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
NEWS ON THE LATEST RELEASE BY HELEN CAREY
Stop press! My latest novel LONDON CALLING comes out in paperback in the UK, Europe and Commonwealth next week. I have just received my advance copies and they are looking good! London Calling is s…
Source: LONDON CALLING
What would you have had us remember?
As you mustered in the trenches,
Around the gun emplacements.
As you hopped into the cockpit
And flung yourself skywards,
Or plumbed the depths
Submerged and submarined?
Should we remember your bravery?
Your mockery? Your cynicism in the face of duty?
Your gut wrenching anxiety,
Your fear, your mortal pain,
As you were killed and wounded,
Again and again and again?
Do the flags, the parades,
The preachers, the cavalcades,
Act as sufficient homage?
Or would peace, justice, equality
Be more deserving of your patronage?
It is true.
We must continue,
To remember you.
“Here at the border the leaves are falling, and you, you are a thousand miles away. But there are always two cups at my table.”
Heartfelt thanks Mr Cohen. I will hold your words close. And sympathy to your family and to your friends.
No more words, not just now.
This photo came from his Facebook page. Shared in good faith.
A ‘Messages poem’ – for UK National Poetry Day 7th October 2016
I recently listened to a brilliant and very moving radio documentary on the (ever fantastic) ‘This American Life’ (the link is below) about a Japanese man who has set up a defunct telephone booth, complete with disconnected telephone, in his garden. Because? He wanted to talk with his deceased cousin.
Over the last 5 years, since the tsunami of March 2011, many people have come to use his telephone booth to ‘call up’ their dead loved ones. The programme referred to relates some of the conversations and it is very beautiful if harrowing, to hear them. The second part of the show records the meeting between two, estranged, brothers – both in their 80’s. If you have an hour to spare, this is recommended radio delight!
I guess the programme is all about our need to talk with those we cherish – and yet, all too often, we are unable or unwilling to do so.
The whispering telephone (of Japan)
My cousin left me, drifted away.
A black hearted wave, towering 30 feet and more above
smashed, gorged, demolished
those we love.
The telephone booth rests
goose green in a flowered meadow.
Brothers, lovers, wives and sons
sometimes, one by one.
The messages are often short,
occasionally, they could be misconstrued
Some are breathless, others weep,
a few try to explain
what was it that
the ink souled deep
stole away – and what now remains?
Messages of love :
” Are you eating well?”
“Come home – I will build you a house.”
“I’m in seventh grade now grandfather.”
“Why did you die?”
“Will this sadness ever stop?”
The fingers tremble, hover, hesitate
before the ratcheted dial is turned,
an old fashioned sound
troubles the ether.
There is love here, bravery too.
And, in Japan,
the world over
we talk, we whisper, into lineless depths.
Here is the link to ‘This American Life’ http://audio.thisamericanlife.org/widget/widget.min.js
For H B-C-M!
In the Quaker Garden
A heron takes stately flight.
A moorhen ducks in bobbing fright.
A helicopter overhead does not,
There’s a Chinese garden,
And a rufous tiled boat house to peer in.
Abundant hostas, and
Grassland walks and woodland piles.
Meadowsweet, a watering can waterfall.
Holly green groves.
Flowers to thrill.
A cooling compost overspill.
The clouds frown and the sun,
And I’m enjoying the intermittent silent sweeps
And the bolting blue of a kingfishers
But here’s the thing.
The Quaker planting is a joy
Yet you are ever,
My garden of
to celebrate 4/8/2016 – ten glorious years!
At Strumble Head
A half hour stolen from the day, so
I came to Strumble Head.
The sea, blue grey rolling hillocks.
An oyster catchers cry splitting the bay.
Foxgloves, daisies, sky blue candy tufts,
and a cormorant, jet streaming the billows.
The intermittent mirrored wink of the lighthouse
gleaming, sun streaming.
Always, the inner gasp as a breaking wave
behoves a porpoise – or impossibly not.
Simply in my dolphin dreams?
Ever, the reverberating of the gulls,
persistent squalls, mews, occasional screams.
Outside this bubble, a world becalmed
The noise, the mighty chaos and upheaval,
and the smaller fuss, went on.
In Germany, a man, armed
Took a fatal spree, a cinema shooting run.
A composer died, aged one hundred.
Refugees lay, exposed in 50 degrees of heat,
unhindered by aid, a blanket between seven,
no tents, no water, no food.
As the waves primped and plumed,
how it is that,
across this planet of ours
the odds remained:
As people on our islands voted
Again, again, again…
My mind was tumbling, Strumble bound
To past walks with you, picnics and dogs.
A curious seal, whiskered and severe
Head bobbed brightly in a cove we know.
The coast path meandered, stumbled.
Lost, then found.
Then, returned to my small reality,
albeit cage dragged and reluctantly.
My heart and soul ablaze, it’s true.
For Strumble, Penrallt and so much else besides.
this sea bound, cliff scaped endless beauty.
The odds are stacked,
my card marked…
From, my ever treasured you.
This poem was written on the day of the UK Referendum (aka Independence Day – ha, the irony!) I shall continue to seek refuge in the beauty of landscape, environment and the unconquerable nature of Nature itself. And, am grateful to all – most especially HB, for this was written expressly for you – who have spoiled me with love and affection.
I am indeed, a most fortunate man.