Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

And in the end what are we all,
A brick from the old Berlin wall?
Somebody’s question or someone’s answer
A puzzle spinning like a dancer?

What are we all? I asked before,
Creatures we are, under the floor,
The maligned rat, the tiny mouse,
In darkness roaming through the house.

We are the dust that in the wind
Became the song that Kansas dreamed
We are the chords of the guitar
Carrying our life’s score very far

What in the end are we, us, all?
The misheard word, the miskicked ball
Sometimes shaming us for years to come
Till we learn that of the bread we’re but one crumb

Is this us in the mirror, us all?
Is this our reflection, no fear to fall?
Or is it the mask we don for the show
Shielding our selves, our ids, our souls

We can be lovers, good friends or traitors
Of our exhibit the sole curators
Of our performance we’re the one actor
One piece, one act. The theme? Fear factor

What are we all, in this one life?
We’re gain and loss, accord and strife
We are the hauling, dragging and pulling
We’re also the thrusting, shoving and pushing

And in the end, what are we all?
Same question, yes, but, please, don’t call
Phone down, give me no answer
I am still learning from the dancer.

 

Two things first. It is my birthday today and for only the third or fourth time in my life I have dared to write a poem in English.

To the first one of these two things. Although it is an occasion for me to celebrate – and indeed I am celebrating – this birthday poem was inspired by a recent sad experience. Earlier this year we lost an unbelievable colleague at the school where I work. She was a nursery teacher who had been a member of the staff for many, many years, to the point where some of the current teachers and teaching assistants were taught by this amazing teacher when they themselves were little. I got to know this incredible human being very well, despite the fact that when she died I had been at my primary school for less than a year. Some people make you feel welcome just by looking at you. My colleague was one of those people. She also had a great sense of humour. About a year ago to the day she and I attended a training session near King's Cross station. There was a tube strike that day which affected our journey. I got to the venue about ten minutes before she did. But when she came into the room it felt as if she had just lit it up. Some people have that effect. As our headteacher read the tributes written by the staff, the first line of today’s poem started sounding in my head: what are we all? In the end, what are we? That line took my head as its abode and didn’t leave me alone from that day until recently. I knew I had to do something but I didn’t know what or how.

The second thing today. I knew I had a poem in me. Not a short story. I knew it had to be a poem because that line ended in “all”. And I could come up with all kinds of rhymes and combinations to develop the theme. The theme of what? I mentioned fear factor in the poem, but it’s more than that. It’s the theme of mortality and the way we see ourselves and our selves. Whether we believe that we have accomplished everything by the time the Grim Reaper pokes its ugly head in, taps us on our shoulder and tells us it's time to go or we think that there’s a lot of work to be done still. And are we humans really that far apart from the “others” (plants, animals, dust, etc.) that we can afford to behave in such a solipsistic way?

No.

We’re connected in a way of which we might not be aware sometimes. This idea of a gigantic network of people, things and animals might have been hijacked by the New Age brigade and its spin-offs but strip the layers that make us who we are and at the core you will find the dust, the - beautiful – contradictions and the tiny mouse.

I couldn’t give two monkeys about the quality of the poem or lack of it thereof. I really don’t. It's not praise I'm after but steam I'm letting off. I don’t care which style (if any) the poem falls under. That’s why I don’t think I could ever belong to a writers’ collective or rise up to the challenge of writing a sonnet, or haiku, or suchlike on commission. I just couldn’t do it. I feel jealous of people who can, though. I like making up and breaking my own rules. And because I “discovered” the English language on my own at a young age, I have always believed that English and I have a special relationship. Like two brothers or a brother and a sister, or two good mates who fall out every now and then (all those “likes” and “sos”, "sortas" and "kindas" and rising intonation at the end of statements?) but who always find their way back into the friendship.

That still does not deviate from the fact that writing in a foreign language is very hard. Terribly hard. Believe me; I do it day in, day out, week in, week out. I do it as a hobby and professionally. At the same time there’s a pleasure to be had, mixing, stirring, decanting and tasting sentences, words and connectors. I wouldn’t be able to write this blog if I didn’t derive pleasure from doing it.

So, there you have it. A poem inspired by the life and work of an extraordinary person who is sadly no longer amongst us, posted on the day I celebrate adding another candle to this cake I call life and which you might call something else. I would like to raise a glass of apple juice (I’m teetotal, remember) to you all and ask you to keep posing the same question to others and to yourselves: and in the end, what are we all?

© 2014

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 23^rd November at 10am (GMT)

Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts

I recently coordinated a five-week literacy course for parents in my school through our local community learning unit. The weekly sessions (still going as I write) are meant to acquaint parents with what their children are learning in school. I have known the tutor for quite some time now and he has always struck me as someone who goes the extra mile in making his lessons fun. Like the other day, for instance, when I happened to walk in on him waxing lyrical about poetry and what characterises it. He was in the middle of defining what poetry was and I lingered in the room for longer than I needed to hear what he had to say. He spoke of stanzas, of verses, of rhyme (and non-rhyme) and rhythm. This last element was what caught my attention. Most people would agree with the tutor that a poem is made of verses, stanzas and the like. But rhythm is so subjective, so hard to define that most people would probably not give it a second thought.

However, to me, this is the difference between a good and a bad poem: rhythm. An under-par poem sounds flat to me whichever way I read it. On the other hand, a poem with its own groove, jumps, skips and hops around. When I was younger I paid a closer attention to rhyme (it took me a while to get into non-rhyming poems) and this, ironically, gave me a sense of rhythm. As a grown-up cadence became more internal and therefore more subjective. No longer did I depend on rhyming verses, whether assonant or not. I searched for authors who could provide the kind of rhythm to which I was getting used.

Dylan Thomas: a good sense of rhythm

An example is Dylan Thomas’s poem “Should Lanterns Shine”, from which the current quote adorning my blog header comes. I love the beginning of the second stanza with its alliterative second verse:

I have been told to reason by the heart,
But heart, like head, leads helplessly

Needless to say, for a Spanish speaker that “heart... head... helplessly” is a linguistic nightmare. But Dylan’s honesty overcomes any pronunciation issues. I first came across this poem through a Spanish translation of the last line in an Argentinean film. I then sought the original in English and I loved it even more. Dylan is on a quest, looking for guidance on how to lead his life. He has tried reason (the “head”) and love (the “heart”) but the ball he threw in the park “has not yet reached the ground”. Isn’t that what life’s about? A constant search despite our adulthood and maturity. This constant search is rammed home by a beautiful combination of syncopated verses.

Closer to home, as in Latin America, an author who has always made me value the importance of rhythm in poetry is Oliverio Girondo. Although long gone, his poems have never gone out of fashion. Oliverio was a master at creating rhythm through repetition. His poems (usually short) are like little melodic explosions where a crescendo is reached very quickly. A good example is “¡Todo Era Amor!” (“All was Love”) and its mid-section:

“Amor con una gran M, con una M mayúscula,
chorreado de merengue,
cubierto de flores blancas...
Amor espermatozoico, esperantista.
Amor desinfectado, amor untuoso...”( apologies for the lack of translation)

The repetition of the word “love” (“amor” in Spanish) is not an empty gesture, the result of an out-of-sorts poet. He is merely attempting to describe the different kinds of love there are. I must say that he could have gone on for another twenty or thirty lines and I wouldn’t have bat an eyelid. I love Girondo’s poetry.

My last example is a rarity in that it is a poem by an author who is not a poet. Toni Morrison wrote “The Big Box” in collaboration with her son Slade in 1999. Thought-provoking is too mild a term to describe “The Big Box”. Three children Patty, Mickey and Liza Sue are put in this big brown box that has swings and slides but it also has a door with three big locks that only opens one way. The three children each take turns to tell their stories but the following stanza (with slight variations) is included in all their testimonies:

“Even sparrows scream,
And rabbits hop,
And beavers chew trees when they need ‘em.
I don’t mean to be rude: I want to be nice,
But I’d like to hang on to my freedom.”

The cadence of the poem reflects the complicated relationship between the adults of the story and the children. It is far from simple and yet beautiful. That beauty is partly brought about by that indispensable element in good poetry: rhythm.

© 2013

Next Post: “Living in a Multilingual World”, to be published on Thursday 24^th October at 11:59pm (GMT)

Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

Last Friday 4th October, one of the finest poets I've ever read but whom I never had the privilege to meet, died peacefully. I found out about his death through another equally excellent poet. The news left me speechless and tearful.

Dave King, the author of the Pics and Poems blog, was that autumn light that breaks through the tall trees bringing solace and comfort to those who venture through the multi-coloured foliage Mother Nature gifts us every year. Sometimes facetious, sometimes sombre, his poetry was (is) hard to categorise. Yet, what no one can deny is the sheer quality his oeuvre had. His output was incredible. There were times when I would spend a few minutes on a Saturday afternoon at home reading the three or four poems Dave had posted during that week.

I'll leave you today with a poem I uploaded on my blog back in 2009 to celebrate National Poetry Day in the UK. Dave, very kindly, allowed me to use this beautiful poem. Also, in memory of Dave King this blog is officially in mourning for a week. It will resume on Sunday 20th October. My most sincere condolences to Dave King's family.

On Turning Over a New Leaf

When the apple tree turned over a new leaf
it began producing plums.

When the pear turned over a new leaf
it brought forth grapes instead.

When the cherry turned over a new leaf
it found acorns on its branches.

When The Book of Life turned over a new leaf
a skeleton crawled out.

When the woods turned over their new leaves
a million tiny creatures saw the sun.

When these turned over the dead leaves
the dust and ash beneath began to smoke.

When humankind turned over its new leaves
it took leave of its senses

and not until it turned again the old leaves
did the trees bring forth their true and ample fruit.

Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts

Literature is made up of some essential ingredients in my view. For a start the book in my hand has to entertain me. But not in a way that might be interpreted as condescending. I can't stand authors who show no respect for their audiences and appeal to their lowest common denominator. Hence my preference for literary pieces that have an in-built mystery, a je-ne-sais-qoui about them that lures me into their plot. After the entertainment part come story, characters, setting and the like. The meat, so to speak. Sometimes I like a lineal structure, some others I like a bit of experimentation with the narrative. Regardless of the genre I usually like a bit of adventurousness, a bit of spice. The author's literary pedigree also plays an important role in my decision to pick up a certain book. I am very loyal when it comes to reading.

The fourth elements are joined at the hip: the when and where. I have on occasions begun books for which I wasn't ready yet at the time of picking them up. The result has often been disappointment, especially when I was a teenager. However, years down the line I have opted for the same book and the outcome has been more satisfactory. The where refers mainly to the place(s) in which  I choose to read. My holiday list is usually full of re-reads as I have been in that awful situation before where a newly-purchased book you have high hopes for turns out to be a dud. What I read on a beach differs greatly from what I read at work during my lunch break. This where is also rooted in  my penchant for certain places. For instance, I have a couple of corners in my house where I can be found in the early hours of the morning devouring a good novel or poetry collection.

But life has a way of throwing unexpected surprises in one's path and this summer I found myself breaking my own rule. During my recent holiday in Ravello, Italy, I took three books with me which I'd never read before. One was a non-fiction tome (I must admit that my decision was based more on the fact that I hadn't yet finished reading the book in question by the time I'd boarded my flight to Italy than unbridled passion for its subject matter). This was followed by a collection of short stories that came free with The Guardian some months ago and lay unthumbed on my bookshelf. Then just as my holiday was almost over my eyes alighted on a collection of poems by the author and fellow blogger Judy Croome.

It's the latter that makes up the bulk of this post tonight. Because it deals with that when and where I mentioned before. Judy's book, a Lamp at Midday, is divided in two sections: Into the Full Moon and Vignettes of Life and Love. The first one deals with Judy's father's death, an event about which she even wrote on her own blog and which I imagine left an indelible mark on her. The second part focuses mainly on Judy's celebration of her own endless questioning of all things spiritual.

a Lamp at Midday (I've decided to keep the title in the same way it appears on the cover) is that rare creature that manages to confound expectations. After reading the introduction I wondered if it'd been a wise decision on my part to bring a series of poems about death on vacation with me when all around me was bursting with life. But I'm happy to say I was wrong. Very wrong. First of all, Judy's book is not about death per se but about emotions. Especially the opening section is about this person whom she calls her "'pardner', hero and father". As the author herself explains, the inspiration for many of the poems came from her father's obsession with the full moon. Apparently after his first major stroke he was convinced God lived in the moon and, according to Judy, he would spend hours watching and praying to the moon. As a full moon, similar, I'm sure, to the one of which  Judy's dad had gradually grown fond, lit up the beautiful expansive Ravello coast, I became convinced that I'd made the right decision about bringing this book with me on holiday. The when and where began to make sense.

The opening salvo in the collection is a beautiful reflection of a particular moment shared by father and daughter together. Called simply The Painters, the pair's internal dialogue alternates with the hustle and bustle of the streets outside.  There's mention of children's laughter and dogs barking. And also of Changing worlds from grey to green/Never touching our love.  The Long Corridor starts with two questions that later echo throughout the poem: Can love run dry/Can love run out... even die? I read Full Moon during one of the most beautiful thunderstorms I've ever seen in my life. Its lines were pregnant with a lyricism that matched perfectly the syncopated rhythm of the fat raindrops hammering on the roof of our house. The first stanza had a magical, mesmerising melody of its own: Walk with me/O my soul/Walk into the white light of the Moon/Where my loved ones cannot follow?Nor I return. It will probably spook readers a bit when I tell you that our very own Italian version of a full moon came out brighter than ever after the downpour.

I read the second part of the book, Vignettes of Life and Love, on the way back to London. I started it at the airport in Naples and finished it as our aeroplane circled around western London, Heathrow bound, ready to land. The title poem, A Lamp at Midday, was a mystical rumination on a man's search of his beloved. The metaphor of the burning wick flickering in the warm breeze, waiting to be quenched by the breath of my beloved was a fine homage to those of us who spend our lives looking for "the one who flies", to half-quote the Argentinian poet Oliverio Girondo.

With so much richness of verse and tropes, I could even forgive Judy her moment of self-doubt. This arrived in the last poem of her fantastic collection, Will Anyone Ever Read This? I could sympathise with her feelings and emotions and I wonder who, amongst us, writers and bloggers, hasn't felt exactly the same: I pour my soul onto the page/Word after word/I tear from the ether of my mind (...) But no one will ever read this/My voice drowns/In the resplendent chorus of a million voices/Each with a story of their own/Who, then, is left to read my ordinary dreams?

Us. That's my answer. Literature is made up, in my humble opinion, of some essential ingredients: plot, magic, characters. But there's also the when and where. The moment when you realise that you were meant to read that particular book at that particular moment in that particular place. It happened to me with a Lamp at Midday, and I hope it happens to you, too.

© 2012

Next post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be posted on Sunday 14th October at 10am (GMT)

Venti by JoAnne McKay (Review)

Autumn is my favourite season of the year. Regular readers of this blog will probably know that. After all I am an autumn sign (November) so there's always been a special attraction to that period between late September and early December when brown, yellow and auburn leaves give Max Brick and Tom Daley a good run for their money at synchronised dive. It is, at least for me, a time for presents. Of the birthday type, but also of the visual kind.

Yet, the best gift - or prize, rather - I have received so far this autumn came completely out of the blue. And although I'm not planning to tell the whole story, the award involved goats, Scottish sheep and even a bookmark made of sheeppoopaper (as the caption reads).

A few weeks ago, the poet JoAnne McKay, who writes the blog "Titus the Dog", ran a competition in her cyberspace. Readers had to pick the winner of the Thornhill Arts Painting Contest 2010. I rarely say no to a challenge, so I joined in the fun and left my comment. To my surprise I won and that's how a beautifully hand-made book (copy number 54) containing McKay's second collection of poems turned up on my doorstep one morning, said hello and without waiting for a reply, jumped up into my arms, asking to be cuddled and cared.

"Venti" is a book to be read in autumn. Its sixteen poems carry the chill of early mornings and the long shadows of premature evenings. Its verses arrive with a sign that read "Enjoy with a mug of hot chocolate whilst wearing a woolly jumper and socks."

I was pleasantly surprised to see the multitude of subjects JoAnne covers, from seahorses ("Hippocampus hippocampus") to parenthood ("Shadowchild"). Being familiar with her blog, which I visit regularly, I have been exposed to her poetry very often and I find it to be an interesting mix of tenderness, observation and humour. The evidence is everywhere in the book. "The Magdalene Fleur-de-Lis" is a sweet little opener ("Call me Iris. Call me Lily. Your flower/I'll keep the boys' chins up in wartime/French letters and kisses a lover's mime/that only costs them three francs for an hour/It's memory of me that lends them power/yellow flag on an azure bed through time"). Facetiousness is a common thread that unites many poems even if they don't look like comic pieces at first sight. I especially liked the ending in "Octopodes": "Your death always follows your creation/If threatened you squirt ink/Pedantic, romantic, octopodes/I think I know you".

I can't write about "Venti" without mentioning the four accompanying images by artist Matt Kish's. They fitted so well around McKay's poetry that it's almost impossible for me now to read "For Ishmael and Elijah and Those Who See" without visualising the black and white whale next to it.

I will sign off this review tonight with a poem whose title I mentioned before and which shakes me to the core everytime I read it. A few weeks ago I blogged about simplicity and how some writers manage to convey the deepest of messages with the least amount of words. This is one of those examples. Thanks JoAnne for my prize.

"Shadowchild"

Shadowchild swings across the moon,
bumps my heart and is past.
Fierce cord once, the thread thins
and I must sing the pain of children:
you cut to see them grow.

by JoAnne McKay © 2010

Next Post: "Living in a Bilingual World", to be published on Thursday 21st October at 11:59pm (GMT)

More About the Song (Review)

A curious thing happened recently. I opened an envelope containing 'More about the song', a poetry book by fellow blogger and poet Rachel Fox and it was the back cover that greeted me first, with the following caption:

‘Exposing’

Does a blurb ever lie?
Can it tell what’s inside?
Go on, open me up
I have nothing to hide

And with that playful invitation I wasted no time and began to read her book back to front. And if this sounds unusual it is because Rachel’s poetry is also unusual. The only way I can describe it is as a lively, jumpy, animate creature that entertains the reader whilst making him/her think at the same time. Take this poem from the section called ‘Keeping On – Pluses and Minuses’:

'The mystery retained'

Don’t explain to me how music works
Leave me the mystery, the miracle
The same for tides, keep it to yourself
All the sensible science, the hows and whys
Don’t dissect the perfect line of words
With an ‘obviously the writer knew what they were doing’
Says who? Why? How? Are you sure?
You are so neat, methodical
And you have a lot of boxes
I have a little order, much overspill
And no lids anywhere in the house
It’s messy here, a mass of mysteries
But the dreams that come this way
They are limitless
They last forever

What appeals to me the most in this poem is Rachel's Peter Panish tone. Like her, sometimes I can't stand 'The Making Of...' that so many movies and music videos seem to come attached with nowadays. I want to enjoy the mystery, the 'is it? is it not?' innocent quality of the naked (metaphorically speaking, I hasten to add) spectator. And it is the last three lines that do it for me: 'But the dreams that come this way/They are limitless/They last forever'. It's a quality that is in short supply, this dreaming, this 'sometimes not wanting to know how'.

The other aspect of Fox's poetry I found rewarding was her pragmatism. For instance in 'Situations Vacant' from the aforementioned section, she addresses those people who moan all the time about their job whilst at the same time counselling patience before choosing one's employment.

Situations vacant

Don’t work in schools
If you don’t like people
Don’t work in pubs
If you can’t take jokes
Don’t be a judge
If you’re easily tearful
Don’t bungee jump
If you don’t do ropes

(…)

All work has its price
Its needs and its downfalls
It drains us all dry
And it sees us get old
So choose your way wisely
Pick something you’re fit for
Space exploration?
Leave that to the bold

Certain poems struck a very personal chord with me. For instance, 'To Fade', from the section called 'Going round - Living for beginners', brought to mind how I told my daughter off some weeks ago for whistling whilst I was trying to listen to some music in the kitchen. I immediately and quietly berated myself for impinging on her territory, especially when one takes into account that not many people whistle anymore. Later on that night I read Rachel's poem again and thought to myself, 'I hope she never fades'. Luckily, she hasn't, her whistling has got stronger.

To fade

At 6 years old
You still sing all the time
When you’re doodling
When you’re scootering

And I wonder when does it stop
The joyous twittering?
When angry playground voices shout
‘Shut up stupid’?

Or do we censor ourselves slowly?
‘Time to turn it down now‘
‘Time to go inside’ and finally
‘Time to face the music’

To fade…

Above all, 'More about the song' is a musical book as befits its title. The language, cadence and rhythm, they all point at a melodic infrastructure that allows Rachel's poetry to bend the rules (if any) as her poem 'The song remains' avers:

'Lie back
Relax
Let the words flow
Just so
Keep your rules
And tightening tools
For prose
And let it go...'

It should not come as a surprise that Fox performs her poetry, too. And as the clip below shows, she is also pretty good at it.

I would like to thank Rachel for giving me the opportunity to review her book. I would also like to let her know that with the help of her poetry postcards, I have indulged in little 'acts of rebellion'. Nothing major. I left 'Save the trees (or else)' inside a magazine about cars at my local Tesco. 'And so it goes' ended up in a copy of The Economist. As for me, I still wave my hand at the face and not the car. Many thanks.

To buy Rachel Fox's book, click here.



Copyright 2010

Next Post: 'Living in a Bilingual World', to be published on Thursday 21st January at 11:59pm (GMT)