Listen:
The sea is calling.
The lure of the deep.
The thrill of the blue.
The roar of the waves.
Frenzied froth churning.
Salt in the air.
Sharp winds smart the cheek.
The sea
The sea is calling.
Follow the sweet sound of the sirens.
Friday, 23 April 2010
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Iceland
Island of ice and fire.
Interminable summer light.
Winters that seep into an abyss.
The Northern lights: dancing rays of colour.
A country that fell under the weight of capitalist dreams.
A global lesson learned.
And in the spring of 2010 Gaia reigned supreme in this country:
Volcanic ash polluting the skies
Skies which have borne the burden of plane trails, semi-permanent scars of the air.
Dust and ash have created worldwide meltdown.
Blurred our feverish desire to travel.
It began from dust and from ash something new stirs; something mysterious and unknown.
---------------------------------
Iceland is all over the news at the moment. I do find something comforting in all of this though - the thought that for the first time in decades we have air-free space. I hope the atmosphere enjoys the break.
I read a Borges poem called 'Iceland' on Saturday. I came across it randomly and it seemed somehow prophetic.
Iceland (by Jorge Luis Borges)
Iceland of the seas,
how lucky all men are that you exist.
Iceland of the silent snow and the fervent water.
Iceland of the night that overarches
our wakefulness and sleep.
Island of the white returning day,
young and mortal as Balder,.
Icy rose, secret island,
you were Germania's memory;
you saved for us
her snuffed-out, buried myths:
the ring that sires nine rings more,
the giant wolves from iron woods
that will devour sun and moon,
the ship Someone or Something builds
with the fingernails of the dead.
Iceland of craters that bide their time,
and of quiet flocks of sheep.
Iceland of still afternoons
and stalwart men
who are sailors now and boatmen and parishioners,
and who yesterday unearthed a continent.
Island of long-maned horses
that beget on lava beds and grass,
island of water filled with coins
and unquenched hope.
Iceland of the sword and of the rune,
Iceland of the great doomed memory
that knows no longing for the past.
Interminable summer light.
Winters that seep into an abyss.
The Northern lights: dancing rays of colour.
A country that fell under the weight of capitalist dreams.
A global lesson learned.
And in the spring of 2010 Gaia reigned supreme in this country:
Volcanic ash polluting the skies
Skies which have borne the burden of plane trails, semi-permanent scars of the air.
Dust and ash have created worldwide meltdown.
Blurred our feverish desire to travel.
It began from dust and from ash something new stirs; something mysterious and unknown.
---------------------------------
Iceland is all over the news at the moment. I do find something comforting in all of this though - the thought that for the first time in decades we have air-free space. I hope the atmosphere enjoys the break.
I read a Borges poem called 'Iceland' on Saturday. I came across it randomly and it seemed somehow prophetic.
Iceland (by Jorge Luis Borges)
Iceland of the seas,
how lucky all men are that you exist.
Iceland of the silent snow and the fervent water.
Iceland of the night that overarches
our wakefulness and sleep.
Island of the white returning day,
young and mortal as Balder,.
Icy rose, secret island,
you were Germania's memory;
you saved for us
her snuffed-out, buried myths:
the ring that sires nine rings more,
the giant wolves from iron woods
that will devour sun and moon,
the ship Someone or Something builds
with the fingernails of the dead.
Iceland of craters that bide their time,
and of quiet flocks of sheep.
Iceland of still afternoons
and stalwart men
who are sailors now and boatmen and parishioners,
and who yesterday unearthed a continent.
Island of long-maned horses
that beget on lava beds and grass,
island of water filled with coins
and unquenched hope.
Iceland of the sword and of the rune,
Iceland of the great doomed memory
that knows no longing for the past.
Thursday, 15 April 2010
The Prairie
On the plains,
Dust balls blow,
Perennial weeds turn over.
Long grass billowing,
Prairie fowl scratch at bare earth.
Bison roam free again.
A sky low and sullen,
Gathering storm clouds or a hot sun beating down;
Precious rain is rare.
The rush of a train in the distance: no stop here.
Freight moves at pace.
The faint cry of Indians past,
The promise of new lands for new folk: settlers since long gone.
Empty prairies left to reform
At last.
---------------------------------------
When I was kid I loved the Laura Ingles Wilder 'Little House on the Prairie' books. I used to dream of living on the barren North American plains, forging a life as a new settler. I started to think about the prairie last night; I don't know why.
Dust balls blow,
Perennial weeds turn over.
Long grass billowing,
Prairie fowl scratch at bare earth.
Bison roam free again.
A sky low and sullen,
Gathering storm clouds or a hot sun beating down;
Precious rain is rare.
The rush of a train in the distance: no stop here.
Freight moves at pace.
The faint cry of Indians past,
The promise of new lands for new folk: settlers since long gone.
Empty prairies left to reform
At last.
---------------------------------------
When I was kid I loved the Laura Ingles Wilder 'Little House on the Prairie' books. I used to dream of living on the barren North American plains, forging a life as a new settler. I started to think about the prairie last night; I don't know why.
Gaia
A single system
Into which we are all inextricably bound.
Stable states,
Perfect selection,
A role from major to minor.
Chaos theory.
One small blip.
And the system breaks down.
The universal psyche disrupted.
A mind in meltdown.
The earth is losing itself.
Is it too late? Who can say.
It depends on your state of mind.
Respect the small; they may yet save us.
-----------------------------------------------
Gaia theory by James Lovelock. The theory asserts that everything on the planet is part of a delicately balanced system. He is not optimistic and believes we have meddled with things too much to go back.
Into which we are all inextricably bound.
Stable states,
Perfect selection,
A role from major to minor.
Chaos theory.
One small blip.
And the system breaks down.
The universal psyche disrupted.
A mind in meltdown.
The earth is losing itself.
Is it too late? Who can say.
It depends on your state of mind.
Respect the small; they may yet save us.
-----------------------------------------------
Gaia theory by James Lovelock. The theory asserts that everything on the planet is part of a delicately balanced system. He is not optimistic and believes we have meddled with things too much to go back.
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Art in April
I've been planning a visit to see the major Van Gogh exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts since January. It is entitled 'Van Gogh: the Man and His Letters', essentially exhibiting the written correspondence between him and his brother and his gradual decline into 'madness'. The exhibition finishes this week and I haven't managed to get tickets - they were sold out since around mid-February and there are now three hour queues to collect one of the limited tickets released each morning. Anyway, I resigned myself to this fate and a friend and I decided to go and see Henry Moore at Tate Britain instead.
Henry Moore is a sculptor, famed for his amorphous, proportionally inexact sculptures of women or of mothers and child. He used a variety of materials - elm wood was a favourite but also varying types of stone and casts in bronze. I've seen his work before (there was an outdoor exhibition a couple of years ago at Kew Gardens) and I my indifference to him was reinforced. There is something sinister about those formless beings with pinheads and dots for eyes. I think his most interesting work were the sketches he did during the second world war of Londoners cramped together in the underground during air raids (these are actually figurative and have feeling and depth). I also like his metallic helmets, reflecting his fears around the time of the cold war.
Afterwards, we decided to have a wander around the permanent collections. Tate Britain has the most extensive collection of Turner paintings. Whilst, a lot of the large-scale landscapes are an acquired taste, there is no disputing the man's talent and level of production. I love that a lot of his 'unfinished' works are in themselves masterpieces and served to inspire the future impressionists.
So, to my next trip. Clearly, I have been smarting over Van Gogh and it was actually my boss's idea that I go to Amsterdam and see some of his work in situ - inspired! So, next weekend I shall be boarding a ferry from Harwich in Essex and heading to Holland. Must remember to pack my sea bands!
Henry Moore is a sculptor, famed for his amorphous, proportionally inexact sculptures of women or of mothers and child. He used a variety of materials - elm wood was a favourite but also varying types of stone and casts in bronze. I've seen his work before (there was an outdoor exhibition a couple of years ago at Kew Gardens) and I my indifference to him was reinforced. There is something sinister about those formless beings with pinheads and dots for eyes. I think his most interesting work were the sketches he did during the second world war of Londoners cramped together in the underground during air raids (these are actually figurative and have feeling and depth). I also like his metallic helmets, reflecting his fears around the time of the cold war.
Afterwards, we decided to have a wander around the permanent collections. Tate Britain has the most extensive collection of Turner paintings. Whilst, a lot of the large-scale landscapes are an acquired taste, there is no disputing the man's talent and level of production. I love that a lot of his 'unfinished' works are in themselves masterpieces and served to inspire the future impressionists.
So, to my next trip. Clearly, I have been smarting over Van Gogh and it was actually my boss's idea that I go to Amsterdam and see some of his work in situ - inspired! So, next weekend I shall be boarding a ferry from Harwich in Essex and heading to Holland. Must remember to pack my sea bands!
Monday, 12 April 2010
Simple complexity
A planet
From dust and gas.
Beings
From atoms.
5 billion years
To create complexity.
Conscious minds
Make ever complex things.
Technology that rules us
Binds us
Drives us
Onwards.
STOP
Think
Deconstruct.
Simplicity can be inspiring too.
From dust and gas.
Beings
From atoms.
5 billion years
To create complexity.
Conscious minds
Make ever complex things.
Technology that rules us
Binds us
Drives us
Onwards.
STOP
Think
Deconstruct.
Simplicity can be inspiring too.
Saturday, 10 April 2010
The Early Years
Poems from old notebooks, over 10 years old.
Flicker, Flicker (29.12.98)
Flicker, flicker,
The lights through the trees,
Flash by.
As we roll on our journey to Watford Gap and beyond.
Holiness (30.12.98)
Jesus came to me in a dream one night.
He whispered my name,
And caressed my cheek,
He told me he loved me
In my hour of need.
So now when I pray.
I don't ask for me.
Just ask for forgiveness
For humanity.
Winter (18.1.99)
The sun glints on the river,
Like a giant mirror flashing light.
Buildings like trees,
Flank the water,
And January chill is all around.
Jack Frost's patterns are dispersed by the sun,
Icicle branches melt with ease,
Jack's fingers cut to the knuckles,
Free from the frozen underworld for a few precious hours.
The sun down,
Jack is quick in his work,
Like thieves in the night making mischief.
Ice ice everywhere,
Branches, diamonds, glittering stars,
Jack's frozen forest is formed again.
January (18.1.99)
Grey days
Hazy sun
Diamond flecked branches
White birds on still, glass water
And the moon lurks all day.
In winter the land is transformed
And we rejoice as our breath is taken away.
Lost Love (4.2.99)
The one I love eludes me,
Her features grow distant each day,
Her voice, a song on the wind.
We were once together,
But not as lovers,
Mere friends.
And now I see her never.
I don't know which is worse.
Contradictions (25.11.01)
The prime of my life,
I am.
I am in the prime of my life.
The spice of my life,
The price of my life
Is valueless or worthless?
Spiritual or listless?
Vibrant or jaded?
Happy or sad?
The polar nature of my life.
Nothing balanced,
Nothing right,
Nothing wrong,
Never weak,
But never strong.
Flicker, Flicker (29.12.98)
Flicker, flicker,
The lights through the trees,
Flash by.
As we roll on our journey to Watford Gap and beyond.
Holiness (30.12.98)
Jesus came to me in a dream one night.
He whispered my name,
And caressed my cheek,
He told me he loved me
In my hour of need.
So now when I pray.
I don't ask for me.
Just ask for forgiveness
For humanity.
Winter (18.1.99)
The sun glints on the river,
Like a giant mirror flashing light.
Buildings like trees,
Flank the water,
And January chill is all around.
Jack Frost's patterns are dispersed by the sun,
Icicle branches melt with ease,
Jack's fingers cut to the knuckles,
Free from the frozen underworld for a few precious hours.
The sun down,
Jack is quick in his work,
Like thieves in the night making mischief.
Ice ice everywhere,
Branches, diamonds, glittering stars,
Jack's frozen forest is formed again.
January (18.1.99)
Grey days
Hazy sun
Diamond flecked branches
White birds on still, glass water
And the moon lurks all day.
In winter the land is transformed
And we rejoice as our breath is taken away.
Lost Love (4.2.99)
The one I love eludes me,
Her features grow distant each day,
Her voice, a song on the wind.
We were once together,
But not as lovers,
Mere friends.
And now I see her never.
I don't know which is worse.
Contradictions (25.11.01)
The prime of my life,
I am.
I am in the prime of my life.
The spice of my life,
The price of my life
Is valueless or worthless?
Spiritual or listless?
Vibrant or jaded?
Happy or sad?
The polar nature of my life.
Nothing balanced,
Nothing right,
Nothing wrong,
Never weak,
But never strong.
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Birds, Bees and Miscellaneous things
Rainham Marshes is an oasis of green in Purfleet, Essex. It is owned and managed by the RSPB, a series of reclaimed marshes on the north side of the River Thames. Nature is contained in this small space surrounded by bland infrastructure; flyovers, power stations and even the Channel Tunnel Rail Link beneath. You would think that not much would live here, but it is in fact a wildlife gem.
We visited on the Saturday 27th March. It is accessible by public transport - London overground and then the Essex Coast to Coast service to Purfleet, followed by a short walk to the reserve. We spent a good few hours there. There is lots to explore; the area was previous used for military training and is sprinkled with army paraphernalia; shooting ranges and bunkers.
We kept a little list of all the things we saw:
Goldfinch
Greenfinch
Sparrows
Collared dove
Little egret
A tree full of bees, the air full of scent
Blackbird
Shelduck
Wigeon
Lapwing
Reed bunting
Snipe?
Blue tit
Moorhen
Coot
Mute swan
Mallard
Golden plover
Pheasant
Heron
Magpie
Woodpigeon
Thrush
Dunnock
Tufted duck
Skylark, a melodic song high in the sky
Chiff chaff
Wren
And I ate a magnificent home-prepared packed lunch - home baked dark chocolate biscuits were a particular favourite.
We visited on the Saturday 27th March. It is accessible by public transport - London overground and then the Essex Coast to Coast service to Purfleet, followed by a short walk to the reserve. We spent a good few hours there. There is lots to explore; the area was previous used for military training and is sprinkled with army paraphernalia; shooting ranges and bunkers.
We kept a little list of all the things we saw:
Goldfinch
Greenfinch
Sparrows
Collared dove
Little egret
A tree full of bees, the air full of scent
Blackbird
Shelduck
Wigeon
Lapwing
Reed bunting
Snipe?
Blue tit
Moorhen
Coot
Mute swan
Mallard
Golden plover
Pheasant
Heron
Magpie
Woodpigeon
Thrush
Dunnock
Tufted duck
Skylark, a melodic song high in the sky
Chiff chaff
Wren
And I ate a magnificent home-prepared packed lunch - home baked dark chocolate biscuits were a particular favourite.
Snowdon
Up with the larks.
The sun peers out promising much.
Bundled up in layers,
Eyes peep out
Through fabric.
A rapid ascent,
Boulders and rivulets
Underfoot.
The halfway house
But no time for tea.
March on
Snow deepening
Sky closing in.
Past the railway station
And the point of no return.
A white mirage
Snow blind
Struck dumb by the beauty of ice.
Careful trudge
Following footprints
Onwards
Upwards
Into the wind
Steely determination
A will to win
To defeat the mountain.
To touch the pinnacle.
A moment of joy;
Breathless
Inspired by the beauty around me.
Breathe deeper and suck it in.
The summit.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My dad and I climbed Snowdon on Easter Sunday. It is 3,560ft, the second highest mountain in Britain. The snow was deep, seven foot drifts in part. It was so beautiful; white glare as far as the eye could see. Nothingness. Only snow, ice and wind and fading footprints.
The sun peers out promising much.
Bundled up in layers,
Eyes peep out
Through fabric.
A rapid ascent,
Boulders and rivulets
Underfoot.
The halfway house
But no time for tea.
March on
Snow deepening
Sky closing in.
Past the railway station
And the point of no return.
A white mirage
Snow blind
Struck dumb by the beauty of ice.
Careful trudge
Following footprints
Onwards
Upwards
Into the wind
Steely determination
A will to win
To defeat the mountain.
To touch the pinnacle.
A moment of joy;
Breathless
Inspired by the beauty around me.
Breathe deeper and suck it in.
The summit.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My dad and I climbed Snowdon on Easter Sunday. It is 3,560ft, the second highest mountain in Britain. The snow was deep, seven foot drifts in part. It was so beautiful; white glare as far as the eye could see. Nothingness. Only snow, ice and wind and fading footprints.
Change Afoot
Today the earth smells different
Damp and fecund
And heat radiates after sun down.
The gnarled hawthorn tree is in leaf,
And blossom has already fallen,
Petals like crimson blood on the path.
I felt like a foreigner on my street.
The old new once more.
My head filled with ideas and hopes,
I felt like me again.
Look up,
Look around,
Keep pace with the speed of change.
These are the months of beauty and joy.
Embrace the light, the scent, the change.
Unfurl and uncoil the winter self.
Let new life in.
Damp and fecund
And heat radiates after sun down.
The gnarled hawthorn tree is in leaf,
And blossom has already fallen,
Petals like crimson blood on the path.
I felt like a foreigner on my street.
The old new once more.
My head filled with ideas and hopes,
I felt like me again.
Look up,
Look around,
Keep pace with the speed of change.
These are the months of beauty and joy.
Embrace the light, the scent, the change.
Unfurl and uncoil the winter self.
Let new life in.
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
Poem Friday # 6
The Super-Organism
Red towers on the Afrikkan plains,
Shaped from the belly of the earth.
An ingenious organism lurks beneath;
Labouring at life.
At the heart lives the Queen,
A fat controller,
A factory farmer of eggs.
At her side: The King.
A devoted partner.
A father of plenty.
The workers form the core,
Toiling tirelessly.
Small, yet perfectly formed.
The soldiers guard the Tower.
Steely menace,
Serrated pincers - protecting their Queen.
No light can penetrate this world,
And the air is damp,
With water harvested from the deep.
In this dark place,
Lives a super-organism:
A billion-strong composite parts
Serving their Queen.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In case you are interested, this was inspired by a book I re-read recently called the 'Soul of the White Ant' by Eugene Marais. He was a journalist, lawyer, poet and amateur naturalist and devoted part of his life to the study of the 'white ant' or termite. His theory is that the termite colony is in fact a super-organism with each ant fulfilling the role of an organ i.e. the Queen is the brain, the soldiers the white blood cells and the workers doing pretty much everything in between!
Red towers on the Afrikkan plains,
Shaped from the belly of the earth.
An ingenious organism lurks beneath;
Labouring at life.
At the heart lives the Queen,
A fat controller,
A factory farmer of eggs.
At her side: The King.
A devoted partner.
A father of plenty.
The workers form the core,
Toiling tirelessly.
Small, yet perfectly formed.
The soldiers guard the Tower.
Steely menace,
Serrated pincers - protecting their Queen.
No light can penetrate this world,
And the air is damp,
With water harvested from the deep.
In this dark place,
Lives a super-organism:
A billion-strong composite parts
Serving their Queen.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In case you are interested, this was inspired by a book I re-read recently called the 'Soul of the White Ant' by Eugene Marais. He was a journalist, lawyer, poet and amateur naturalist and devoted part of his life to the study of the 'white ant' or termite. His theory is that the termite colony is in fact a super-organism with each ant fulfilling the role of an organ i.e. the Queen is the brain, the soldiers the white blood cells and the workers doing pretty much everything in between!
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