SPRINGING INTO 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?

A HARD RAIN

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 loud.


I do not hear the Yankee plane
but shudder as a mushroom cloud despoils the picture-perfect sky.

Nearby Hiroshima,
domain of a nobility most proud,
is laid to waste.

Prostrate, we lie, while airborne poison, like a stain, begins to spread.
We tremble, cowed, claw at the earth, prepare to die.

Our tranquil world is turned to pain.
We burn to ash in fields we plowed.

One hundred
thousand people.

Why?

HEAVENLY INSPIRATION

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 battle-sword.

It would be one of many
that French archers took to English soil
to fly in flocks like starlings
over Hastings fields
and fall to earth like iron rain,
out of a grey October sky,
to pierce the fearful blue of Harold’s eye.

SHROUDED IN MYSTERY

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 girl she had glimpsed years before when witnessing the eviction of a group of travellers from her father’s land. It had been a time of high emotion and the child’s haunted eyes, staring from behind her grandmother’s long white shawl, had touched Alex’s heart, even as the old woman raged and shook her knotted fists.
Alex worked on the child’s portrait for a couple of hours, concentrating on texture and bemoaning the fading light.
The advancing shadows seemed to bring a sense of unease and Alex found herself becoming anxious for no apparent reason. Normally, when a picture was progressing well, her mood was elated but today it was the opposite.
When she set down her brushes and turned to look again at The Meadow she was surprised to see a flaw in the picture that she hadn’t noticed before: a splash of grey paint beside the tree-line. 
Seizing a cloth and turps she attempted to sponge it off but, frustratingly, the mark refused to vanish completely and she resolved to paint over it when she resumed work the following morning.
Alex slept badly on the futon in the corner of the studio and, rising early, brewed strong coffee before approaching the picture again. The splash of grey had become a smear, larger than before and Alex cursed herself for having attempted to remove it whilst she was tired.
Studying it again in daylight, Alex fancied that the blemish resembled a figure clothed in a loose-fitting garment. 
Shaking her head in puzzlement, Alex painted it out of the picture and returned to the child’s portrait that was already taking shape, but couldn’t shake the mood of gloom that seemed to gather around her.
Pausing for coffee, mid-morning, she noticed with dismay, that the stain had reappeared, this time slightly larger than before.
Alex stood before The Meadow. The blemish did actually look like someone at the forest’s edge: the shape more defined. A small figure dressed in a flowing cloak, head bowed beneath a grey shawl. This time Alex made no attempt to interfere with it but moved away, bewildered and slightly afraid.
As the afternoon gave way to evening, she worked on the child’s portrait, recalling the scenes of anger and despair that accompanied the eviction that afternoon long ago.
Each time she allowed her attention to stray to the big canvas however, the mysterious shape seemed larger than before. Alex tried to convince herself that it was simply an oil smear spreading, but knew it wasn’t.
Before retiring to bed, she studied the canvas again and became aware that the figure had grown more distinct. Its face more clearly defined. It had a mean, sallow countenance, deeply lined and furrowed. The eyes were visible now and, to Alex’s dismay, seemed filled with ill intent. 
She turned the canvas to face the wall, extinguished the lights and settled down on the futon.
Alex awoke with a jolt. Moonlight spilled through the high window. Something moved in the room. She sat up, scrabbling for her torch. Its faltering beam fell on the stacked paintings. The large canvas stood at an angle. A triangular strip of darkness between it and the wall looked like a the flap of a black tent. Beside it a figure crouched, the hem of its ragged garment spread on the floor like blood; the face, beneath its shawl, was unmistakably evil.
Alex hugged the duvet to her chest and began to scream. 

SAD SONG

My previous post referred the Guernsey's doyenne of the arts, Joan Ozanne, 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.