Modern Times?

It’s Easter Sunday 2018

The train tumbling towards

Pembrokeshire,

Sea spray, sandcastles, estuary breath.

Elsewhere

The British Bulldog

American Eagle

Russian Bear

Square off

Set to

Diplomatic degeneration

Stains the air

( Trouble, the world over,

Done to death).

But the seabirds

The ragged pastured ponies

The coastline

Trees

They don’t care

Where this all is leading

Nor stand

Nor stare.

The Easter mystery

Out there

Magic and loss

Receding.

Beware!

We ought to learn from history

( The fuse lit

Flames may burn

Ancient wounds, lingering slights, insults perceived

Return)

We need to know

I believe it so

Bested by legend

Let’s not be deceived

Enriched through history

Not governed by it.

Dydd Gŵyl Dewi hapus, Happy St David’s Day

(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 –

do try.

And let your angels be singing.

Let your angels be singing.

Dydd Gŵyl Dewi hapus

Helen Carey’s novels as audio books…an embarrassment of riches.

via Listening v. reading

The dog star (revisited)

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,

kohl lined.

Anput, Egyptian dog princess,

Pharaoh dog, friend to Anubis.

Easy humoured,

curious,

strong willed and sublime.

Inscrutable, imperious,

Ready beauty,

indisputable.

(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?

(iv) Someday.

We too will be scattered skywards,

dark skies and moonbeams,

flung afar.

And, out there,

somewhere,

awaits our Sirius,

burning bright.

Phoebe,

ever

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.

the Christmas Gift

Here is a poem that I have shared before – but I feel (I hope) it bears repeating…as this Christmas approaches, and the ‘festive season’ is upon us, there are (still) too many troubles and troubled in this world of ours?

To everyone who is gracious enough to follow this Blog – my thanks and appreciation. And, whatever your beliefs, creed, disposition ; good fortune ahead to you and yours, and let us hope for better things in 2018,  for those not yet experiencing the good times.

 Carningli.

THE CHRISTMAS GIFT

The season of storms is upon us,

but a recent, magical day,

gave us the gift of the estuary,

stilled and low sunlight warmed,

the plumped, moss banked waters, becalmed.

I look up at our house

the farm nestling on the hill,

where your window is soft lit and the fire burns within,

and I am so very fortunate to be glad homed and hearthed,

protected, still.

Yet in Syria the snow is falling,

refugees flee, no journey’s end,

troubled children cry in the Philippines

desolation and ruin beckon in South Sudan,

here, our homeless shiver as sleet descends

no comfort at fireside, no family, few friends.

On the estuary, the oyster catchers carol and trill,

as the sanderlings stuttered

seaside run the breeze unfettered,

unzipped, undone,

whilst the cry of the gulls, mourns and chides

and the white lipped tide tumbles,

salt water sprayed and spun,

open mouthed for the gathering chill.

And in the early hours,

by now, rain and wind maddened,

on my radio as I lie enveloped in the duveted darkness

as the World is Served by the BBC I learn that,

in Yemen young girls find themselves sold as child brides

no gifts to share, precious little charity?

But I am loved, cosseted and cared

for neither cavalier nor complacent,

this much I know but grateful,

sometimes almost guilty that life,

the world should spare me so.

And so, a few days before Christmas,

I turned for home, such a very precious phrase.

And, if I had a wish for these and future days,

and could share it with the mountain’s Saint,

Brynnach, lingering – perhaps – above.

I would ask this Christmas Gift,

for the world,

love,

there must be love.