It’s all about –
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
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
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
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?
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!
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.
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.
The paths are mud slides
browned, rain bombed bracken
and a grassy soup to walk on.
Small stones, jagged shark’s teeth
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
on this, the shortest day.
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.
the light is on the turn,
the days will brighten,
the mood sweeten
and here’s hoping that
many of us will emerge
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,
like the Solstice waters flow,
and they are not, nor will be
21 December 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,
nettle nectared light,
green field and wind worsened hedgerows,
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.
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,
Starlight sponged on the ink blacked,
split by Strumble headed
lighthouse telescoped beams.
As we sleep, kaleidoscoped and vivid,
in the land of Westerly illuminated dreams.
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,
The core – I’m sure,
and yet, by me : surely undeserved?
The bowl of cherries and more.
Good to see the mighty Ms Carey back at her desk and sharing her knowledge and skills – for readers and writers alike.
It’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…
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