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


Heaven Has No Fences – dedicated to the memory of the 800 migrants who died this last weekend

Heaven Has No Fences

In our world……

The sky is blue bolted and stilled,

spring washed and not yet

summer stilted.

I lay in the garden

gazing across the Bay,

a chiff chaff summoning, bell like trilling,

unwittingly willing to add thrill to

a Sunday evening revelry.

Earlier, we walked along the Nevern,

woodlands pin pricked by wood anemones,

bolstered by wild garlic

and the first blue bells creeping skywards.

Nothing untoward until

an owl, a tawny streak,

chased by a furious blackbird

disappeared, chastened perhaps

into the green tented, splintered tree tops. 

In your world…… 

Dawn, presumably, could not come too soon

as you fought your way to the side,

galvanized by the hope a passing cargo ship

might provide.

The Mediterranean, at one point

a moonlit, blank canvas,

the next moments, a swirling scramble,

angry abstract patterns, peopled by those

in extreme, ultimate, unimagined distress.

And beyond…… 

I must confess,

a shared sense of hopelessness,

the frustration that our two worlds can be

so far flung, heart strung,

devastatingly beautiful

and one almighty mess.

The awfulness of what drove you on

the headlong rush to emigrate

is likewise tough to contemplate.

In part, I too must bear the burden

for these casting votes of carelessness.

Life, the casual combination of magic and loss,

toil, sweat, leisure, excess

the daily, weekly, yearly struggle,

the explosion of the senses.

Can leave my mind muddled, confused,

my values and principles

shadowed, huddled

assaulted by the restless flow of news.

But one thing, for me,

remains as clear as morning dew :

heaven has no fences.

Mediterranean migrants

13,500

Migrants rescued 10-17 April

1,600

Feared to have died attempting the crossing so far this year

  • 35,000 Migrants have arrived from North Africa in 2015
  • 218,000 Estimated to have crossed the Mediterranean in 2014
  • 3,500 Migrants died attempting the crossing last year

Source: UNHCR


Going, going, gone …

Going, going, gone ….


The colour of magic – for Terry Pratchett

Terry Pratchett’s wonderful books have graced (occasionally disgraced) my bookshelves since the late 1980’s and like, so many, the news of his death left me, perhaps irrationally (given that I did not know the man of course, but he had let me into his world, so I felt -somehow – that I did) saddened, with a feeling of personal loss. This is a very inadequate, but heartfelt, tribute to a writer who has enriched my reading life. My thoughts are with his family and friends, and with us – his legion of fans. GO WELL FRIEND

The colour of magic

What’s this?

The Discworld suddenly stilled.

The Librarian utters a muffled, choking Ook!

Angry mutterings issue from a star dusted, rainbow crazed, magical book.

The Luggage lifts its lid in silent tribute.

In the Assassins Guild, knives and other such Thieves of Time

are lowered.

A Golem glowers, breaking the mould,

dwarves, goblins, werewolves, trolls,

gone the stories, gone the gold.

Witches lower their broomsticks,

to fly no more.

Lord Vetinari is blacked out,

the clacks have nothing to shout about,

The Nightwatch nowhere to walk about.

Sam Vimes, Lady Sybil

all left to doubt.

The cast of characters too many, too bold,

how much story, how far the masterful imagination,

must remain,

untold.

IT IS DONE

The great turtle, serene, untroubled perchance

paddling its huge flippers

in the ever changing celestial dance,

notes, a wide brimmed hat

a grey beard, a whispered hint of black,

an author, happenstance?

THERE IS NO MORE.

Ah, maybe, but are you sure?


In celebration of St David’s Day

My angels were singing : a poem for St David’s Day

 

Concocted over the last few spring like days, out walking the dogs, watching the birds, and thinking of those who have died : Derek, who loved Pembrokeshire and rode on Carningli most days, and also of my grandparents (and others), who do – I believe – watch over me.

 

I stood near the house

where Grace once lived,

My angels were singing.

 

I watched as birds

and daffodils dived.

My angels were singing.

 

It’s spring and the sun

bursts fat and alive.

And my angels were singing.

 

Old crow, silhouetted against Carningli rock,

purple shadowed on blackened burnt bracken,

gorse and heather reeling :

the after shock.

But my angels were singing, still.

As seagulls wheeled across the bay,

catching sea breezes,

tumbling at will.

 

The Irish Sea lies beneath

becalmed and silvered blue,

and my angels were singing.

 

Wales’ favourite saint remembered

the new season breaks forth, springing,

flowers dancing, church bells – ringing.

His angels – singing.

 

Seasons, people, live and die,

here and now is for the living.

But remember those you love or loved –

do try.

And let your angels be singing.

Let your angels be singing.

(I have shared this poem before – but it is very specific to St David’s Day and the emergence of spring – we hope – and it is one of my favourites, so I hope you will forgive me!)


Pembrokeshire – the first few days of February 2015

Hush!

The moon, a fat yellow cheese,

gobbles the duskling skyline above Morfa Head.

Later, silver tongued and stealthy

it lights the path for a night time wander

as three dogs and I

ghost along the lanes

badgered, foxed, rabbit worn, and,

turning for home and the deep bliss of the warm bed,

far out on the horizon

a ships light splits sea from sky

and hangs, suspended and watchful.

Yesterday

grey rocks grinned upon the hillsides

spiked, toothsome,

scarring the mountain, snow bleached and soft pillowed.

Today, we walked below Carningli

warmed by thin winter sun

though the wind, when able,

did not hesitate to cut a cruel song,

the grass frost blasted and resentful.

Hush!

A horse nickered,

dogs cavorted and capered,

occasionally raising a sceptical ear to the distant cries of long lost cousins.

Jet planes droned above

buzzing the sea shadowed sky.

Across the valley,

a ragged stone wall crooked a finger,

beckoning, cajoling

“walk on, follow me”.

The hills, plumped and greened,

sun plumed, farm groomed,

sweet air steamed,

all, carelessly platformed

nature framed,

snapshot and scattered

Pembrokeshire, adrift,

ship shaped and sand blasted,

ever kind

to my mind’s eye.

5/2/15


How I wish – A London, Christmas love song.

Dedicated to Jules and Bea (Beazley) for their wedding, 6th December, 2014. May all your wishes come true.

How I wish

You were with me now,

On this west bound train.

Your head nestled on my scarf shrouded shoulder, 

As hills, estuary and city-scapes slide by.

Seeing occasional bouldered tops, and

Winter scarred fields, with 

Cows and sheep reddened in December, shadow sharpened sunlight.

The train roars by, and 

Crows scatter, shocked but unruffled.

And the tinnyness  of maddening music

Moleing in someone’s headphones

Is suddenly stifled.

 

How I wish I was with you 

In Oxford Circus sunshine.

Salvation Army songed,

Santa thronged

Peacock motif light strung 

And subdued Swiss shopped.

Walking wok wards 

Or sipping our piping hot coffee 

In the Photographers Gallery. 

After viewing wind chilled,

Snowbound and desolate Finnished landscapes. 

The portraiture of Martina Lindqvist,

Startling and sublime;

Living and loving, on

best borrowed, London time. 

 

How I wish I was with you in an Uber car,

Being teased and cosseted all in one go.

The South Circular,

Wedding party bound and perilous slow.

The paper lights 

Small globes in a sun boundaried marquee.

The confetti, floating ghost petalled toward the uneven floor.

The rusted statues gaping at a glitter of guests,

Speeches, stumbles, extracts and jests,

Celebrating this days marriage –

And other such states of union. 

Past, present, the family bond,

Wherein New Zealand Eritrea, South Africa

Wales and well beyond,

Played their part, 

In sumptuously stated affairs of the heart.

I’m here, and the glass raised is in genuine spirit, but 

In my mind I’m on a Lizard Mountain

Eagle crested 

Canadian roof topped once more.

And then 

As now,

My word is forged, feather breathed,

To cherish, to adore. 

 

How I wish I could be with you,

Now

And evermore. 

  

 


Poem for Armistice Day 11 11 2014

Remembrance Sunday.

What would you have had us remember?

As you mustered in the trenches,

Around the gun emplacements.

As you hopped into the cockpit

And flung yourself skywards,

Or plumbed the depths

Submerged and submarined?

Should we remember your bravery?

Your mockery? Your cynicism in the face of duty?

Your gut wrenching anxiety,

Your fear, your mortal pain,

As you were killed and wounded,

Again and again and again?

 

Do the flags, the parades,

The preachers, the cavalcades,

Act as sufficient homage?

Or would peace, justice, equality

Be more deserving of your patronage?

 

But whichever,

It is true.

We must continue,

To remember you.

 

(This poem, and lots of others, to be found in  my collection, ‘Marcism Today’)


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