Plastic

Disillusioned words like bullets bark / As human gods aim for their mark / Make everything from toy guns that spark / To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark / It’s easy to see without looking too far / That not much is really sacred BOB DYLAN It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)

Broken lines, broken strings / Broken threads, broken springs / Broken idols, broken heads / People sleeping in broken beds / Ain’t no use jiving Ain’t no use joking / Everything is broken BOB DYLAN Everything Is Broken

Despite our present-day, heightened eco-awarness and our current investment in recyclables and renewables, it's a sobering fact that there are still millions of tonnes of plastic floating in our seas and oceans, that the earth beneath our feet is stuffed full of plastic rubbish, and that the stomachs of many of our seabirds and cetaceans resemble plastic junkyards. Our messy and destructive human footprint is everywhere.

Though, in this poem, 'plastic' takes on a wider, metaphorical meaning: the plasticity of the artificial, the superficial, the inauthentic, the enervated, the meretricious, the unholy. Yes, the commercialisation of Christmas seems to have got to me as usual, folks. I tried to call on Milton, Eliot, even Simon Armitage for constructive guidance, but I've ended up being influenced by Dylan and Dr. Seuss yet again. Not to mention Ray Davies. Oh well, some of us may be destined to remain at the bucket shop end of poetry (and that's a plastic bucket, of course).

plastic world

plastic dog and plastic cat
plastic mouse and plastic rat
plastic flower plastic tree
plastic far as we can see
plastic ice and plastic snow
plastic everywhere we go
plastic death and plastic birth
plastic all around the earth

plastic smile and plastic frown

plastic king with plastic crown
plastic Adam plastic rib
plastic Jesus plastic crib
plastic bird and plastic beast
plastic wise men from the east
plastic shepherds and their flock
plastic chicken plastic cock
plastic sex and plastic love
plastic in the sky above
plastic in the ground beneath
plastic tits and plastic teeth
plastic parents plastic kids
plastic eyes with plastic lids
plastic boy and plastic girl
get me out
of this plastic world

The Books In My Life (3)

Here are some of my books on walking, climbing, travel and the countryside. I've lots more books on these subjects - but the ones I love the most are displayed on these three shelves. The categorisation is loose, but they are arranged alphabetically by author. Once a librarian, always a librarian! I'll highlight a few authors and titles which are indispensable to me...

In this pic you can see on the left a few general 'outdoor' books - books on hiking, backpacking, navigation and mountains, including a book with one of the most memorable titles ever: How To Shit In The Woods by Kathleen Meyer. An A-F sequence follows, with books by Edward Abbey, Tom Brown Jr. and Colin Fletcher, three of my favourite American backcountry, wilderness writers. There are two absolute travel writing classics: Robert Byron's The Road To Oxiana and Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia. There's a collection of travel essays called Hills And The Sea by the Anglo-French Catholic writer Hilaire Belloc, whose eccentric but captivating memoir The Path To Rome was one of the first books to inspire me to go on long-distance treks. There are several volumes by the wonderfully opinionated George Borrow, who wandered extensively throughout Europe, often in the company of gypsies and other nomads. And there's Gerald Brenan's South From Granada - one of the best books about Spain I have ever read.

On the second shelf (G - M!) you may be able to spot Goethe's Italian Journey; four books by Patrick Leigh Fermor, probably my favourite travel writer of all; a couple by Richard Mabey, one of the UK's finest writers on natural history; two books by the exciting, genre-busting, contemporary writer Robert Macfarlane, a master of deep, resonant, poetic prose; several by Jan/James Morris, queen of our present-day travel authors; Peter Matthiessen's classic The Snow Leopard; Arctic Dreams, that richly conceived, ground-breaking book about the Arctic by Barry Lopez; a few books from the mystically inclined English nature writer Richard Jefferies (read his spiritual autobiography The Story Of My Heart for an extraordinary description of mystical illumination on the Wiltshire downs).

On the bottom shelf (M - Z! You would have expected this) there's John Muir's Nature Writings; Eric Newby's Love And War In The Apennines; a couple of Jonathan Raban's; WG Sebald's incomparable The Rings Of Saturn; two books by Rebecca Solnit (including her brilliant Wanderlust); and two by Edward Thomas, the troubled English poet, essayist, journalist and walker (and friend of Robert Frost), who died in the first world war. 

My Heart Is Like A Singing Bird

Thanks, Rachel, for reminding me about this great song of the head and the heart by Mumford & Sons...

Apart from this song probably being at the back of my mind - I featured it on the blog in February - my poem head or heart may also have been influenced by a beautiful sonnet by Christina Rossetti...

A Birthday

My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a watered shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.

Although we tend, poetically and romantically, to associate feelings with the heart, such emotions - like all human sentiments, thoughts, desires and actions - have their seat in the head, or, more specifically, the brain. And, whereas we tend to correlate the left hemisphere of the brain with logic, linear reasoning and numerical calculation, and the right hemisphere with more creative, intuitive and lateral thinking, our feelings and emotions are in fact bilaterally controlled. In other words, perhaps we are naturally predisposed to achieve that difficult balance between head and heart. Having said this, it doesn't seem to prevent most of us falling off the tightrope with unerring frequency.

Head And Heart

Which do you follow, the head or the heart? I've a tendency to follow the heart - though this can often lead to deep difficulty and suffering. Do I follow the heart's wild camino or the head's safe, straight and narrow, everyday path? What if the latter is the correct and moral thing to do? Sometimes I think that life's greatest challenge is to find a symbiotic balance between the head and the heart, between reason and feeling, between logic and instinct.

head or heart

the heart says yes
the head says no
the head says stop
the heart says go

the heart acts
while the head reflects
the heart dreams
what the head rejects

the head speaks out
a warning word
the heart sings
like a soaring bird

the heart is fire
the head is ice
give me the heart
at any price?

The Books In My Life (2)

I've seen Bob Dylan in concert around thirty times - which must make me rather more than the average fan. Fanatic may be a fairer description. The first time was at Earls Court in June 1978. We queued all night and half the next day for tickets. This was Dylan's first UK appearance in ages and London (where we were living then) rocked with excitement and expectation. The last time was at Nottingham's Capital FM Arena on 11 October this year. Although Dylan was, for him, energetic, communicative even - he stage-walked quite a bit instead of hiding away behind a keyboard - I found the gig disappointing and alienating. The music was hammeringly loud and unsubtle, almost devilish. And his guitar, keyboard and harmonica playing teetered on the edge of embarrassment. I may not go and see him again. But, as Am reminded me in a recent comment she left on my blog, he's been fading into his own parade for a while now.

All this by way of explanation why I own so many goddam Bob Dylan books. They've been begged, stolen, borrowed, gifted - occasionally even bought. You might spot the odd Neil Young, Tom Waits, Leonard Cohen, Johnny Cash and Picasso (uh, how did he get there?) on these shelves - but essentially it's just Dylan, Dylan, Dylan.

The Books In My Life (1)

Inspired by recent posts from blogfriends George and Ruth, I'm revealing today my own personal workspace. This is my study/music room/dream factory.

You can see my new iMac, my steel string guitar and my Roland keyboard and amp. On the right is the desk my son Nick often uses. Can you spot the Camino 'magnets' on his PC tower? On the window sill to the left is a wood-turned stupa (there's another one out of sight) and in the middle of the sill two halves of a coquille shell - though you can barely make them out. One of my two buddhas sits on the second bookshelf down.

Next to my desk there's a shelf full of wildlife identification guides. I refer to these constantly. My most treasured possession here is Mark Cocker and Richard Mabey's Birds Britannica - the big, orange hardback on the right. 

And below is a collection of books on myth and mythology, religion and pilgrimage. Here you'll find On Pilgrimage by Jennifer Lash, A History Of God and Through The Narrow Gate by Karen Armstrong, The Imitation Of Christ by Thomas À Kempis, George Steiner's Real Presences, Dark Night Of The Soul by St John Of The Cross, The Tibetan Book Of Living And Dying, Bulfinch's Mythology, Sir James Frazer's The Golden Bough and those classics by Robert Graves, The Greek Myths and The White Goddess. 

I Muvrini And Ana Moura

I recently came across the music of Corsican folk group I Muvrini and Portuguese fado singer Ana Moura. Hope you enjoy!

Celtic Twilight

It's clear that in this poem by Yeats, one of my favourite poets, he's been influenced by old, romantic Celtic poems such as the one I highlighted here in my last post. (Yeats played a leading role in the Irish Literary Revival, also known as the 'Celtic Twilight', in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.) The 'golden apples' of the last line also recalls my recent post about the quinces/golden apples of the Garden of the Hesperides, the mythical Greek paradise. 

The Song Of The Wandering Aengus

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

WB YEATS

Woodland Lovers

While leaves were green, I gave
Veneration to my sweetheart's leafy bower.
Sweet it was awhile, my love,
To live under the birch grove,
Sweeter still to clasp fondly
Hidden together in our woodland hide,
Strolling together by the seashore,
Lingering together by the wood-shore,
Planting birches together, goodly task!
Weaving the branches together,
Love-talking with my slender girl.

An innocent occupation for a girl -

To stroll the forest with her lover,

To mirror expressions, to smile together,

To laugh together and, mouth to mouth,

To lie together in the grove,

To shun others, to complain together,

To live together kindly, drinking mead,

To repose together, to celebrate love,

To keep love's secret cordon, covertly:

Truly, I have no need to tell you more.

ANON (c. 14th century)

This poem was included in a book I brought back from Ireland with me earlier this year: The Book Of Celtic Verse: A Treasury Of Poetry, Dreams & Visions, edited by John Matthews. It's a handsome volume, hardback, and with a green and gold cover.

Quince

When a baby is born in Slavonia and Croatia, a quince tree is planted as a symbol of fertility, love and life. WIKIPEDIA

Quince

In my poem raining quinces, the quince is meant to stand for something luscious and exotic. However, I've been vaguely concerned that the celebrated tartness of the raw fruit ran counter to my symbolic intention. So I've been doing a little research - and, thankfully, I needn't have worried. The quince is as romantically exotic as a fruit can ever be. And, although most varieties are astringent, some sweeter varieties have now been developed which can be eaten in their raw, uncooked state.

The quince, or Cydonia oblonga, is the only member of the genus Cydonia, though there are four other species belonging to separate genera - one from China and three from eastern Asia - which are closely related. It's a small, deciduous tree, growing from 5 to 8 metres tall. The flowers are pink or white, with five petals, and the fruit changes from green to a lemony yellow as it ripens. The flesh of the ripened fruit is known for its strong perfume. It's a native of the Caucasus region of south-west Asia - home to the Caucasus Mountains and Mount Elbrus, Europe's highest peak.

The Caucasus

Aphrodite

Quince cultivation is very old, and probably predated the cultivation of apples and pears - to which the quince is related. In fact, the word 'apple' in many ancient texts, including the Bible's Song Of Solomon, may often have been wrongly translated - and should be 'quince'.

References to the quince abound in Greek and Roman mythology as a symbol of love and desire or a symbol of paradise. It's the sacred fruit of Aphrodite, goddess of sex, love and beauty. It was the 'golden apple' in the Garden of the Hesperides, the mythical Greek paradise - giving its name to the Italian word for tomato, pomodoro. It was a ritual offering at weddings in Ancient Greece. And, on her wedding night, a Greek bride would eat a quince to perfume her breath before kissing her new husband - rather like we might suck on a mint today (sorry to be so unromantic!)

On the French and Spanish Caminos you're never far from a quince jelly or jam (quince is coing in French and membrillo in Spanish). Quinces are also used to make cordials, teas, wines, brandies and liqueurs. In Spain I often enjoyed dulce de membrillo, a delicious quince jelly traditionally eaten with manchego cheese.

The Golden Apple

They dined on mince, and slices of quince, / Which they ate with a runcible spoon; / And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, / They danced by the light of the moon. EDWARD LEAR

(All images from Wikimedia Commons)

As I Walked Out

Rereading Esther Morgan's poem As I Walked Out in last Saturday's Guardian Review, I was struck by a similarity of theme with the poem I wrote yesterday, a vagabond life. Although the means of expression are quite different, both poems are about the dream of escaping from a mundane present.

As I Walked Out

Don't tell me you've never dreamed of this -
of waking in a room with a wide open window,

the air clear and ringing after night rain;
of needing no other reason than a sky

the unbelievable blue of which
sends you flitting deftly through the house

past the year-old jar of nails and flies,
the pile of dishes in the sink, and out the back door

where you're caught for an instant in the brightness
because the future's so much easier than you'd thought -

slipping your heart under the rosebush like a key,
everything you need in the canvas bag

resting lightly at your hip
and life as simple as turning left or right.

ESTHER MORGAN (From her collection Grace published by Bloodaxe)

a vagabond life

i'd be off again
at the drop of a hat
at the swing of a stick
at the slink of a cat

at the lick of a dog
at the clang of a bell
at the wink of a star
over compostelle

at the bark of a deer
at the lilt of a lark
at the arc of a moon
in the chill of the dark

at the glow of a sun
in the bowl of the sky
at the moan of a sea
where the wild geese fly

at the scent of a rose
at the prick of a thorn
at the sigh of a breeze
at the rage of a storm

at the rush of a stream
at a kingfisher's call
at a salmon's jump
up a waterfall

at the tang of a peach
at the suck of a fig
at the leap of a frog
at the squeal of a pig

at the rim of a rock
at the roll of a stone
at the flick of a wrist
at the click of a bone

at the smile of a girl
in a flowery dress
at the press of a hand
at a lip's caress

at the flare of a match
at the gleam of a knife
i'd be off again
to a vagabond life

The influence of that Dr. Seuss gets everywhere...

Pilgrims On This Earth

All of us are pilgrims on this earth. I have even heard it said that the earth itself is a pilgrim in the heavens. MAXIM GORKY

My Camino is done. On the way I befriended strangers, and strangers befriended me. Each night I slept in a different place, sometimes with other pilgrims in the same room. Families welcomed me into their homes and entrusted me with their children. Motorists wound down their car windows and wished me 'Bonne route!' and 'Bon courage!' Market stallholders gave me food for free, and villagers filled up my water bottles. Each day I became fitter and fitter, until mountains became mere hills, and 30 km seemed like a short but very beautiful walk in the park.

I passed churches and chapels, crosses and calvaries, shrines and sepulchres - the sacred places. I followed shell signs and stone markers. I had a mini-spiritual crisis at a hunting lodge in the middle of an ancient forest and wrote this poem about it. I did not pray much - I find it difficult to do so - but I had many prayerful silences and secular meditations. I remembered, and honoured in thought, my sister and my parents.

I met with the kindness of strangers and, hopefully, gave back some small thing in return, perhaps some reflected Camino glow, some bohemian rhapsody. I witnessed natural wonders which made my spirit soar and my heart sing. I encountered great beauty, and some of that beauty rubbed off on me, and touched my soul.

So, my Camino is done. And a new Camino begins. It is always thus. One door closes, another door opens. Or, as Eliot put it in Four Quartets, The end is where we start from. Already I feel a change happening in my life. On the practical, workaday level there's the glimmer of a possibility of a whole new career. And, on the more important spiritual level, I hope I've learnt a little about about giving, about friendship, about beauty, about love; and I keep faith that at least some of this fragile sense of love and beauty may leak out into everything I do in the usual and everyday world, the world outside the special 'bubble' that is the Camino.   

The thirst that from the soul doth rise / Doth ask a drink divine... BEN JONSON Song To Celia