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

Light parade – for National Poetry Day 2015

A buzzard floats,

a feather dusted flight,

mottled by the, ever sweet surprise,

the first fingered, soft whispered flush

of Pembrokeshire sunrise.

Dinas Head, capped in mid morning,

hurricane warning,

nettle nectared light,

honey busted,

green field and wind worsened hedgerows,

shimmering, clustered,

apparently lanced by purple tongued shadows.

Later, Berry Hill cows

cotton wool and soot splashed skins

soaked in castle bound, church wardened

gravestone greyed, flagstone mossed

autumn crazed sunshine.

Towards sunset,

a late blackberry,bruised and fat

falls, a tiny world of globes,

fruitful, untroubled as

motes of dust sparkle

amidst the faltering strobes,

the cautioning, duskling cackle

of Canadian Geese,

gradually muted, as the sky fades,

souped and stilled,

horizon blended.


Starlight sponged on the ink blacked,

spangled sky,

split by Strumble headed

lighthouse telescoped beams.

As we sleep, kaleidoscoped and vivid,

in the land of Westerly illuminated dreams.

Latest photos (Jan 2013) 009

For HB – a small poem about harvest ( Don’t ever doubt it)

I see you, in my mind’s eye,

as the rail skimming miles slide by.

You are peeling apples

in our kitchen,

two ageing, worsted cook books,

flour dusted, unflustered

by your side.

Chunking, slicing, chutney dicing.

Slooshing, whooshing, liquid reducing.

And that, which cannot be denied?

You’re the jam, the jelly roll, adoration preserved.

The unadulterated, unreserved,

honeyed, sugar coated,

butter bested.

The core – I’m sure,

and yet, by me : surely undeserved?

The bowl of cherries and more.

Ever the apple of my eye.May and June 2015 020

Always Rosemary – a poem for my mother in law

This poem is written for and dedicated to my mother in law, Rosemary, who died in early May of 2015. Rosemary had Alzheimer’s, and the purpose of this poem is to celebrate and to admire the person – I have been taught (by example) ; see the person, not the age or this illness. Rosemary was a beautiful woman and I am glad to have known her.

Always  Rosemary

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


“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,


you gathered your very self in,

breathed deep,


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,


it might seem to be


yet fixed,

blossoming still.

Resting now,

sure enough and

ready to greet us


behind the ethereal, floating curtain.

Marc Mordey

May 2015anniversary pictures 022

Can anyone write?


Good to see the mighty Ms Carey back at her desk and sharing her knowledge and skills – for readers and writers alike.

Originally posted on helencareybooks:

creative-writingIt’s an odd thing. When I mention at a party, or some other gathering, that I occasionally teach creative writing courses, people quite often put a sceptical smile on their faces and ask me whether creative writing can really be taught. Now, I’ve never heard anyone ask whether science can be taught, or dancing, or yoga, or French.

Of course creative writing can be taught. What can’t be guaranteed is that someone enrolling in a creative writing course will become a successful novelist, poet or playwright. Just as taking science or French at school, or even at university, doesn’t mean you are going to become a nuclear physicist or a translator at the UN. As far as I know nobody in my weekly yoga class is aspiring to becoming a Hatha guru. And even though Anne Widdecombe was (eventually) able to master a few dance moves in Strictly, nobody seemed to…

View original 334 more words

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


Migrants rescued 10-17 April


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,



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?


Ah, maybe, but are you sure?


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