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


Two rabbits a poem on 9/11.

This poem was written whilst walking above the beach at Bournemouth. Like so many others, having watched events unfold a few days before, I was filled with a sense of dread, of uncertainty and of shock. And yet, even then, a name etched in sand caught my eye, a message of love? And the rabbits carried on, unmoved. This poem is dedicated to everyone who has lost loved ones, across the world, across the great divide, as a consequence of 9/11.

Two rabbits,

oblivious to

two towers tumbling

and thousands of

subsequent oblivions.

Sometimes we forget

that telegraph poles

were once trees,

and that great civilisations,

and their emblems,

never lose their capacity to lose their dominion

and be brought,

awesomely, abruptly,

to their knees.

In the sands at Bournemouth

Someone has scraped a name –

Caitlyn.

I hope it was the work of a lover.

For we must remember,

That love’s constancy

aims to please.

Meantime,

we are all but as rabbits,

caught in the twin beams of headlights

and impending oblivion.


For Afghanistan

I remember

floating down in a DC10

high above your sand scarred landscape.

Bullets were flying in Kabul, even then,

and we could not stay and see

but were removed, despatched, transient.

It was 1982

when I made fleeting acquaintance with you

and I had hoped, one day,

to return. Anew.

But now, the only offering I can make

is to place an orange flower in a green, gold vase

and hope, wish, it might burn bright for you

in this time of stunting, brutal war.

And trust that

in some desert flowered future view

Afghanistan 🇦🇫 might green once more.


EMPTY SPACES. Dedicated to Dot (Dorothy) and Harry Mordey.

POEMS OFTEN BREW WITHIN ME FOR DAYS, SOMETIMES WEEKS, AND ESPECIALLY WHEN I AM WALKING ON CARNINGLI.

THEN, SOMETIMES, THEY COME TO THE BOIL.

THIS ONE IS MADE TODAY, FOLLOWING THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF AN AUNT.

COVID 19 HAS, THUS FAR, TAKEN THE LIVES OF WELL OVER 2.5 MILLION PEOPLE.

STALIN IS OFTEN QUOTED AS HAVING SAID ” 1 DEATH IS A TRAGEDY. A MILLION DEATHS IS A STATISTIC.”

THIS POEM IS FOR EVERYONE WHO HAS SUFFERED LOSS – DIRECTLY OR OTHERWISE – TO THE RAVAGES OF THE PANDEMIC… MOTHERS, FATHERS, BROTHERS, SISTERS, CHILDREN, GRANDPARENTS, UNCLES, AUNTS, FRIENDS.

please remember them

Across the world,

Empty spaces…

A silhouette no longer framed on the Savannah

In Wyoming, a horse remains unsaddled

Red dirt unbroken in a Senegalese plot

A Russian doll that won’t be dissembled

A Spanish hacienda deserted

An Italian meal untasted

In Japan a temple flag is unobserved

An ice hole, unfished

A desert tent, entrance unused

A rice field abandoned

A new crop not to be harvested

A quilt unfinished

Families, diminished.

The favoured seat in the pub abandoned now.

A classic car, unfired.

A paddle board beached.

Knitting unravelled.

A tractor untended.

A camera shuttered.

A guitar untuned.

A song unsung.

A bed unmade.

A bycicle rusting.

A dog forlorn.

A doll abandoned.

A spinning wheel, not turning.

A pen no longer picked up.

A spade, rusting in a cobwebbed greenhouse.

A boat, sails stowed, bobs alone on the estuary.

Clothes are folded away, no longer needed.

Books, never to be read

Dreams unfulfilled

Puzzles that no longer perplex

Letters never sent

An empty seat in a synagogue

An empty pew in the Chapel

A prayer mat in the mosque stays folded

The graveyards fat with memories.

Grass grows untended

A tweed jacket hangs forlorn

Flowers fail

Broken items that would have been mended

A driving lesson not given

A telephone call no longer to be expected

Empty beds

Empty sofas

Empty rooms

Empty wardrobes

Empty chairs

Loved ones lost

To everyone

Everywhere

“I feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all.” (Brideshead Revisited)


My Columbine Valentine. For H B-C-M

Two years ago now, we were at sea! The sentiments expressed here though are before, contemporary and beyond. It’s all for you. Thank you. From the heart.

World trip 2019 027

World trip 2019 427World trip 2019 294

My seaside Valentine

If I could choose

Just one

Moment in time

To take ahead with me

Into unfathomable eternity

Governed by uncertain deity

Then

It would be

Standing Forward

Bedecked by you

( and, in my mind’s eye,

two ghost dogs

standing by)

On our voyage sublime

Watching the watery world slide by

The Pacific, painted by

Glacial blues

Awake

Gelato cream confusion

Melting into the black mirrored swell

As scimitar shaped birds

Slice the crested waves

Balletic marine fencers

Weaving, careening and

En Garde!

Hunting

The ocean’s ceaselessly hungering mouth

Restless, inscrutable, immutable

Breathing, deep water scheming

Its owners have

But scant regard

for our lumbering vessel –

Man made iron muscle –

Outflanked and bested

By shearwater and petrel

Undone by dolphin and iridescent Dorado.

It is as though we were

Tipping over the Equator

Outstripping day and date

Adventuring, ever southwards

Our ship in full spate

Speed baffling knots

Nautical miles

Our beating hearts rate.

 

Yes!

This would be the moment I’d choose to take.

With

You

and I

Yours and mine

Atlantic,

Caribbean

Pacific

To be specific

My salt spray adored

My seaside companion

My maritime best friend

My own worlds end

My sweetwater , Columbine

Valentine

 

13/2/19

 

 

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IMG_5811World trip 2019 961

Looking for a great read? Hurry along to http://helencareybooks.co.uk 

 

 


Cam ceilog – on “the quickening of the year”

Dylan delivers our milk,

Rich, creamy, butter yellow white

Blessed by mountain angels and Swiss cows

Each mouthful, pure delight.

It is 5:15 pm when he pulls into the yard

And Dinas Head still shimmers with duskling light

Dog days of January,

Murky, misty Saturday night.

“It’s as if the year is taking chicken steps” he says

The longer days are creeping into being.

Cam ceilog.

And he drove on

Much more for him to do.

This week gifted us Candlemas,

“Imbolc” as the Celts would have it.

Crocus, snowdrops, wild primrose

All peeping through the coming grass

Finca scrambling the old stone walls

And two daffodils crowning the cairn

On a windswept, frosted Carningli,

Bracken brown dejected.

Meanwhile,

Others also work long days,

On into the darkness

Injecting fresh hope

Raising possibilities of renewal.

Diminishing at least a portion

Of year long

Gloom and fear.

Salutations to our NHS

Raise a glass to

The milk of human kindness

Toast

Cam ceilog

And the quickening of the year.


Somewhere, there’s hope…

To all friends who are generous enough to follow this blog, THANK YOU.

I have created a few (though nothing like as many as in previous times) poems during 2020, but, being honest, the creative impulse has been subdued, and what I have written is, well, just too dark for now at least. But, awake at 4 a.m. today (the shortest day of the year) these thoughts, this offering, came to mind. As with all my poetry, I don’t lay great claims to it, but…it’s from the heart, and it is my gift for you.

Take care out there, stay safe and well. And here’s to better days ahead, for our world, for us all, in 2021.

Greetings and good fortune. Yours Aye!

Marc

THE PENRALLT EAGLE – photo by MM

A young writer sits at home

The first novel just a glimpse in the mind’s eye

The pen, flourished.

The paper, anticipating

A Jane Austen for today

Ready and waiting.

Elsewhere, a teenager moodily lifts the guitar,

Strums newly acquired chords,

Maps out phrases, tinkers with words

And a new ‘Blue’ emerges

Blowing the critics away.

As scales are lifted from blinkered eyes

Fresh minted, eager new leaders

(they’ve life experience of climate change)

No longer question

No longer deny

And radical policies

Practical actions

Arise.

In a home some place

A 100 year old man

Father, grandfather and much more besides

Breathes out, smiles, gently sighs

Reviewing a long life

Well lived, hard won

And, despite great age,

Not yet done.

In a laboratory far away

A new graduate scientist explores

The microbe kaleidoscoped,

Micro-scoped miracles of life,

Her imagination slides, breaks free

Then, a pause

Before the new formula,

The world beating solution

Is born.

In one country

A child reels and spins a home-made hoop

Around a sand dusted yard.

In another

One young man, cocooned

Navigating his kayaked world,

With snow, ice, cold cracking floes

Seal whirled and polar beared

For both

Life is fun

Though life is hard.

In my dreamed of world

Zealots lay down the gun, the sword

Share faith, philosophy, thought

With believer and non-believer alike

Arguing

Yes

Hating

No

Accepting that seeing life differently

Ought not be seen

As something unacceptable

Untoward.

In a year gone by

We all shared

So much sadness

Such awful pain

Collective madness

Greed, disdain.

Who cared?

Who really cared?

How does one cope?

In a room

Nearby

A sometime poet

Wrote

Somewhere there’s hope

Somewhere

There’s hope…

IN THE PACIFIC, TO BE SPECIFIC…photo by MM


A poem for Remembrance Sunday

This is an older poem, but the sentiment, for me, remains the same. I hope it is worthy…

2015-flowers-family-friends-018Remembrance 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.


Always Rosemary

The 21st September is World Alzheimer’s Day. This poem, written five years ago, is dedicated to my mother in law, Rosemary, who lived alongside of Alzheimer’s for a number of years.

Sleeping now.

May your blanket be woven of spring time threads,

and flamespun from the azalea outside your window,

wild garlic fattening the woodland paths,

your fields, bested by bluebells,

Welsh oak, wild cherry, the rising sound

of saplings, keening in the breeze.

The crushed camelia heads that cushion the verge

below the trees

that you loved to see

as we were Fishguard, ferry bound.

Red petals gracing too, the secret garden,

where, a few snatched weeks ago,

we picked for you

Derek’s daffodils,

lingering strong and plump,

golden on your windowsill.

Sea thrift and campion binding the two Heads,

Dinas and Morfa dipping Westwards,

unwittingly majestic and yet, now, forlorn.

No longer held in your view.

Yet you loved to look out over these landmarks,

contemplating, ruminating,

reflecting perhaps,

on kinder, gentler days,

as you stared across the Bay

sometime sea shimmered,

at others, murk misted

 and

“Can’t see Dinas Head’, you’d say.

But cliffs and headlands prevail,

rock steady,

as you well knew,

through older age and illness,

stoically surviving,

cup of tea reviving,

discomfort, trauma,

bravely borne.

Ages slipped by, unwittingly,

as such they do,

and gradually,

and I am sure,

unwillingly

you gathered your very self in,

breathed deep,

withdrew.

Harder to distinguish then

your hopes, your fears,

the altered state

the change of mind.

Some things are, it seems,

beyond the ken

of us, the ones to remain behind.

Left, bereft,

to nurse your memory,

there must be laughter,

there will be tears.

But for all that changed,

across these widowed years,

you remained

a smile,

a crossword clue determined

a flash of will.

And of this I am,

ever certain,

always Rosemary,

somewhere,

it might seem to be

adrift,

yet fixed,

blossoming still.

Resting now,

sure enough and

ready to greet us

from

behind the ethereal, floating curtain.


Heroes

Hats off to the unsung heroes

Consistently saving our lives

The cleaners

Shelf stackers

Checkout people

Delivery drivers

The post workers

Rubbish collectors

Street sweepers

Waiters

Baristas

Checkout workers

Carers

Kitchen porters

Washers up

Laundry staff

Hairdressers

Reception people

The list goes on…

Unheralded

Underpaid

Undervalued

Passing by without much sound

But now we know

They’re the ones

Who really make the world go round


Friendships and community

The Borrowed Boy. I’m really looking forward to reading this new novel by my friend and colleague, Deborah . And I’m intrigued to see how she will have woven some of our community based work into her story. Exciting! Deborah can be found here on WordPress, search for Abra K Deborah.