Bard's life

Jane and I have recently returned from Switzerland which was unseasonably warm, so we had the dual pleasure of sunshine and snow when we ventured out for forest walks.  On arrival in Guernsey it was apparent that the island too is experiencing an early Spring, unarguably its most beautiful season.    HIBERNATION

 Hibernation over, they wake hungry. Then swiftly re-engage with animal things: so the cycle begins again. We understand that. Is it fanciful to wonder if they dream? Or is their slumber incomprehensible, like death, devoid of sense of anything?

My previous post referred to the rain of arrows that contributed to the defeat in 1066, at Hastings, of Saxon leader, Harold. Following that decisive battle, William of Normandy's seizure of the throne changed the course of England's history. Today's poem refers to another significant historical moment which occurred at the end of World War Two. ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND We work our fields. The sun is bright. The men sing a patriotic song.  We bend and straighten. Our backs ache. We do not curse: we are polite and strong.  To work is to belong. We toil for the Emperor’s sake. Old Haruki points overhead: a crane is flying from the north.  Its languid wings sweep like brushstrokes. Cranes are good fortune, it is said. We resume plowing, back and forth, joyfully, singing, sharing jokes. I dream of fiery rice wine, ice then flame in my throat; the slow walk homeward. We are a happy crowd. Comradeship, sacred brotherhood, binds us together as we think of our great nation and sing l...

The least likely things can inspire a poem and it was something commonplace that inspired this one. I was out walking one showery October day and, finding myself some distance from home, realised to my dismay that the shower had changed character and become an icy downpour reinforced with sleet. It put me in mind of the lethal hail of Norman arrows that Harold's army must have suffered on that momentous October day back in 1066.    OCTOBER RAIN An aspen in a Norman wood supplied the shaft. A craftsman’s patience straightened, seasoned, then perfected something far removed from nature, shaped the taper, sealed it, gently carved the narrow nock. Fingers, that might pluck a lute on fair-days, set to fletching: grey-goose feathers,  resin gum, fine thread of linen. These would aid trajectory, ensure fidelity of flight. Lastly, a hand affixed with care the arrowhead, the killing-piece, fierce-furnace-forged into a kind of bird-wing-shape with pointed beak, as lethal as a battl...

As the winter nights grow colder and we settle down in the evenings to enjoy music, books or box-sets, it occurs to me how very differently families spent their winter evenings when I was young. Back then in Ireland, a family would gather round the fireside to swap tales, the taller the better. Inevitably, as the night wore on the stories would become more and more spooky. Here's an example.  THE STAIN Alex stepped back and gazed at The Meadow: wild-flowers in the foreground, forest to the left, and in the background, purple mountains in the misty distance. It had the makings of a magnificent picture: a few small touches and it would be finished.  The canvas was a large one, six by seven, and Alex was excited as always when her creative vision began to become reality. Stepping back from the picture, Alex turned to her other work-in-progress, a smaller canvas on which a child’s face was taking shape. Working from memory, Alex, continued to add colour to the cheeks of the young...

My previous post referred the Guernsey's do y enne of the arts, Joan Oza nne , who sadly passed away last year. I wrote the poem, September Song , shortly after attending her memorial service. SEPTEMBER SONG In Memory of Joan Ozanne BEM Outside the parish church, we pause, exchange the old banalities we flee to, at such times, because we cannot face finality, then nod, acknowledging a friend, shake sundry hands, and hasten on but cannot really comprehend that one so long beloved has gone. She seemed so permanent and set on living, never letting go, to relish life and joy and yet seemed not to see death as a foe. The very air appears tight-lipped as though the earth has ceased to sing. It is as though the world has tipped and scattered, headlong, everything.