It’s all about –
POETRY – I have a collection of poems written during the last decade or so and plan to start publishing them, one or two at a time, every couple of weeks or so (or a little more often than that, if the mood takes me and the wind is in the right direction!)
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
PERCEPTIONS OF AGEING – I want to use this as an occasional platform to write and think about ageing. Having worked for a homelessness charity, in mental health services within the NHS, and as a freelancer, my working life gravitates more and more towards thinking about and hoping to influence the care, support and respect we offer to our elders. More about my work experience and CV can be found on http://www.marcmordey.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
brown skinned and blonde hair
the deep fissured, blue veined water
and you rose
cleansed of salt and sand
pooling our emotion.
Surely some latter day Aphrodite?
that I could live
in a little town
where the Greek coffee
at Rena’s café
and where some of the men
of this small town
to chew the fat
as the honey streaked sun
into the shade
My parents parted when I was very young and I never got to know my father, although I am glad to be able to say that I have been privileged to have been brought up and nurtured by the most wonderful family and have always been (and continue to be !!) spoiled for love.
I like this poem very much, and as it was my birthday recently, I thought I would share it.
to tell our thanks is to whisper
In the teeth of hurricanes.
As when the mountain flower,
Simple in her wildly morning state,
Assumes false dignity
In the sculptured prism of a vase:
Or the proud beast
Shuffles off his best majesty-
Such then am I,
When I would make but minute mention of your worth.
For in the furnace, your worth
Grows mightier than just,
And I, as wordly chanceless
As a mute.
Some small rebellion took place
in the crocodile of tiny children
winding past me
a primary school parade.
“Is this the right side for Milton Keynes?”
Mrs Wheeler, she’ll know”
The crocodile placed on hold
Mrs Wheeler confirms that
it is so.
Meantime, Susan and Darren are told off for
“letting go of your partner”
The command to resume connection is given
crisp, but not unkind.
and the children snake off
into the mornings blinding sun.
Leaving me, cloud breathed alone
waiting on the Number 33
to Milton Keynes.
And I have got
Jimmy Webb’s music
running rich and wild
within my veins.
Italy is – or, Carpe (enjoy) Capena – a poem reflecting our recent holiday in Capena,near Rome (www.casacapena.com) Helen researched for her upcoming WW2 novel and I, well I tried to capture the spirit of the visit, including the huge contrast of ancient and modern. Hope you like it.Posted: April 15, 2013
Sunlight slicing the morning apartment
Gracing the piazza too,
Streaming over the crimson and cream banners.
Caressing cappuccino coffee cups,
And lighting the way for the young baristas to be
Who are hawking cups of rosemary water,
Whilst bric a brac trembles in the spring wind.
It’s Antonella’s pasta with fennel
And basking in her salted, amber glowing cellar,
Graced by Roberto’s gentle, courteous conversation
It’s Crodino, Americano, cat motifs, cornettos,
And Enrica’s charming welcome.
It is you and I dozing alongside the Tiber
As it flows greenly by,
A chestnut cob rolling in a dust bath
Amidst the sylvan spring countryside.
Smoke whisping through the olive groves,
And a farmer raking fresh mown grass.
It is forcing ourselves up vertical cobbled streets.
Sipping lemon soda on a tiny terrace.
Being amazed at the crazed musings and meandering
Of medieval planning.
A Moroccan lamp catching the sunlight
Above a dusty wood bandaged and padlocked door.
Madonnas and St Francis sitting serenely in relief
Above ancient archways.
And it is pistachios purchased in the lee of history.
Italy is lakes and splendour
Fettuccine and ravioli consumed
High above the water,
Local white wine honeyed and soft.
The Italian Airforce museum, and
Planes hurled aloft.
It is gambling with hectic traffic in Tivoli.
The mossed water delights of the Villa d’Este,
Intense, green chiselled pleasure gardens.
A bride, beside the Cypress pencilled skyline.
Wild cyclamen, purple flag irises,
Gargoyles, monumental architecture,
Dwarfing statues and confusing the gods.
It is Hadrian’s Villa
The insistent clamour of modernity,
The silenced weight of the ages,
Muffling the shadow stained ruins.
Pierced by the delight of children, untroubled by time,
Yet to become their own slight slice of history.
The might of erstwhile empire
Captured by omnipresent electronic aids.
A terrapin floating serenely in the great pool
No carping about the past there.
Italy is an ice cream diet.
Being woken by words at 5 in the morning,
Grappa fuelled brain stumbling.
An early evening promenade,
A carousel in the park,
Evening’s silky silence, punctuated by footballing children
The gossip and smoke of their elders.
The riot of oranges, artichokes, tomatoes
Pastries, flatbreads, pizza slices and olives.
Wine stained plastic bottles
Peroni filled shelves.
Hustling bustling restaurants,
And a woman gently selling Chinese novelties.
The curling call of the hoopoe,
Pining in Farnese woodland.
The sonorous symphony of church bells,
And the threading road
That laces up to the Palazzo Farnese,
Cluttered and steeped with mourners,
Gathered, sombre coated and 10 rows thick
Though not for that, once great family,
Who left us frescoes and blue gold maps of the world -
The impressions of exploration -
The vulgarity of GPS yet to be discovered.
It’s you in new Ray Bans,
Gracing my movie,
As only you know how,
La Dolce Vita.
It’s life, vigour, the weight of history
For this one week
It’s the street where we live
Pot planted and balconied,
Lamplit and almond blossomed,
Monastic, mosaiced and modern.
It’s the joy of today,
Of spring and of sunshine
Balanced, cushioned and unclouded.
Italy is – a holiday.
Find out more about the wonderful novels of Helen Carey – http://www.helencareybooks.co.uk
Rewarded by dolphins – Happy St Patrick’s Day and a sincere thank you to those friends out there who have started (or continued ) to follow my blog – this is for you!Posted: March 17, 2013
THE PAINTING BELOW IS BY THE MULTI TALENTED HELEN CAREY – see http://www.helencareybooks for her equally brilliant writing (including Slick Deals, a romantic, suspenseful novel about the possibility of oil exploration in the Irish Sea)
And what does a birthday bring?
A child being sick, before we even leave the harbour
(making my breakfast somewhat uneasy!)
a memory of Ireland,
old faces, and ancient places,
ice cream and cold Guinness,
and a beach, thick with shells
drummed by racing horses -
beyond the beach where Jackie stayed
after they stole her Jack away.
And what does a birthday bring?
Cold hands in a strengthening wind,
and seabirds coasting the breakneck waves.
And I’ve a new, blue hat.
And 5, yes 5, dolphins, breaking out of the blue.
Leaping,skimming and arching,
spelling out something new to come.
And I am rewarded by dolphins.
Spring driven thing
It’s a spring like day
And we are walking
Three dogs, you and I
In Pengelly woods
Marvelling at the cathedral of trees
Stepping through the quickening stems of wild garlic and of Bluebells, pushing up promises
There’s a rough bench to rest on
And the chance to sit
Watching the stream slip by
Calling out its spring time song
Water music for the ear
Greened bark and worsened stone
Go gently on the eye
We talk, you’re writing once more
A matter of delight
Whilst spring adopts its rites alike
We recommence our Sunday hike
Kicking up a storm of last year’s leaf fall
Marshmallowed moulded woodland floor
Winter slowly shrinking back
As the new season slides through the quietly opening door.