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
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.
“Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others.” (attributed to Winston Churchill)
Sunday – a rainy day in late June,2016.
The dust is settling,
the leaflets, posters, social media messages, badges
are tumbling forlorn, misspent
nose diving through the ether and the recycling bins.
A nation where a joyful, 52 per cent,
celebrate the gift, apparently,
(Though there’s future hell to be raised,
This referendum now
as ever they were
an unwieldy hammer
to the half split nail
of popular thought
and the nation’s been sold
a blunt and dulling, instrument.
” the people spoke”
(though with only half a voice,
and, a quarter besides,
If you happen to have
you can “like it or lump it”.
For this outcome,
the, all too slight majority,
Depending where, you placed your cross,
join in with,
or tolerate, the triumphant grins,
(though it is hard to joke,
when your breakfast vote
has caused you to choke).
Is there scope to placate?
Or simply the case :
“Get on with it”
“Get over it”
Live with the loss.
Now we all, must wait and see,
the outcome of this heavy handed
dose of democracy.
Yes, perhaps some sovereignty will be restored
European laws – as with some people –
excluded and forlorn,
can be tossed
“We’ve got our country back”.
Village greens can echo to cricket and cream teas,
warm beer, good cheer, the gentle buzzing of the soporific bees.
Markets can crash, governments fall,
who knows, perhaps,
we’ve instigated the collapse of the European Wall.
And we needn’t worry
about the Great Divide,
the angry voice,
of youth, denied.
And, who needs the Union?
Let it fall to its knees.
For we’ve smashed the bureaucrats
stuffed the fat cats
given the politicians a bloody nose
” It’ll all work out well”
(Nervously spoken, whisper it)
” We suppose? ”
The Leave campaigners, must now
for all of us
do the very best they can.
And we have to be sure
(for these are “conviction politicians”)
that they wouldn’t have got us into
this, “short term” mess,
without a very substantial Plan?
The lines in the sand are drawn
new flags unfurled.
I’ll sit and await
(Europe, still born)
the arrival of this
Brave New World.
Marc Mordey 26 6 16
I love this mans work – there’s poetry in photography too. Hope you enjoy.
“A landscape might be denuded, a human settlement abandoned or lost,
but always, just beneath the ground lies
history of preposterous grandeur. .
They are everywhere, these individuals of undaunted humankind,
irrepressibly optimistic and proud.
– The Carpet Wars, Christopher Kremmer
Life in a war zone means that death is always present in the lives of children and their families.All the elements of life and death are in this picture. Boys and girls, graves, playground equipment, and the mosque, all in the shadow of the neighborhood on a hill in Kabul, Afghanistan.
This is Abdul Hadi. He is a teacher in the woodworking school of the Institute of Turquoise Mountain (@turquoisemountain), in Kabul, Afghanistan, where he teaches jali woodwork (latticework). He was a woodworker at the court of the last king of Afghanistan, and then for some 35 years did not have a chance to practice his skills, due to the…
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I don’t recall having been asked to write a poem for a specific occasion before (I did once get asked to read my poetry at a wedding, in what turned out to have been the erstwhile home of Tennyson..I remember thinking that he must have been spinning in his grave!!) – so it was both honouring ,and daunting, to be asked to write for the wedding of two friends. They gave me some key words and I gave them this poem. I hope they like it. And I hope they enjoy long life and great happiness….
Remembered Hills – for Christine and Peter, on your wedding day, 2nd June 2016.
the hills above Black Patch farm
bore witness to our- breath taking – change of heart.
Dancing beneath the moon
smiling serenely above,
wine swung whirls, tenacious twirls,
‘if music be the food of love:
The snowdrops saw love take hold,
and bluebells nodded sagely in fields,
bounded by lakes,
as we fell forward to one another.
The sea sweetly sighed and sang for us as
we wandered together
beached, sand dusted, hand held to each,
the other, entrusted.
Old Harry Rocks gazed upon
as benignly cliff side gulls
wheeled and whirled apparently,
altogether well disposed as ,
word finely, precise, perceptive
you proposed – and I accepted.
magical places sacred spaces.
Here and now we do avow,
remembered hills our testimony,
Then sing; for love does indeed,
Marc Mordey – an absent friend, but with you in spirit. MAY 2016.
This morning I read an article about William Boyd, one of my literary heroes. He was outlining his working day in the Guardian Review and it made me feel even more affinity with him than I did alre…
Source: My Writing Day