A lone, golden leaf flutters in the wind,
Serrated edges and bronze inserts.
His oak tree father is poised, proud and firm.
A storm cloud rises,
The golden edges shudder,
Locked in a vortex of air.
The storm rages all day,
The golden leaf buffeted,
Powerless against nature's force.
In the morning, a new dawn.
An auspicious calm reigns.
The little leaf alive, renewed reborn.
Fly away little leaf, fly away,
Over hilltops and streams,
Let this life take you where it will.
In a snowdrop-filled dell,
Something golden shimmers amongst the white,
A half-buried treasure awaiting a home.
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Sunday, 27 December 2009
Walk No.4 - Addington Hill via various South East London open spaces
Walk No.4 - Addington Hill via various South East London Open Spaces
Date: Sunday 27th December 2009
Time: 0930 to 1600
Weather: Dry, with occasional bright spells, a cold wind.
Length: 16 miles(!); verified by 3 members of the Hampstead Ramblers.
Quote of the day: 'Philosophy is homesickness' (by Plato - we think).
The Ramblers Society are trying to re-brand. Consequently they are hosting a nationwide 'Festival of Winter Walks'. I already mentioned that I'm a lazy arse and hate the responsibility of leading a walk, but I fancied some exercise to stir up the post-Christmas digestive juices and calm my roaming mind.
The 0930 start from Clapham Junction was unappealing but as I know from experience it's great once you are up! For once I had the perfect public transport experience - the 341 to Waterloo arrived exactly on cue and I even had time for coffee at Waterloo before taking the train to Clapham, arriving early!
It was hard not to spot the Ramblers; they conformed to type. But, if you can't beat them join them. And so we did. My walk partner was Alastair. He was pretty much on home turf, this being a south east London ramble and a lot of it was familiar to me. I lived for six months in West Norwood and grew to love solitary Sunday wanders around Dulwich Park, ambles around the diminutive Dulwich Picture Gallery and the food and drink places in Crystal Palace.
The walk leader was a reticent lady of a certain age. She said little and strode off at an alarming pace barely stopping to take breath. She became like a mirage on the horizon, a small, stooped figure who never got any closer. We lost 3 walkers over the course of the day and we brought up the rear for most of it. I have a new found respect for these people.
Clapham junction station by the ticket barriers: c. 10 conspicuous ramblers.
Clapham Common post-Christmas - dog walkers and joggers in black lycra.
The bandstand empty; the cafe closed; the toilets locked.
Brixton Prison walls, tall and foreboding.
A black painted windmill c.1816 (remember Brixton village).
Brockwell Park; manor house on a hill.
A green refuge from Afro-Caribbean craziness.
Dulwich Village, leafier and more refined.
Dulwich College: a bastion of schooling for boys.
Dulwich Wood in mud.
A dog's delight.
Crystal Palace at the height of telecommunications.
And home of a very large swimming pool.
Twisting and turning through suburban streets.
Marvelling at the pebble dash.
Tired legs and tired tongues.
The gaps between us widen.
A dash to the finish up a muddy hill.
Sundown from the viewpoint: London lit up.
Date: Sunday 27th December 2009
Time: 0930 to 1600
Weather: Dry, with occasional bright spells, a cold wind.
Length: 16 miles(!); verified by 3 members of the Hampstead Ramblers.
Quote of the day: 'Philosophy is homesickness' (by Plato - we think).
The Ramblers Society are trying to re-brand. Consequently they are hosting a nationwide 'Festival of Winter Walks'. I already mentioned that I'm a lazy arse and hate the responsibility of leading a walk, but I fancied some exercise to stir up the post-Christmas digestive juices and calm my roaming mind.
The 0930 start from Clapham Junction was unappealing but as I know from experience it's great once you are up! For once I had the perfect public transport experience - the 341 to Waterloo arrived exactly on cue and I even had time for coffee at Waterloo before taking the train to Clapham, arriving early!
It was hard not to spot the Ramblers; they conformed to type. But, if you can't beat them join them. And so we did. My walk partner was Alastair. He was pretty much on home turf, this being a south east London ramble and a lot of it was familiar to me. I lived for six months in West Norwood and grew to love solitary Sunday wanders around Dulwich Park, ambles around the diminutive Dulwich Picture Gallery and the food and drink places in Crystal Palace.
The walk leader was a reticent lady of a certain age. She said little and strode off at an alarming pace barely stopping to take breath. She became like a mirage on the horizon, a small, stooped figure who never got any closer. We lost 3 walkers over the course of the day and we brought up the rear for most of it. I have a new found respect for these people.
Clapham junction station by the ticket barriers: c. 10 conspicuous ramblers.
Clapham Common post-Christmas - dog walkers and joggers in black lycra.
The bandstand empty; the cafe closed; the toilets locked.
Brixton Prison walls, tall and foreboding.
A black painted windmill c.1816 (remember Brixton village).
Brockwell Park; manor house on a hill.
A green refuge from Afro-Caribbean craziness.
Dulwich Village, leafier and more refined.
Dulwich College: a bastion of schooling for boys.
Dulwich Wood in mud.
A dog's delight.
Crystal Palace at the height of telecommunications.
And home of a very large swimming pool.
Twisting and turning through suburban streets.
Marvelling at the pebble dash.
Tired legs and tired tongues.
The gaps between us widen.
A dash to the finish up a muddy hill.
Sundown from the viewpoint: London lit up.
Monday, 21 December 2009
Walk No.3 - Part of the Parkland Walk
The Parkland Walk; Sunday 20th December 2009.
Weather: Crisp, cold, sunny, still.
The Parkland Walk is a collection of green links in north London from Finsbury Park to Alexandra Palace and back, via Highgate Wood along the course of an old railway. I have done it before, but yesterday we needed something local and easy. It fits the bill perfectly.
It was an incredibly crisp winters day. The sun shone all day, but the chill never left the air. The remains of the mid-week snow had hardened and turned treacherous. We slipped on diamonds.
Slow foot, tread carefully.
Hard snow, semi-permanent icicles.
Bird feeding frenzy while light remains.
A robin scratching in exposed mud.
A railway bridge reclaimed by artists.
Graffiti on graffiti.
Walking aimlessly along a path,
Expecting the snow queen to emerge.
Hunger takes over,
We seek civilisation.
Emotional revelations by the fireside.
Whisky and ginger and leaky windows.
Back outdoors; the cold sucks out breath.
Icy fingers probing under layers.
A clear sky
A crescent moon and Jupiter shines forth.
Weather: Crisp, cold, sunny, still.
The Parkland Walk is a collection of green links in north London from Finsbury Park to Alexandra Palace and back, via Highgate Wood along the course of an old railway. I have done it before, but yesterday we needed something local and easy. It fits the bill perfectly.
It was an incredibly crisp winters day. The sun shone all day, but the chill never left the air. The remains of the mid-week snow had hardened and turned treacherous. We slipped on diamonds.
Slow foot, tread carefully.
Hard snow, semi-permanent icicles.
Bird feeding frenzy while light remains.
A robin scratching in exposed mud.
A railway bridge reclaimed by artists.
Graffiti on graffiti.
Walking aimlessly along a path,
Expecting the snow queen to emerge.
Hunger takes over,
We seek civilisation.
Emotional revelations by the fireside.
Whisky and ginger and leaky windows.
Back outdoors; the cold sucks out breath.
Icy fingers probing under layers.
A clear sky
A crescent moon and Jupiter shines forth.
Wednesday, 16 December 2009
The SAD Lamp
The SAD Lamp
In the bleak mid-winter its hard to see.
Skin translucent.
Eyes like coal.
There is a solution..
Its called the SAD Lamp.
It sits in the corner pretending to be the sun.
It is a silent beacon.
Reliable (if programmed every night).
Smooth and crescent shaped.
With a glow-in-the dark digital clock.
It is unphased by seasons or hemispheres or weather patterns.
Just a little bit of light stuff to brighten up your day.
In the bleak mid-winter its hard to see.
Skin translucent.
Eyes like coal.
There is a solution..
Its called the SAD Lamp.
It sits in the corner pretending to be the sun.
It is a silent beacon.
Reliable (if programmed every night).
Smooth and crescent shaped.
With a glow-in-the dark digital clock.
It is unphased by seasons or hemispheres or weather patterns.
Just a little bit of light stuff to brighten up your day.
Thursday, 10 December 2009
Goodbye my summer love
You were my spring love, then summer and sometimes autumn.
We were all sweetness and light.
There were overcast skies as the autumn of our love approached.
Then they darkened.
You missed the sun and the clouds remained.
Your rain of tears fell steadily.
And then an epiphany; a thunderous moment.
Lightening struck and you fled.
I was left in the eye of the storm.
Awaiting rescue.
It never came.
So now I survey the wreckage and hope for sunny spells.
The Yardstick
You measured my love like a yardstick.
An extra inch for this (on a good day).
Minus two for that (on an off day)
It seemed like the measure stick got longer..
Either that or I was very bad.
I was chasing inches but losing metres along the way.
I sought to measure up;
Stand up, be straight, smarten up.
Give a lot.
Square up.
Be silent.
Listen.
Wait, then try to catch up.
I was juggling metrics and imperial measurements.
Nothing added up.
But one day I caught up.
The calculations calculated.
My love immeasurable.
The yardstick gone.
You triumphant;
A barely perceptible sneer across your lips.
And you say:
I'm done with counting.
On Love
You make feel alive she said.
On good days she was up touching the sky.
We were flying together in a heart-shaped balloon.
It pumped and pumped the blood of our love.
It pumped us dry.
On Anger
You never listen to me she said.
Her rage was a red bubble,
Pulsating and venomous.
So, I walked away ignorant,
Avoiding trouble.
On Sadness
I can November she said,
And I can't see you.
I must turn to face this world alone;
December, January, February too.
I looked to the turning trees for answers but only the west wind blew.
On Liberty
I feel like I can breathe again she said.
I am free from the weight of you.
But freedom came at cost.
The loss of mine,
I'm doing time without you.
We were all sweetness and light.
There were overcast skies as the autumn of our love approached.
Then they darkened.
You missed the sun and the clouds remained.
Your rain of tears fell steadily.
And then an epiphany; a thunderous moment.
Lightening struck and you fled.
I was left in the eye of the storm.
Awaiting rescue.
It never came.
So now I survey the wreckage and hope for sunny spells.
The Yardstick
You measured my love like a yardstick.
An extra inch for this (on a good day).
Minus two for that (on an off day)
It seemed like the measure stick got longer..
Either that or I was very bad.
I was chasing inches but losing metres along the way.
I sought to measure up;
Stand up, be straight, smarten up.
Give a lot.
Square up.
Be silent.
Listen.
Wait, then try to catch up.
I was juggling metrics and imperial measurements.
Nothing added up.
But one day I caught up.
The calculations calculated.
My love immeasurable.
The yardstick gone.
You triumphant;
A barely perceptible sneer across your lips.
And you say:
I'm done with counting.
On Love
You make feel alive she said.
On good days she was up touching the sky.
We were flying together in a heart-shaped balloon.
It pumped and pumped the blood of our love.
It pumped us dry.
On Anger
You never listen to me she said.
Her rage was a red bubble,
Pulsating and venomous.
So, I walked away ignorant,
Avoiding trouble.
On Sadness
I can November she said,
And I can't see you.
I must turn to face this world alone;
December, January, February too.
I looked to the turning trees for answers but only the west wind blew.
On Liberty
I feel like I can breathe again she said.
I am free from the weight of you.
But freedom came at cost.
The loss of mine,
I'm doing time without you.
Monday night bowling
Monday Night Bowling - 7.12.09
Mondays are such a non day. On midday this Monday I was invited out ten-pin bowling. Suddenly my Monday was looking up. Auspiciously I had chosen to wear my sporty T-shirt and leopard print trainers, ideal bowling wear...
We went to Elephant and Castle bowling alley. A far cry from wannabe 50s' retro joints like you get in Central London - those horrible places with low ceilings, cranked up music and full of drunken yoofs. No Elephant is way different. For a start its going to be pulled down anytime soon, another loser to London regeneration, and thus any trip seems particularly poignant because it could be your last.. secondly it is unashamedly dated and shabby. I love the ripped upholstery and basic staffing (one guy runs the bar and the restaurant the shoe hire booth), as well as the dented, scuffed bowling balls.
Monday night is a weird night to go bowling. There are no crowds, just King Pins endlessly perfecting their technique. There are couples though who just hang out in the booths fornicating. Aah the romance.
We played two games. I was well beaten by Alastair, but I can't even begin to compete at his level. I was happy with my 3 strikes.
The break was spent discussing astronomy, existentialism, Newcastle and Green Sundays.
A fab night all in all.
As you leave you exit via the shopping centre, a bleak, empty gallery of lost capitalism. The closed down shops and space are now more reminiscent of the eastern block. It already feels like it has faded into memory. But, I hope we can get a few more games in before it does...
Mondays are such a non day. On midday this Monday I was invited out ten-pin bowling. Suddenly my Monday was looking up. Auspiciously I had chosen to wear my sporty T-shirt and leopard print trainers, ideal bowling wear...
We went to Elephant and Castle bowling alley. A far cry from wannabe 50s' retro joints like you get in Central London - those horrible places with low ceilings, cranked up music and full of drunken yoofs. No Elephant is way different. For a start its going to be pulled down anytime soon, another loser to London regeneration, and thus any trip seems particularly poignant because it could be your last.. secondly it is unashamedly dated and shabby. I love the ripped upholstery and basic staffing (one guy runs the bar and the restaurant the shoe hire booth), as well as the dented, scuffed bowling balls.
Monday night is a weird night to go bowling. There are no crowds, just King Pins endlessly perfecting their technique. There are couples though who just hang out in the booths fornicating. Aah the romance.
We played two games. I was well beaten by Alastair, but I can't even begin to compete at his level. I was happy with my 3 strikes.
The break was spent discussing astronomy, existentialism, Newcastle and Green Sundays.
A fab night all in all.
As you leave you exit via the shopping centre, a bleak, empty gallery of lost capitalism. The closed down shops and space are now more reminiscent of the eastern block. It already feels like it has faded into memory. But, I hope we can get a few more games in before it does...
Saturday, 5 December 2009
South America, New Zealand, Australia and South East Asia in 9 months
In 2004/2005 I left my job and London to go travelling. It also marked the end of my first serious relationship. She and I were together for around 5 years and I left with a hunger for new experience and adventure and a need to heal myself. I travelled alone, picking up and dropping randoms along the way and building a set of memories that will stay with me forever. I kept a journal of the entire trip and I'm glad I did - so many snatched conversations and moments that can get forgotten but are often the most powerful parts of a trip. Those moments are all documented by hand in various journals; no editing, no spell checking, just exactly as I experienced them.
Poem 1: Island Life - In New Zealand I headed to the South Island and then jumped across to a remote island called Stewart Island. Very few people live there and I stayed in a freezing cottage called Ann's Place. Generally I was fine travelling on my own, but at this point I reached a point of extreme solitude. Its almost that point when you realise that you have to much clarity, too much time to think and I really started to crave human company. There are a few smaller islands near Stewart Island; one is called Ulva Island. You can only spend a few hours there. It is essentially a nature reserve. It was a beautiful place and inspired me to write this poem.
13.04.05: Island Life
Thick bush,
Impenetrable, deep and dark.
And yet inside it harbours a wealth of life:
Tangled creepers,
Gnarled trunks,
The trill of the tui,
The flap of wings,
A rustle in the undergrowth.
And then...
An opening,
A glade,
A view of the outside,
A bay of paradise; with still, emerald waters.
A wader probing at the shore and the white, pristine sands of an unnamed beach.
Long, unending days.
The lazy ways of Island Life.
I've been flicking through old travel notebooks. It was nice to find a list of my favourite memories of the long trip.
1) The Peruvian family I stayed with in Cusco.
2) Hiking the Inca Trail.
3) Xmas and the New Year in the Peruvian Jungle.
4) Balmy nights and days in vibrant Buenos Aires.
5) Two day road trip along Ruta 40; 1,000km of wild, Patagonian steppe, bordered by the rugged Andes.
6) Mount Fitzroy in El Chalten, Parque National los Glacieres.
7) Standing on the tip of South America in Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego, the most southerly city in the world.
8) Five days hiking and camping in Torres del Paine, Chile with a mad scouser. Finishing with a 4am night trek to the summit of the Torres and watching dawn break from the top - magical.
9) Lenny Kravitz concert in the National Stadium, Santiago de Chile.
10) Mendoza the Argentine wine region and the many nights spent drinking fine red wine.
11) Wellington, New Zealand, the windy city.
12) Seeing a Royal Albatross on the Otago Peninsula.
13) Stewart Island, South Island New Zealand for the ultimate solitary experience.
14) Hiking the Routeburn trail in the pouring rain.
15) Sea kayaking in Abel Tasman National Park.
16) Watching the sunset over Sydney Harbour.
17) Attending a 'Bush barbie' at the home of my cousin who lives in Minlanton, on the Yorke Peninsula Australia.
18) Spending the night out under swags in the red centre with the milky way above.
19) The multitude of stars, planets, and the Milky Way in the Southern Hemisphere.
20) Snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef.
21) Cycling and canoeing in Atherton Tablelands.
22) Farmstay on Cape Tribulation, Queensland, Australia.
23) The intricacy of mangrove forests.
24) 'Winter Carnival' in Port Douglas, Queensland - i.e. fish markets, tropical stalls and barbeques on the beach.
26) Floating fish restaurant on the fringes of Bangkok.
27) Four wheel drive round the 'Golden Triangle' (Thailand, Laos, Burma) and touching Burma.
28) Staying with a Northern Thai hill tribe and fretting about malarial mosquitoes.
29) Slow boat down the Mekong River.
30) Karaoke in a Bangkok brothel.
In Australia I was struck my so many things, the contrasting landscapes, the unique and bizarre animals and birds, the glorious sunshine, the outdoor culture, the brashness, the beer, but also scratching at the surface a seedy underculture; a forgotten ill-treatment of the native Aborignes and all the while they are noticeable, sad and forlorn like misfits in a world they once owned.
Aborigne
What kills a man's hope?
His desire to live?
You sit there;
Beaten, battered, broken.
Roused by the occasional cling-clang of the tram.
In your drunken stupor do you dream the life of your ancestors?
What broke your soul?
If there was a way could I breathe new life into you?
Whatever happened to you.
I pray, I hope.
That one day you can be reconciled with your old life.
A world that predates all else.
Red Earth
Red earth.
Scorched by endless sun.
The ochre of life.
Red-like sunset.
Blood-red battle.
The colour of rage.
Harsh and uninviting.
Many have perished.
Treading your weather-beaten path.
I long to taste you.
To feel you on my skin.
To smear myself in you.
Red earth.
The soul of this land.
The mother of all.
Chile
In Chile and Argentina I trekked. The great outdoors sustained me. I was in love with this land. The empty Patagonian plains, the low skies, the food, the people, the exoticism. I met so many people as I travelled through South America, zig-zagging southwards from Bueno Aires, from one awe-inspiring landscape to the next.
In Puerto Natales, Chile, I spent a few days with a teacher of Latin-American literature. He spoke beautifully and we translated Pablo Neruda poetry together. He gave me his cherished book of Neruda poems which I still have. I'll never forget the night we spent together, drinking red wine and discussing poetry til the sun came up.
The Moment
You said we were the same.
You saw it in me.
What was it?
The inner sadness we share?
We talked.
We walked.
We drank 'Gato Negra'.
We returned, knowing where we were headed.
In the room we kiss.
Your moustache feels strange.
Your jumper is itchy.
Our clothes removed and to bed,
Overcome with lust.
We roll around like animals.
We fight each other.
I desperately want you inside me.
And yet, equally I don't.
Your small, gentle fingers,
So unusual for a man.
You touch like an experienced lover.
I never expected this of you.
And then the intruder.
His world-weary eyes suddenly anew.
He leaves in a hurry.
To give us back our moment.
But, for me at least the moment is gone.
I hurriedly dress,
Don't look,
So I avoid the hurt in your eyes.
The moment has gone.
Lust unfulfilled.
But your touch was gentle and for that I am grateful.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The time approached to come home again. I was ready. I was tired of moving from place to place. It was time to stop.
The Passage
My passage,
A voyage of discovery,
To 'infinity and beyond'
Or almost.
This journey has been long.
I have moved between countries
And over continents
Land and sea.
Oceans apart.
Land mass separation.
I am bewitched by the beauty of the earth.
Mother Earth is strong.
I genuflect to her Majesty.
With one false move she can destroy a millennium of work.
Take pride in her strength her creation.
The passage almost over,
I reflect.
Take refuge in memories and thoughts,
And prepare for my return.
Poem 1: Island Life - In New Zealand I headed to the South Island and then jumped across to a remote island called Stewart Island. Very few people live there and I stayed in a freezing cottage called Ann's Place. Generally I was fine travelling on my own, but at this point I reached a point of extreme solitude. Its almost that point when you realise that you have to much clarity, too much time to think and I really started to crave human company. There are a few smaller islands near Stewart Island; one is called Ulva Island. You can only spend a few hours there. It is essentially a nature reserve. It was a beautiful place and inspired me to write this poem.
13.04.05: Island Life
Thick bush,
Impenetrable, deep and dark.
And yet inside it harbours a wealth of life:
Tangled creepers,
Gnarled trunks,
The trill of the tui,
The flap of wings,
A rustle in the undergrowth.
And then...
An opening,
A glade,
A view of the outside,
A bay of paradise; with still, emerald waters.
A wader probing at the shore and the white, pristine sands of an unnamed beach.
Long, unending days.
The lazy ways of Island Life.
I've been flicking through old travel notebooks. It was nice to find a list of my favourite memories of the long trip.
1) The Peruvian family I stayed with in Cusco.
2) Hiking the Inca Trail.
3) Xmas and the New Year in the Peruvian Jungle.
4) Balmy nights and days in vibrant Buenos Aires.
5) Two day road trip along Ruta 40; 1,000km of wild, Patagonian steppe, bordered by the rugged Andes.
6) Mount Fitzroy in El Chalten, Parque National los Glacieres.
7) Standing on the tip of South America in Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego, the most southerly city in the world.
8) Five days hiking and camping in Torres del Paine, Chile with a mad scouser. Finishing with a 4am night trek to the summit of the Torres and watching dawn break from the top - magical.
9) Lenny Kravitz concert in the National Stadium, Santiago de Chile.
10) Mendoza the Argentine wine region and the many nights spent drinking fine red wine.
11) Wellington, New Zealand, the windy city.
12) Seeing a Royal Albatross on the Otago Peninsula.
13) Stewart Island, South Island New Zealand for the ultimate solitary experience.
14) Hiking the Routeburn trail in the pouring rain.
15) Sea kayaking in Abel Tasman National Park.
16) Watching the sunset over Sydney Harbour.
17) Attending a 'Bush barbie' at the home of my cousin who lives in Minlanton, on the Yorke Peninsula Australia.
18) Spending the night out under swags in the red centre with the milky way above.
19) The multitude of stars, planets, and the Milky Way in the Southern Hemisphere.
20) Snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef.
21) Cycling and canoeing in Atherton Tablelands.
22) Farmstay on Cape Tribulation, Queensland, Australia.
23) The intricacy of mangrove forests.
24) 'Winter Carnival' in Port Douglas, Queensland - i.e. fish markets, tropical stalls and barbeques on the beach.
26) Floating fish restaurant on the fringes of Bangkok.
27) Four wheel drive round the 'Golden Triangle' (Thailand, Laos, Burma) and touching Burma.
28) Staying with a Northern Thai hill tribe and fretting about malarial mosquitoes.
29) Slow boat down the Mekong River.
30) Karaoke in a Bangkok brothel.
In Australia I was struck my so many things, the contrasting landscapes, the unique and bizarre animals and birds, the glorious sunshine, the outdoor culture, the brashness, the beer, but also scratching at the surface a seedy underculture; a forgotten ill-treatment of the native Aborignes and all the while they are noticeable, sad and forlorn like misfits in a world they once owned.
Aborigne
What kills a man's hope?
His desire to live?
You sit there;
Beaten, battered, broken.
Roused by the occasional cling-clang of the tram.
In your drunken stupor do you dream the life of your ancestors?
What broke your soul?
If there was a way could I breathe new life into you?
Whatever happened to you.
I pray, I hope.
That one day you can be reconciled with your old life.
A world that predates all else.
Red Earth
Red earth.
Scorched by endless sun.
The ochre of life.
Red-like sunset.
Blood-red battle.
The colour of rage.
Harsh and uninviting.
Many have perished.
Treading your weather-beaten path.
I long to taste you.
To feel you on my skin.
To smear myself in you.
Red earth.
The soul of this land.
The mother of all.
Chile
In Chile and Argentina I trekked. The great outdoors sustained me. I was in love with this land. The empty Patagonian plains, the low skies, the food, the people, the exoticism. I met so many people as I travelled through South America, zig-zagging southwards from Bueno Aires, from one awe-inspiring landscape to the next.
In Puerto Natales, Chile, I spent a few days with a teacher of Latin-American literature. He spoke beautifully and we translated Pablo Neruda poetry together. He gave me his cherished book of Neruda poems which I still have. I'll never forget the night we spent together, drinking red wine and discussing poetry til the sun came up.
The Moment
You said we were the same.
You saw it in me.
What was it?
The inner sadness we share?
We talked.
We walked.
We drank 'Gato Negra'.
We returned, knowing where we were headed.
In the room we kiss.
Your moustache feels strange.
Your jumper is itchy.
Our clothes removed and to bed,
Overcome with lust.
We roll around like animals.
We fight each other.
I desperately want you inside me.
And yet, equally I don't.
Your small, gentle fingers,
So unusual for a man.
You touch like an experienced lover.
I never expected this of you.
And then the intruder.
His world-weary eyes suddenly anew.
He leaves in a hurry.
To give us back our moment.
But, for me at least the moment is gone.
I hurriedly dress,
Don't look,
So I avoid the hurt in your eyes.
The moment has gone.
Lust unfulfilled.
But your touch was gentle and for that I am grateful.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The time approached to come home again. I was ready. I was tired of moving from place to place. It was time to stop.
The Passage
My passage,
A voyage of discovery,
To 'infinity and beyond'
Or almost.
This journey has been long.
I have moved between countries
And over continents
Land and sea.
Oceans apart.
Land mass separation.
I am bewitched by the beauty of the earth.
Mother Earth is strong.
I genuflect to her Majesty.
With one false move she can destroy a millennium of work.
Take pride in her strength her creation.
The passage almost over,
I reflect.
Take refuge in memories and thoughts,
And prepare for my return.
Walk No.2 - The Railway Fields, Haringey
Strictly speaking this wasn't a walk. It was a grim November day with frequent, freezing showers and little light all day. I had woken up hungover after a night spent eating delicious tapas food and dulling my senses with Spanish red wine. I was due to entertain in the evening and felt like waking myself up a bit.
I live in Harringay and for the past three and a bit years I have walked down the main street (known as Green Lanes, a thriving hub of Turkish, Greek and European food stores and restaurants) and passed an intriguing gated green space called The Railway Fields. It's never open when I go by and I'm always reminded of the Secret Garden. For all I knew it harboured hundreds of sick children and naughty little girls like Mary Lennox and their menagerie of animals...
Anyway last Saturday it was open and I took my chance.
Walk No.2 - The Railway Fields, Haringay; a Local Nature Reserve of c.1ha: 28th November 2009.
A steep ascent into the unknown.
Sudden silence as I step into the undergrowth - where did the sirens go?
A narrow strip of paradise; nature boxed in.
An adventure playground, the wood slippery and rotten, the swings forlorn.
A meeting place, a hut, currently shut, but come back on Tuesday for tea and gardening.
At the top end the trees collide, my passage blocked.
An abrupt ending.
An about turn.
And back to the bright lights
I live in Harringay and for the past three and a bit years I have walked down the main street (known as Green Lanes, a thriving hub of Turkish, Greek and European food stores and restaurants) and passed an intriguing gated green space called The Railway Fields. It's never open when I go by and I'm always reminded of the Secret Garden. For all I knew it harboured hundreds of sick children and naughty little girls like Mary Lennox and their menagerie of animals...
Anyway last Saturday it was open and I took my chance.
Walk No.2 - The Railway Fields, Haringay; a Local Nature Reserve of c.1ha: 28th November 2009.
A steep ascent into the unknown.
Sudden silence as I step into the undergrowth - where did the sirens go?
A narrow strip of paradise; nature boxed in.
An adventure playground, the wood slippery and rotten, the swings forlorn.
A meeting place, a hut, currently shut, but come back on Tuesday for tea and gardening.
At the top end the trees collide, my passage blocked.
An abrupt ending.
An about turn.
And back to the bright lights
Walk No.1 - Otford to Eynsford via Shoreham
I love walks in the country. To go walking you need enthusiastic friends (at least one). Someone who doesn't mind an earlyish start at the weekend, who accepts the prospect of crap public transport somewhere along the line and who doesn't mind getting muddy and will wear walking gear. I'm not a rambler and hate big walking groups, but I like marching out on uncharted terrain. It doesn't have to be far; there are some cool places just outside London. All you need is a bit of faith and determination. Oh and it helps to have someone with a sense of direction who can read maps. I can do both those things badly and hate the responsibility. Thankfully I have some very talented friends who can do that for me.
I'm now going to document all my walks. Drawing heavily on Ian Sinclair and Richard Long...
I did the following walk on Sunday November 15th with my friend Alastair. He is great company and a confident map reader. All you could want really... and he brought along an incredible lunch, which was much appreciated after the initial steep ascent.
Walk No.1 - Otford to Eynsford via Shoreham (County: Kent). Length: we think about 8/9 miles.
Huffing and puffing up the mound.
Sandwiches from our youth - corned beef and pork pie encased in cellophane.
Sloshing mud and swishing through leaves.
The deep, earthy smell of wet ground.
A dead chaffinch; eyes closed, stiff and beautiful in repose.
A majestic oak, stripped bare by autumn storms, standing firm and proud and alone in a field of cabbages.
A flock of fieldfare and the flash of red breast in the undergrowth.
A manor house with the drawing room open.
A surge of aged ramblers forging ahead.
Stiff legs and menthol sweets.
A field of hops.
A swift pint in the local.
The Sunday train service home.
I'm now going to document all my walks. Drawing heavily on Ian Sinclair and Richard Long...
I did the following walk on Sunday November 15th with my friend Alastair. He is great company and a confident map reader. All you could want really... and he brought along an incredible lunch, which was much appreciated after the initial steep ascent.
Walk No.1 - Otford to Eynsford via Shoreham (County: Kent). Length: we think about 8/9 miles.
Huffing and puffing up the mound.
Sandwiches from our youth - corned beef and pork pie encased in cellophane.
Sloshing mud and swishing through leaves.
The deep, earthy smell of wet ground.
A dead chaffinch; eyes closed, stiff and beautiful in repose.
A majestic oak, stripped bare by autumn storms, standing firm and proud and alone in a field of cabbages.
A flock of fieldfare and the flash of red breast in the undergrowth.
A manor house with the drawing room open.
A surge of aged ramblers forging ahead.
Stiff legs and menthol sweets.
A field of hops.
A swift pint in the local.
The Sunday train service home.
The Moon
A full moon. No stars. A wind that batters the rafters. Darkness that creeps around you like a cloak. We face the wind as hunched beings, bent double, unblinking, stoical.
In the city the moon is redundant. His luminous beam is outshone by the streetlights and the helicopter searchlights. Where is the escapee prisoner? He will not outwit us. No crevice or corner is unlit. We will draw him out.
In the country the moon is the only light. On moonless days, a stark darkness reigns. From nightfall the light endeth. Torch beams pick out the eerie, iridescent green glow of sheep eyes. Eyes that apparently have no form or substance to them. They hang in the dark like jade stones.
In Spanish the moon is feminine. La Luna. I once the discussed the merits (and fairness) of a feminine moon with a Latin American scholar. Why should the radiant sun be masculine I questioned. But the moon represents romance he said. Love and fantasy multiply when darkness descends, secrets and shadows prevail. Surely, the feminine, the fairer should be the moon, her black cloak shroud shielding her vulnerability, her delicate features, her mystery?
His works drew me in and we kissed at dusk. Later she shone, reflected on the lake before us, as if on cue. A bold and bright beacon to our fledgling feelings.
In the morning when El Sol awoke and poked his head on the horizon we could feel the magic slipping away. I left as dawn broke; his brightness burned my eyes and dulled my senses.
In the city the moon is redundant. His luminous beam is outshone by the streetlights and the helicopter searchlights. Where is the escapee prisoner? He will not outwit us. No crevice or corner is unlit. We will draw him out.
In the country the moon is the only light. On moonless days, a stark darkness reigns. From nightfall the light endeth. Torch beams pick out the eerie, iridescent green glow of sheep eyes. Eyes that apparently have no form or substance to them. They hang in the dark like jade stones.
In Spanish the moon is feminine. La Luna. I once the discussed the merits (and fairness) of a feminine moon with a Latin American scholar. Why should the radiant sun be masculine I questioned. But the moon represents romance he said. Love and fantasy multiply when darkness descends, secrets and shadows prevail. Surely, the feminine, the fairer should be the moon, her black cloak shroud shielding her vulnerability, her delicate features, her mystery?
His works drew me in and we kissed at dusk. Later she shone, reflected on the lake before us, as if on cue. A bold and bright beacon to our fledgling feelings.
In the morning when El Sol awoke and poked his head on the horizon we could feel the magic slipping away. I left as dawn broke; his brightness burned my eyes and dulled my senses.
Reflections on Autumn
Autumn
The mornings bite;
Cold teeth on the skin.
The sun hanging in an insipid sky.
Leaves float in the breeze, a myriad of colour.
The watery sunshine picks out a billion spider's webs hanging from the trees;
Their traps are flecked with dew, a collection of tiny dream catchers holding on to summer memories.
The half-light of dusk draws closer each day; cars lit up like beacons, tiny fireflies of the road.
Berries abound.
Conkers fall.
Birds are quietly busy, revelling in the short-term bounty.
The park seems different at home-time; darker, emptier, more ominous.
Autumn never ceases to surprise; every year it catches my breath.
I gasp as daylight is stolen from me, as the cold chills my bones, as my mood darkens.
Winter is coming.
I await the ice.
The mornings bite;
Cold teeth on the skin.
The sun hanging in an insipid sky.
Leaves float in the breeze, a myriad of colour.
The watery sunshine picks out a billion spider's webs hanging from the trees;
Their traps are flecked with dew, a collection of tiny dream catchers holding on to summer memories.
The half-light of dusk draws closer each day; cars lit up like beacons, tiny fireflies of the road.
Berries abound.
Conkers fall.
Birds are quietly busy, revelling in the short-term bounty.
The park seems different at home-time; darker, emptier, more ominous.
Autumn never ceases to surprise; every year it catches my breath.
I gasp as daylight is stolen from me, as the cold chills my bones, as my mood darkens.
Winter is coming.
I await the ice.
My blog
So, I finally decided to set up a blog and get stuff out there. I don't really want this to be some sort of teenage record of everything I've done, but to actually use the space to manage my writing and actually have somewhere to keep all the randoms bits and pieces I write. It may get read by noone but I don't think that matters (although it would be good if it could!).
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