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


A poem for St David’s Day

014August and sept 2015 034 

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

This poem was written a few years a go now – and I have shared it previously. I wondered about ‘recycling it ‘ but (rightly or wrongly) I love this poem, and, given that St David’s Day is an annual event, well….here’s to him, to Wales and the Welsh, and ultimately ; to us all!

Ddiwrnod da ac yn flwyddyn wych I ddod.

 

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 JUST HAVE TO SHARE THIS WITH MY FOLLOWERS. GREAT NEWS!! Nineteen years later …

Source: Nineteen years later …


The Thin White Duke no more

It seems strange to me, almost uncanny, how the death of someone one has never met, and now, never will, (and of course, probably never would have encountered anyway!) can feel like such a personal loss. I felt this following the death of Terry Pratchett and now do so about that of David Bowie. And, as witnessed by the incredible amount of tributes and commentary, lots of other people do too.

The statement that an artist provided the “soundtrack to my years” is, of course, a cliché – but hey, David Bowie is right up there amongst my inventory of magical musical discovery….of lost summer mornings abandoned to song,  of sneaking a disc onto the radiogram (in the early days, prior to the Dansette) of the thrill of the new, crisp covered LP, of talking though the nuances of photos, lyrics, sleeve notes, with various friends. Of life, of love, of sadness and of the sheer, brutal thrill of new sounds, new visions. Rest Well Mr Bowie – you deserve no less, well at least, as far as my – inadequate – book is concerned. 

  

As suburban adolescence slid by

Our small town’s parks disturbed by smoke, cheap beer, chatter

Indiscretion and mild obsession

You, somehow, showed us what might matter

Sometimes snarled lyrics, harsh guitar

At others, a love letter, whispered

Hermione and the Starman in harmony.

 

Later, we rode from Station to Station

Having been a Lodger, Low, an occasional zero

Rock and Roll Suicide denied

Dogs, cats, diamonds amongst the genocide

And yet, you sang, the possibility that even we

Even I

Might become, reclaimed, refreshed, a Hero.

 

Last night, the moon split by dark cloud

(A favoured line, of mine)

I sang to you,  windswept and westward

though this is not America

skybound, space scattered, unfettered

Blackstar indeed

As the radio waves vibrated with your muse

So sad, so very personal, somehow

Dear David, wondering

Where are you now

Where are you now?

 


Poetry – a minority interest?! 2015 in review

Dear friends of themarcistagenda

And they say that poetry is a minority interest??!!

Just to say a huge thank you to the people who took the time to visit the blog : and especially those who are kind enough to leave comments ; we all ‘suffer’ a bit from e communication overload don’t we, so the energy and effort involved in posting a comment is much appreciated by me.

Please may I wish you and yours good fortune in the year ahead, and let’s hope for better things for our world and everyone in it.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Marc Marcism Today front cover

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,200 times in 2015. If it were a cable car, it would take about 20 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.


Winter Solstice 2015 – for those we love, both home and (far) away.

I would like to thank everyone who takes the time to read these poems and to follow this blog – it is much appreciated by me. And – on the Winter Solstice – and with holidays approaching ; here is the slightest of gifts by way of a thank you. If you celebrate Christmas, enjoy, and if you do not, likewise. And all good things for you and yours in 2016. Take care out there.

  1. IMG_0297WALKING

The paths are mud slides

browned, rain bombed bracken

and a grassy soup to walk on.

Small stones, jagged shark’s teeth

submerged underneath

a swirling, relentless maelstrom.

But, just for a while,

Carningli is kinder today,

a watery sunlight underway,

and a ghosted moon, cloud slipped,

the sky a silvered duvet.

And so we three, slithered, mooched

occasionally tripped,

on this, the shortest day.

 

  1. THINKING

Night has fallen now,

the storm pillows above, ready to rehearse

the current seasons’ lashing curse.

Hey ho! the wind and the rain.

Best behave brightly, for here it comes

oh! yet again.

Tomorrow though,

the light is on the turn,

the days will brighten,

the mood sweeten

and here’s hoping that

many of us will emerge

blinking,

springlike,

unbowed, unbeaten.

 

  1. REMEMBERING

For others now,

they have passed the point of no return

the Solstice rung, a December dirge,

a sorrowing song across the mountain,

a pausing, pondering reflection

above the cairn.

No chance of reinvention.

Their lights have set now, stilled, extinguished

at least on this side of our universe.

But winter memories are yet distinguished.

And, whilst their candles no longer burn,

for lives well lived,

the memories,

like the Solstice waters flow,

and they are not, nor will be

thus diminished.

 

21 December 2015.


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.

Tonight?

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


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