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
Today is Derby Day
And I’m off to meet Harry
No prince he, neither unhinged
But my fathers brother
55 years on.
We walked in Italian gardens
Sheltered from summer rain
And masqueraded at pooh sticks
Off the under arched bridge.
Small but loud
Trinket laden and feather dusted.
A family bible – of sorts -
But no secrets shared
Though he might have dared.
Lunch comes late and roasted
Sunday sundaes side splitting.
African ephemera is offered.
Some small sentiment unmasked.
A bond achieved
Then walking through Dovedale’s sheltered evening.
Stepping stones conquered,
Pillowed rocks for thrones.
This pilgrimage complete
Well maybe, or possibly just begun.
Makes me wonder if
I am my fathers son?
I might be cuckooed,
As the lazy fat fish
Angle for flies
Trout dappled pebbles flash
In the struggling light
My fathers troubled
But hopefully jolly
No chance of our meeting
A dream too wild
The stealthy dreams are greeting
This mature man
Somewhere beyond the realm of logic
Lies the land of magic.
Dedicated to HCM and to Derren Brown ( who is truly magical)
August 4th 2014
My love lies sleeping in France
Whilst I walk the ancient parish boundaries here
Allegiances, ancient, modern too
Revelling in the
Summertime sun dance,
The sunset tonight
Muted by low cloud.
As the lights in our small seawards town
The ghosts of a century
Screeled and swirled,
Sighed amidst the chatter of the Information Age,
Which rolled and frolicked,
As noisy as any machine gun clatter.
The Last Post
Peace talks now,
37 days in 1914
26 in Gaza
Just gone by
How many more on the roll call
Of desperate days?
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
Scarred the blistered earth and
Poppies flamed the surly skies.
Lest we forget?
We do not appear to be equipped to remember that
(Sterilised and remote as we might try to make it)
Savage, relentless, unforgiving and
As so it was
One hundred years
And oh so many millions of tears
Poem for Derek Beazley. 16/7/24
Ten years on
You are remembered,
Perhaps ethereal ?
Substance, somehow , immaterial.
Your cairn still stands solid,
The view sweeping Nevern, Newport Bay and into the great blue yonder.
The gorse whispering,
Honey dripping scents
Across mudded marsh,
Rocks streaked and grey,
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,
Cloud ridden and proud.
Must have gazed in wonder
When you emerged
Your dogs, ponies
Unerring horse sense,
Picking your way along the paths
The bridle way swarthed and steep.
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.
Fond father with the Laconic film star drawl.
Startling grandchildren by
From behind the wall.
You were Everyman
And “Speed the parting guest”
Now departed, yes
But ever shining steady
Amongst the very best.
“All things must pass. Mankind is as grass.”
Two calves adventured, maybe misdirected
or spooked? Perhaps, a dog?
dived into the grassy basket of Matilda’s field,
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
as the evening slipped away.
Stealthy summer sunset.
Dinas Head diminished,
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
and into the railway sided field.
The man I walked alongside of
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
akin somehow, to distance.
The calves were happy though.
“Let them eat cake”.
Dusk dropped the lid
and we parted.
“Perhaps you’ll write a poem”
Marc Mordey 12 7 14
70 years before…….
Young men stumbling into the shell bound surf
Silver flying fish
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.
I watched ‘Saving Private Ryan’
With Pete Bibb
Self appointed ‘old timer’
Who left the movie house
“Cannot watch this, have to go”
As the faux machine guns
This D Day morning
The robes of priests, clustered
The coat tails of politicians
And hats of royalty
As the bemedalled veterans
Old men now
Memories shared, perhaps, despairs
Some stood and stared
As the peace yearning prayers
In the fields at home
The buttercups, the thistle heads
Were bowing in the stiffening wind
That blows across the Channel
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
The crowds lost
In collective trance
Subdued respect, even awe
And own them all, we all surely must
Others sand blasted, dust
Their debt, in full, is met
And not forget.
Marc Mordey 6/6/14
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 – 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,
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.
beyond, this fabled season.