The robes of priests, clustered

The coat tails of politicians

And hats of royalty

Fluttered

As the bemedalled veterans

Mustered

Attendant, attentive,

Old men now

Memories shared, perhaps, despairs

Some stood and stared

As the peace yearning prayers

Were uttered.

 

In the fields at home

The buttercups, the thistle heads

Were bowing in the stiffening wind

That blows across the Channel

Westward, ho!

The clouds scud seawards

A breath of memory passes

Back across to France

Where death gleaned a mighty harvest

No respect for rank, for officer classes

 

The flags and flowers

Half masted

The crowds lost

Perchance

In collective trance

Subdued respect, even awe

For

Our veterans

 

And own them all, we all surely must

Those alive

Others sand blasted,  dust

Their debt, in full, is met

Our account

Ever owed

To remember

And not forget.

 

Marc Mordey 6/6/14

 


I watched in wonder – lines for 55 years

I celebrated my 55th birthday recently….there is a lot of horror and awfulness in the world. I don’t necessarily want to avoid contemplating it, but sometimes it is good – if you are fortunate enough to do so – to stand back and simply drink in the magic. That, for me, is life really – as the late, great Lou Reed would have it “Magic and Loss”.

 

I WATCHED IN WONDER,  AS……

 

The clear blue sky was split by green leafed tree

I looked at the painting of the Cornish Belle that hangs in my office

We watched 2 crested grebe dipping,  and a swan on the nest, from the sanctuary of our hotel balcony

We flew down into Treorchy, apparently arriving by runway, the car a magic carpet, splitting the mildly misted darkness of a November night

Eric Bibb, troubadour extraordinaire, cool hatted and sharply suited, took to the stage where his godfather once sang, for the delight of miners abounding

Lowri Evans and her band set down tunes in the Land of Song

And Leonard Cohen “danced Cardiff to the end of love” on and on

Prior to that,  Bruce Springsteen rocked and swayed and sang, apparently never ending

I devoured my new Norman Rockwell birthday gift book and donned a brand new shirt, homage to the station wagon

The smoke rose frail and fronded above the Port Talbot factory smokestacks, curling upward, skylined cloud

Rainstorms sweetly savaged the still spring air

The dogs and I discovered a new path, abundant with bluebell and nettles, and a new bridge – uncrossable as yet, and “Fern Hill not accessible”, but the apology surely not necessary

The three of us were knocked out, side split by the Love Punch

And tonight it is the turn of Godzilla

I passed by London Bridge, Moorgate, Bank and Old Street, bento box lunch and a stroll in the sunshine

Not doing the Lambeth Walk, but been there now, Roots and Shoots and all

I watched Debbie Harry and Blondie – 40 years on

And saw the last ever episode of M.A.S.H. bleary eyed, watching Hawkeye

I went West once more

I drank coffee, black, sweet and strong – no palpitations

I made a bow to Sir John Betjeman’s statue

I took lunch in the Pleasure Garden, Bonnington Square,

Greece, Turkey, England, Wales – all duly represented there

We walked the woods, wreathed in wild garlic, lilac and columbine pinks

Saw a peacock – it’s tail fully fanned and luminescent – no cameras, but I am graced with a memory

I got a shy smile from a man begging

and earned a gap toothed grimace from a gypsy musician

I stayed at the new home of old friends and found fresh features in previously unexplored and ageing streets

Heard new music from Brazil and Canvey Island – smokey jazz and the dynamite explosion of rhythm and blues

The lime trees were resplendent and green gorged in the morning light

A smouldering sunset topped Dinas Head

My niece, still new and unexpected, gurgled and chimed over the Facetime pages and gave her newly homed father a smile, that unfolded in delighted stages

I began the journey through ‘Americanah’ already relishing these recommended pages

Derren Brown amazed, perplexed and transfixed us – maybe even sent us away mildly hypnotised

A new car growled and spat and bore us southwards

Sussex and Kent span by

I learned that maybe I liked Rudyard Kipling after all – Just So

A nuthatch joined our café table

Earlier a tortoise had blown in my ear  and then raced off, as much as that is possible

Work went on and I was lucky to love it

I read the emerging story, the fourth instalment unfolding, the characters captivating, the humour intact

A first rate novelist burnishing her form, died in the wool talent, as a matter of fact

Today I watched my breath unfurl in the mid May morning air

Some time ago we were transfixed by the 2 horses in the field behind, wildly, joyfully galloping, ground breaking and tail streaming bannered

The cawl was good, the craick too

As 55 years gone by were remarked, cards, presents and abundant good wishes

A life graced by good fortune, great friendships, by hugs and by kisses

I have lived these last years, silver ringed and golden gated

Enriched and involved, connected , sated

I celebrated, oh, how I celebrated.

 


May day morning (2009) for Carol Ann Duffy

May Day Morning – for Carol Ann Duffy

 

May Day morning, and a new laureate springs into being.

 

I walk in the woods, with the dogs, wind tailed and mischievous.

The leaf moulded track is

giddy with wild garlic, fat with bluebells, littered by birdsong.

 

As I walk, I think of poets, old and new,

and, of course, of you.

 

The dogs are frantic now, madly squirrel chasing, hunting imagined foes.

My mind turns to May Day,

the pagan carousel,

whirling around the Maypole,dizzily celebrating spring.

 

So much, so many, danced before.

And my mantra, my spring song

shifts to a chant of honour

for those I have loved, who

gather the cherry blossom

eternally, and elsewhere.

For them, this, a May Day prayer.

 

Back to the bursting, bubbling stream, Welsh water leaping and twisting

over moss topped rock,

The dogs, boldly swimming.

A dipper bobs a greeting, a woodland, May Day meeting.

 

2 old cottages lichened and retreating.

Slate cutters, shepherds.

Who might have danced there,

footsteps fleeting

Canopied in the cavelike greenwood?

I hope there were revels then,

As now, and hopefully will be, again.

 

The dogs, dragging now, homeward bound.

Not necessarily, their favourite command.

But I need to spring to you,

Leave behind the drifting bluebells,

the pink flushed forest carpet.

Home to you, intoxicated beyond all reason.

Home to you, my May Day Queen,

cherished, ever adored.

Across

beyond, this fabled season.

 


The Blog Tour

 

I was very pleased to be invited to join the Writer’s Blog Tour recently by my Twitter friends at Mirren Jones – please see www.mirrenjones.wordpress.com

The introduction on their blog tells you how this works ….”Welcome to the Diary of Mirren Jones – a new stop on the Writers’ Blog Tour. We hope you’ll enjoy your visit, and will go on to sample the blogs of other writers, highlighted below. We are part of a growing international community of writers, working to introduce each other’s blog to a wider audience. Christine Findlay, Chair of Bookmark Blair, (Blairgowrie Rattray and The Glens Book Festival) in  Perthshire, Scotland invited us to take part. (see www.cfindlay.blogspot.com) We in turn have invited the writers Angela Jeffs (Scotland), Heidi Garrett (USA) and Marc Mordey (Wales).”

So, now it’s my turn and there are 4 questions for me to answer :

1. What am I working on? Well, if I ‘m truthful, not a lot just now! I have a new poem prepared for Mayday and am working on notes from a recent trip to Sussex and Kent , which provided lots of visual and mental stimulation. I have a small collection of poetry that my father produced and have some ideas for incorporating these into my next collection of poetry (but that’s going to be a while in the making I think.)

2. How does my work differ from others of its genre? I think it is terribly hard to answer this question as it demands a degree of objectivity about one’s own poetic voice which I at least am unable to achieve! But I think it is fair for me to say that what I try to produce is poetry that documents my  own day to day experience of life – and the many moods and nuances that entails – and that I like my poetry to be accessible.

3. Why do I write what I do? As a record for myself. As something to share with friends and family.Because I find it enjoyable, cathartic and stimulating. And because I can.

4. How does my writing process work? I seem to have 2 ways of producing a poem – either it just ‘pops out’ of my mind (and I find walks and train journeys to be particularly valuable in this respect) or sometimes they take months, even years to find their way out onto the page. I probably write more of the spontaneous variety than the latter. I try and keep a pocket size notebook about my person for the purpose of jottings, and occasionally (mostly on a walk) I use the voice memo function on the I phone to record a line or two, or a stray thought.

And finally, I want to introduce you to 3 friends whose work is wonderful – please visit their blogs to find out more. These talented folks will be offering their answers to the same 4 questions on Monday 12th May. And anything you can do to help us all share our words and ideas through your own networks would be much appreciated. Thank you.

Stewart Bartlam Having worked as a teacher of English as a Foreign Language for a number of years, followed by twenty years in the civil service, I took early retirement a couple of years ago.  My time now is happily occupied by reading, listening to music, following sport, the pleasures of food and drink, and writing.  I’ve tried my hand at novels, essays and short stories, but it’s poetry that has become my pivotal passion; one that I hope to share by means of this blog. BLOG : http://stewartstanzas.wordpress.com

 

Helen Carey Having spent time in various different parts of the world, Helen Carey now lives in Pembrokeshire, West Wales, in a beautiful location overlooking the Irish Sea. She has had a number of jobs and her varied experiences of working as a chalet girl, a waitress, a travel agent, an oil trader, a management consultant and in the British Army have all featured in one form or another in her books. She teaches Creative Writing at the University of Wales and is a Fellow of the Royal Literary Fund. Her aim is to entertain, and her sense of character, story structure, pace and humour all combine to create compelling, page-turning novels which attract fans from all over the world. BLOG : http://helencareybooks.wordpress.com

 

Gillian Mawsom Gillian has interviewed 450 Second World War evacuees. She has worked with the BBC on documentaries and develops workshops for schools and museums. Her first book ‘Guernsey Evacuees: The Forgotten Evacuees of the Second World War’  describes the evacuation of 17,000 civilians to England just before the German occupation of Guernsey. Her new book ‘Evacuees: Children’s Lives on the WW2 Home Front’ contains interviews with 100 evacuees who spent the war years in Britain. BLOG : http://whaleybridgewriter.blogspot.co.uk/


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