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
Stuck on a train
Wishing myself elsewhere
I find myself
Emptying the cottage of
The final fragments of
Your long life
A teddy bear
An address book
Long yellowed and sweated
An alarm clock
Photographs and poetry books
No longer gracing your shelves
As we delved deeper into
Long lost cupboards
An iron, kitchen roll
Tin foil, chicken soup
As my train journey drags
Here I am
My mind full of the image
Of the small pottery jar
Stuffed with brown tipped
Rosemary (Blossie) Beazley died on 4th May 2015. This poem is for her.
It’s Easter Sunday 2018
The train tumbling towards
Sea spray, sandcastles, estuary breath.
The British Bulldog
Stains the air
( Trouble, the world over,
Done to death).
But the seabirds
The ragged pastured ponies
They don’t care
Where this all is leading
The Easter mystery
Magic and loss
We ought to learn from history
( The fuse lit
Flames may burn
Ancient wounds, lingering slights, insults perceived
We need to know
I believe it so
Bested by legend
Let’s not be deceived
Enriched through history
Not governed by it.
(Photos of Carningli – in all it’s moods – by Marc Mordey
This poem was conceived over a few spring like days, during February 2008 – out walking the dogs, watching the birds, and thinking of those who have died, who do – I believe – watch over us. Some 10 years on (how did that happen?!) I am still fortunate indeed to live and love in a most beautiful part of Wales, and, in my opinion, one of the loveliest places in the world. This is, I reckon, my ‘go to’ poem! (apologies for sharing it each 1st March, but this is done in good faith!)
My angels were singing : a poem for St David’s Day
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 –
And let your angels be singing.
Let your angels be singing.
Dydd Gŵyl Dewi hapus
I’d like to tell you what’s on my mind
how you’ve been truly Valentined.
But, sad to say,
you are away,
and I am left behind….
line by line,
I’ll have a go,
though possibly ill defined
inadequate, I know,
to capture, collate,
the essence of my Valentine…
You’re Greek sunshine,
butter cream, refined.
Gambian river trips
little egret sun flushed wingbeat dips
in African magical time.
Mimicking the whistling song
of the little owl,
spurning luxury Egyptian cotton
for the favoured
budget beach towel.
early morning bird watch savoured,
the gruffly monkeyed howl.
You’re the startling sweep of starling,
the hummingbird roosting,
the bullfinch soft and pink,
the wren, the goldfinch,
flamingo, osprey, parakeet,
the jacana too, quetzal sweet.
If you were a bird,
a thought, perhaps absurd,
I’d have to name you
You’re still adored,
in Chilean fjord.
Blue whale spotting
semi globe trotting
sharing the longer view.
Fighter, then writer,
trader, waiter, painter too,
there’s no way (nor reason for)
of pigeon holing you.
You’re Newport Bay,
Parrog ice cream delicious days,
the shifting Welsh seashore.
You’re Costa Rica,
Argentina, Falklands and Uruguay.
Senegal, Canada, Utah, Montana,
Venice, Florence, France and Spain.
How can it be so?
You take me to
the sweet by and by,
again, again, again.
You’re laughter in the morning,
London show nights,
and ever, the afterglow.
You’re the best of every day
in each and every way…
I could go on,
but maybe best confined,
to render you sublime,
my constant wish
to remain entwined,
to cherish and adore,
my ever lovely
I wouldn’t usually (re) publish two poems over two days but on the 11th January last year our beloved hound, Phoebe, died, and we remember her, miss her and relish the time we had together. This is dedicated to all dog/animal lovers ; it’s the price we pay?
For Phoebe, the dog star.
(i) The joy of running.
A bolt from the blue,
A golden arrow streaking , skirting Newport bay
Effortlessly matching sand sail and surf.
A pimple, possibly canine, on the farthest horizon
was enough to take you away,
bullet running, wide pawed dancing.
Find the fiercest dog you could – and make it chase you!
You and Maisie rising and falling like dolphins
in the meadow sweet, long grass of summer.
In Wiltshire woods the intoxicating frustration of putting up deer,
glad running into the copses,
thundering through bramble and bracken,
off, into the dim distance.
Leaving us with the panicky emptiness of the long wait.
half an hour, maybe more,
then you would appear, purple tongue, seemingly a mile long,
hawking for breath, flat out on the green downs.
(ii) A wolf god.
Eyes, soul pooled,
Anput, Egyptian dog princess,
Pharaoh dog, friend to Anubis.
strong willed and sublime.
(iii) The ghost dog.
Nothing here of your decline,
just the final, dreadful, sting.
Hot teared night, tumbling on your velvet snout.
Earth drenched, she sleeps, soft blanketed.
A grave peppered with violas and first daffodils.
Now, a ghost dog walking with us.
Through Pengelly woods, wintered, mulched and mudded.
Teifi Lakes spiced with snow.
The estuary, silvered, flat calm and kind.
The pine forest near Lampeter, muffled.
Is that you?
A shivering movement amidst the trees.
A backwards glance, somehow you fill the space.
A muted howl of greeting, a murmur on the breeze?
We too will be scattered skywards,
dark skies and moonbeams,
And, out there,
awaits our Sirius,
our dog star.
Phoebe was a lurcher, saluki, greyhound cross. A Battersea Cats and Dogs rescue hound. A huge character, acknowledged as a beauty by pretty much everyone she met. She was really quite regal, did not offer her affection lightly, and had a wicked sense of humour and mischief. A dog, yes, but so very much more. She lifted and lightened our lives for some 15 years or so, and we miss her terribly.
This poem is the best I can do. 7/2/17.
It has been said, “time heals all wounds.” I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.
Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy.
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?