It’s all about –
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
I’m in England
The spring sunshine liberated for an extra hour,
Bird song fat and full as the
Bud bursting magnolia and cherry
And I am as wistful as autumn
Whilst spring and it’s promise
Flows as sweetly as a Devonish stream
And blossoms in my heart
I am here
And you are there
And that’s ever too far apart
It is November
the 4th to be precise
and the morning mists trailing above the estuary.
Llanstefan to my right
gulls wheeling and waders rootling about
in the flattening mud
as the train clanks and creaks along the way.
The ruins of a castle, ghost silhouetted and sharpened by
the profile of black rocks
caressed by grey blue waves.
There is sunlight on the headland
and sunshine in my heart
and the train whistles in sympathy with my exuberant mood.
I sit and smile at
A man with blue stars tattooed
upon his hands.
Knowing that, even now,
your star is flung
high and bright in the firmament;
Caravans rest, snail like upon the landscape
piebald ponies in a waterlogged field,
spiked with gorse and yellowing leaves
the rivers fat, full flowing
the world a better place for the knowing that
you have arrived, safe and secure
Molly maid, niece of mine
A diamond brightly shining
Nothing tawdry for you and,
please that it might prove to be
A life less ordinary for you.
In the morning
I drove to Brecon,
the Beacons peaking,
mulberry fogged and bearded,
the grey wisp of a winter’s day.
Later, in Ludlow,
the poignant bliss of visiting old friends,
not seen for a decade
The following day
I set out for Swansea.
Traffic was light,
plum and purple colours settled ablaze
over ploughed fields
and washed the feather tops of poplars.
Time flies, the hours, the days.
Sometimes, chance meetings take place,
Mostly, we pass on our apologies.
All too often,
just once per year,
“So very sorry we haven’t met,
take care, and
wishing good cheer.”
I am reminded that
like misty mornings maybe,
blink, shiver, and then
(should we fail to take notice)
This poem is dedicated to Mr Bateman.
As a result of a Tweet (of quite some time ago) I was lucky enough to be selected to review some historical fiction – to all Twitter friends, keep your eye out for similar opportunities from http://www.trasnworldbooks.co.uk – and the last one, which I have recently finished, is entitled The Road Between Us and is by Nigel Farndale.
The story fluctuates between 1939 (and the ensuing days, months and years of the Second World War) and 2012 and encapsulates the story of the love between Charles and Anselm, the former who, is court martialled for ‘conduct unbecoming’ and goes on to become a war artist whilst the latter is sentenced to hard labour for ‘re-education’. From this initial scenario we are catapulted into the London (and Foreign Office ) of 2012 and the story of the kidnap, long term imprisonment and ultimate release of Edward, a diplomat captured and kept in a cave in Afghanistan for 11 years.
The plotline is captivating, the complexities of emotion displayed by all the characters is believable and well portrayed, and the way the storylines are ultimately drawn together, eminently satisfying. This is a novel that asks for involvement and attention from the reader – not a ‘light’ read but a rewarding and absorbing one and recommended by this reviewer!
Alarmed, perhaps, by clarion bells,
The kingfisher lets fly
its gift of jewels.
The sunlight slips
In sheets of fire,
Pillowing our morning bed.
The Three Kings have passed us by,
Somewhere between Bethlehem
and the South Tyrol.
But we have Venice once more
And the magical, moated, bird sparkled morning
May I wish you all a peaceful Epiphany and a very Happy New Year.
The Christmas Gift : with thanks and holiday greetings to everyone who has done me the honour of following this blog.Posted: December 20, 2013
The season of storms is upon us,
but a recent, magical day,
gave us the gift of
the estuary, stilled and low sunlight warmed,
the plumped, moss banked waters, becalmed.
I look up at our house
the farm nestling on the hill, where
your window is soft lit
and the fire burns within,
and I am so very fortunate to be
glad homed and hearthed,
Yet in Syria the snow is falling,
refugees flee, no journey’s end,
troubled children cry in the Philipinnes
desolation and ruin beckon in South Sudan,
here, our homeless shiver as sleet descends
no comfort at fireside,
no family, few friends.
On the estuary, the oyster catchers carol and trill,
as the sanderlings stuttered seaside run
the breeze unfettered, unzipped, undone,
whilst the cry of the gulls, mourns and chides
and the white lipped tide tumbles, salt water sprayed and spun,
open mouthed for the gathering chill.
And in the early hours,
by now, rain and wind maddened,
on my radio as I lie
enveloped in the duveted darkness
as the World is Served by the BBC
I learn that, in Yemen
young girls find themselves sold as child brides
no gifts to share,
precious little charity?
But I am loved, cosseted and cared for
neither cavalier nor complacent, this much I know
but grateful, sometimes almost guilty
that life, the world should spare me so.
And so, a few days before Christmas,
I turned for home,
such a very precious phrase.
And, if I had a wish for these
and future days,
and could share it with the mountain’s Saint,
Brynnach, lingering – perhaps – above.
I would ask this Christmas Gift,
for the world, love,
there must be love.
So, finally perhaps,
Mandela, Mandiba, is free.
Man of perpetual dignity.
He who used love
as a political strategy.
Did not seek recrimination.
delighted in non discrimination.
A ladies man they cry,
a gleam, a twinkle, under African sky.
Fighter, boxer, lawyer.
Sometimes the state’s version of a terror,
and yet, this man left us replete, but, and I repeat,
not with horror,
for he was a healer, not a destroyer.
His photograph for years denied
to those he served, who cried
struggled, Soweto dirt dusted
still in invisible Mandela they trusted.
The day before this colossus departed
our political leaders here in the UK
enjoyed another Parliamentary day.
In the ‘mothership of democracy’
the bear pit beckoned;
and debate was the language of shouts and jeers,
and also, some might say, an urn of crocodile tears,
a style that leaves the voters cold,
disillusioned, depressed, down hearted.
So much said, yet not enough to say.
Perhaps it’s time, and more, to walk and talk,
practice, preach and ourselves outreach
in living life, the Mandela Way.
HAMBA KAHLE WETU (Go Well, friend)
No more troubles,
and for your vision,
please, not the end.