The Sea

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.