Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Menolyrical; A Boomerang
Lacking anything else to offer today (and not wanting to complain about the ongoing etherwobblies), I bring you a ditty last used six years ago... blink of an eye...
Menolyrical; Let Me Set You A...
Scene
There was a place once
I saw
It sat upon the sea
Where sky was blue
The water too
And the building twixt was three.
It was white I think
Or grey
But took the bluish hue
The tide was out
some crowd about
A distant and mingling queue.
Out upon the strands
Bare feet
Bent backs and metal pails
Time opportune
Harvest of noon
The whelks, the cockles, the snails.
Rocks and black-brown sand
It was
That sea-bed now exposed
Man misses naught
A fish is caught
As the sleeping dogs reposed.
Ephemeral scene
It is
Reliant on nature's whim
When water turns
The liquid churns
And the building seems to swim.
Inspired by TAKE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY FOUR © Yamini Ali MacLean 2013
Yes, it's a boomerang/repost... very little happening just now so this makes life easy. Anyway, this is also the time I need to remind you that next week is, once again, FFF time!!! Golly gee, it sure does flee...
Menolyrical; Duck! (Boomerangs...)
A boomerang post, in that I have posted both these poems previously, but on separate posts. Finding myself without much else to offer today, I bring both together, for they are connected, albeit through forty years of life. Although I don't have an exact date for the first, it was certainly 1980ish, as it is from my 'little black book' of compositions that were entered between 1979 and 1981. The second arose during the trauma that was 2020. I have had cause to revisit them this week as I again wrangle with a few knots...
And Still The Knots
So much unwound
by dint of deep search
of bare-heartedness
Of facing-up and
gritting teeth
and getting real
Knots released
not without pain
surrendering
Are they ever gone?
© Yamini Ali MacLean 2020
Menolyrical; Final Friday Feature
Last Friday of August already. I am a bit flabbergasted... but here it is.
It has been a while since I composed any verse. Time to redress that omission. I've been holding onto this photograph taken whilst at the last park up in Lunderston Bay. That charmed Friday when the sun shone, and the water and the sky were blue.
I stood upon a beach
in the land of my birth,
pondering the travels
I've made upon this earth.
I acknowledge privilege
to have seen so much, and sigh,
then look above my head
and see the Saltire in the sky.
My feet may be planted
in Scotland's bonny ground,
yet my heart is further distant -
all the globe around.
In a land with deep red soil
edged with coral seas;
mighty isle Australia
is where my heart's at ease.
Then the spirit's call
is to yet another place:
heat and dust and mayhem
cannot despoil the grace
of the magic that is India,
where the ancient ways
remain as current now
is in those long-gone days.
Mind, heart, and spirit
can all travel where they will,
but the reality of body
is that in Alba I am still.
Here I must be present,
reach the future from the now;
bring all the past together,
and to the Saltire bow.
ⓒ YAM 2023
Menokreatikul; Diversions
Blame "Fear-buary" but I was definitely in a sort of avoidance estivation state, not wanting to do too much... then again, I had those workshops with Domestika to get stuck into. Two down and the third in progress, so I am enjoying them just fine. The short-story one was a little behind my standard, but I enjoyed the tutor and picked up some inspiration for finding prompts and how to 'span' them.
Next off the waiting list was the Japanese-style crochet, used almost exclusively for soft toys and 3D ornamentations. Despite a lifetime in this craft, it is not a skill I had ever acquired, but often admired. The amigurumi critter was fabulous fun. This is much finer work than I am in the habit of taking up. Still, I was surprised at how quickly it all came together, and I have booked another workshop that hopefully will reveal more about forming patterns for oneself. Anyway, here is the end product, which I have named Ringo the Righteous Rhino:
There is quite a stash of this fine-gauge wool inherited from my late mother. Have been wondering what to do with it - now have some ideas!
Then I started one of the crochet garment workshops. Again, quite basic for a seasoned hookster like myself, but I have actually learned a stitch variation that I am loving; also, working the garment from side to side rather than top-bottom (or vicky verky). I am not following the pattern verbatim (the tutor encourages us to get adventurous if we are advanced in our skill), choosing to work the stitches slightly differently to produce a reversible item. As you see in these close-ups, there is a ribbed side and a smoother stockinette side... my hope is that when I get the thing put together, it can be worn either way.
With this stitch variation, the results are not too far from looking like the thing has been worked in the two-needle knitting method. The yarn is an Aran Tweed weight. You will, of course, see the finished article in due course!
To finish today, I would like to bring you a poem I only learned of when visiting the McLean museum earlier this month. It was printed on an entire wall and evoked the area so well that I had to look it up when I got home. Being unfamiliar with the poet, reading up on John Davidson surprised me that he appears to have been well-established, albeit with a thrawn character and, one might say, eccentric. Anyway, his take on Greenock and Clydeside holds true, even though today the sound of iron and industry is silenced.
I need
No world more spacious than the region here :
The foam-embroidered firth, a purple path
For argosies that still on pinions speed,
Or fiery-hearted cleave with iron limbs
And bows precipitous the pliant sea;
The sloping shores that fringe the velvet tides
With heavy bullion and with golden lace
Of restless pebble woven and fine spun sand;
The villages that sleep the winter through,
And, wakening with the spring, keep festival
All summer and all autumn: this grey town
That pipes the morning up before the lark
With shrieking steam, and from a hundred stalks
Lacquers the sooty sky; where hammers clang
On iron hulls, and cranes in harbours creak
Rattle and swing, whole cargoes on their necks;
Where men sweat gold that others hoard or spend,
And lurk like vermin in their narrow streets:
This old grey town, this firth, the further strand
Spangled with hamlets, and the wooded steeps,
Whose rocky tops behind each other press,
Fantastically carved like antique helms
High-hung in heaven’s cloudy armoury,
Is world enough for me. Here daily dawn
Burns through the smoky east; with fire-shod feet
The sun treads heaven, and steps from hill to hill
Downward before the night that still pursues
His crimson wake; here winter plies his craft,
Soldering the years with ice; here spring appears,
Caught in a leafless brake, her garland torn,
Breathless with wonder, and the tears half-dried
Upon her rosy cheek; here summer comes
And wastes his passion like a prodigal
Right royally; and here her golden gains
Free-handed as a harlot autumn spends;
And here are men to know, women to love.
🙏
Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction
For my own contribution today, I am taking one of the blocks from a larger artwork I made several decades back. You saw the whole thing on Me-Now-Views this week. Something within stirred... and I realised by the end that I had composed my own version of the Nasadiya Suktum (Creation Hymn).
There was movement in the void
sound made itself known
light followed
Matter shattered regathered
heat and dust emerged
planets formed
Chemistry Alchemistry
fire steam and brimstone
vulcan voices
Water drips miracle stuff
creationary
bringing life
Risings and fadings many
empires came and went
all hollow
There is no eternity
but that of the void
The Origin
©Yamini Ali MacLean 2022
NB; I have been having a lot of trouble with connectivity on certain sites and general processing on OctoKan... it seems that Chromebooks are prone to this kind of system slowdown. It is, quite literally, a drag. It has meant that my visits and any commenting on your blogs is somewhat interfered with - please know I am not abandoning you, but might have to be a bit less 'in view' until I can figure out improvements...
Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction
Here is one of my re-discovered artistic explorations; I have a vague recall of being given the scraperboard by my mother one Christmas. The scene was inspired by the rather magnificent cemetery that was across the road from our home at that time. I have always rather liked cemeteries... Next week is Dr Seuss day, so let me now wander the weird and wonderful of imagination.
Something was awry
the sun not in the sky
the moon instead was high
and the wind through leaves did sigh.
The clouds stood out stark
upon the inky dark
in which there sang no lark
and the shadows slid on bark
Sitting by the wall
the roving eye did fall
upon an oak tree gall
and reached out for the marble
Smooth in hand and round
to the touch it was found
but then fell it to ground
as came there disturbing sound
Cracks in stones appeared
clouds o'er the moon were veered
to tree top the eyes peered
and the beholder was afeared
A figure there sat
loosely dressed without hat
what hands there were held flat
and the face was blank and matt
What then was this sprite
that rode into the night
upon an oak tree's height
and never leaving our sight
Coulds't it be divine
winged squirrel - porcupine
or dev'lish bovine
... whoa! Time to cease the wine...
© YAM 2022
Menolyrical; Poetry Of The (Broken) Heart
I am very conscious that I need to get back onto the menoculayshunal posts. However, February has provided challenges as it often has throughout my life and apart from intermuttsus, there have been visitations and sports to delay my focus. Thankfully, nothing excessively distressing - so far...
Do you have a least favourite month? Mine is definitely February, for many and varied reasons. I have always held my metaphorical breath as we approach this part of the year. If there is going to be anything go awry and make life uncomfy for yours truly, it will almost always - though not, it is to be admitted, exclusively - be in February.
Despite being the shortest month, it always seems the longest. In the years that I have resided in the UK, this is partly due to that long haul out of winter and into spring, where Feb tends to be the bleakest of months. This year is proving to hold true to this experience.
For me, it marks the time when, if there is to be some poor news, poor news will make itself known. As those paying attention will have noted, this year, it was on the technological front for me. I also, as one on a narrow pension, find it getting narrower as the cost of living rockets upward, and there is a global threat on the horizon to make this worse for all who walk that particular line. One suspects many people (and not just in the UK) are starting to take stock and re-budget... but back to my personal point about Feb the Fearsome.
On the non-human front, apart from tech issues, there tend to be things like the day when my wee cottage in OZ was hit by a major late summer storm, and half an enormous gum tree did everything bar bring the roof in. God bless Allianz Insurance... yes, late summer in OZ means February. Here in the Hutch, it was when I arrived back from OZ in February 2017 that I was hit with the news of the need for re-roofing and other heavy maintenance with frightening costs... and I landed up being the key organiser. That was one of the lowest years of my life, mentally speaking. Then in Feb 2019, as I prepared to take the biannual trip Down Under, the recognition that by the time I returned, dad would require much-increased care, and I'd have to prepare for that. How in Feb 2020, I landed in bed with the worst thing I'd experienced since the Hong Kong Flu in 1968 - I've never forgotten being ill that summer and I will not forget what I now know was a thing called SARS CoV-2. As well as dealing with the physical and mental strain of full-time care, I had to handle Coviditionitis...
This was the month in 1969 when news of my maternal grandmother's death shocked us all (it was unexpected - but to pass in one's sleep might also be considered desirable - though she was only five years older than I am now...) The same month six years later, her husband, that grand old shepherd of the hills, took his leave. Both these grandies were much loved and are still missed. Though our paternal grandad left in June (1971?), granny MacLean departed in February (1987). A close friend in Sydney attempted suicide twice on two Febs, one year apart. (I am pleased to report she survived and has thrived, but still, I could have done without being the one on call for those events - a selfish reflection, I know.)
I have not led a hugely romantic life, not that I have been immune to the charms of men. Only two were ever serious, though - and both managed to create emotional havoc in February. You might therefore understand that I am utterly ambivalent regarding today's date!
One of the things I uncovered in that 'arts folder' from the attic was this writing. It is dated April but relates to the first of the big disappointments, and it clearly had taken me several weeks to start excising the angst! I trust most of you have fonder Valentine memories...
Menolyrical; Insomniacal
Yesterday, in the 'wee smalls' this is what transpired - and the muse finally returned...
I sleep not
and gaze upon the turtle cloud
a gaseous shroud
and watch it turn
at the gale winds behest
become blue whale
shark
seahorse
mermaid
I sleep not
and gaze upon the wolven moon
that winter light
so piercing bright
making a mockery of night
and of my will to fight
Somnambule
I sleep not
and gaze upon the scudding bank
of cotton candy
white bulbous billows
the stuffing of pillows
in which I see more
critters
gargoyles
waving hands
I sleep not
and dream upon distant lands
know these words I must jot
lest they be forgot
and are lost
on that long road of
fragile mentality
mental fragility
lost to the land of crumbling grey where
I sleep not
©Yamini Ali MacLean 2022
Menolyrical; Let Me Set You A...
Scene
There was a place once
I saw
It sat upon the sea
Where sky was blue
The water too
And the building twixt was three.
It was white I think
Or grey
But took the bluish hue
The tide was out
some crowd about
A distant and mingling queue.
Out upon the strands
Bare feet
Bent backs and metal pails
Time opportune
Harvest of noon
The whelks, the cockles, the snails.
Rocks and black-brown sand
It was
That sea-bed now exposed
Man misses naught
A fish is caught
As the sleeping dogs reposed.
Ephemeral scene
It is
Reliant on nature's whim
When water turns
The liquid churns
And the building seems to swim.
Inspired by TAKE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY FOUR © Yamini Ali MacLean 2013
Yes, it's a boomerang/repost... I've got Mac1 staying and needed to schedule some posts to make life easy. Anyway, this is also the time I need to remind you that next week is, once again, FFF time!!! Golly gee it sure does flee...
Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction
Way back at the beginning of the century (golly, one can talk historically even within one's own lifetime because an entire generation has arisen since then...), there was a major, global event that took place in my home city of Sydney. There was a wonderful atmosphere - but it was not economically sound. It is such a momentous thing; it only takes place once every four years. Unless there's a delay...
If you can stand it, I took to recording. (That's the link in case the player doesn't work here for you.) I tried three different audio versions but none would load - so you're faced with my face... 😶
It might be better with headphones - or left unplayed.
It's combat, but the friendly kind
or so they keep trying to sell
From the Americas, north and south
to Africa dark through Europe via
Oceanic islands and the Asiatic swell
It's combat, but not as we think it
the only weapon is prowess
showing just how fast, how high, how strong
even the guns, the arrows, the epee
and foil are brandished in staged togetherness
It's combat... the commercial kind
at least that's the marketing tag
on the backs and arms and legs and lungs
of the soldiers no, athletes, their nations
gather-in whatever they can from the available swag
It's combat, the political sort
couched in diplomatic bunting
the pawns no, athletes only focus
is to attain their personal best
the lure of precious metal keeps them hunting
It's combat, by all its contest names
can we really envision whether
the value is of benefit to all
true to the Olympic siren call...
Faster, Higher, Stronger - and all in it Together
It's combat and draws in many threads
from the fabric of society
a kind of magic tapestry appears
bringing forth surprising joy and tears
or moments of empathetic sobriety
It's combat, and like all fields of clash
there are deep and darkly issues
but is there anything else that's truly global
with fifty sports and two-oh-five nations
plus one - refugee successes requiring tissues
It's combat for sixteen plus two days
flags raised, the competition rages
minnow states make their mark, knock the elite
as the world watches, gets so immersed
for a while, forget their hunger or need of wages
It's combat, by any other name
even twenty-one remains twenty
won't be stopped by pandemic or protest
for these are The Games, times of unity
there must be triumph having spent plenty
It's combat; the teams keen to gather
flags and uniforms displayed with pride
all said and done, never mind wheels and deals
it's about them, the warriors, no athletes
and for us - supporting, together, no matter the side.
© Yamini Ali MacLean July 2021
Apart from war, nothing storms the mind so much as national sports rivalry. It stirs patriotism, ostentation and even hysteria. Sports participants are given the status of superheroes. Yet questions arise as to how much money is squandered - by governments and private enterprises on global events such as these. There may be an argument for the IOC getting a big shakeup - it needs to come into the 21st century as much as its motto does. Countries need to be better served to not have to go into a spiral of debt (most never produced a positive economic outcome - "with the exception of Barcelona 1992, no modern Games has raised a host city’s rate of economic growth, levels of skills and employment, tourist income or productivity." D. Goldblatt, The Guardian.) Nor should the citizens of the host suffer from lessened circumstances because of them.
As an example of the greed of the IOC, where previously the O's were mostly available in various ways for free viewing, this year their money grab, at least for European telecast rights, has extended to selling those rights to a USA company for $920m and that company will, of course, seek to fleece the viewers...
... or we sports fanatics have to go cold turkey and just read about the events we would have loved to have watched.
That there is a place for the sports themselves and galas and regattas to be organised, I have no doubt, for so much exhilaration is gained and there is some small sense of a truly global village at such times. This is important. What needs to be removed is the autocratic control and privileged expectation that currently exists. There needs to be a genuine - truly deep and meaningful - effort made to move to sustainability when hosting the events - and travelling to them.
That's my opinion - what say you?
MenoSundays; Life Lived Lovingly
Third in my little pick from the poesie memento. (I've sourced a recent rendition in musical form which you can play to read along with - there is slightly different wording in places, but the essence is the same.) Yes, it's a battle song - but it was written out with Love for my father in particular - and for love of my clan!
MenoSundays; Life Lived Lovingly
Continuing the presentation of items from a poesie, created thirty-plus years back... this poem I wrote in response to a question from my mother...
MenoSundays; Life Lived Lovingly
There was quite a response to a recent post in which I referred to a poesie I had produced for my parents' 30th wedding anniversary... mainly that many of you were unfamiliar with that word for what, in English, means a collection of poems/quotes. It is, perhaps, less used these days, but is certainly not obsolete or archaic - in French, it refers to a particular kind of poem which is emotive and heroic. Anyway. As today would have been my father's 85th birthday and tomorrow, their 63rd anniversary, I dedicate this month to sharing more from that wee hand-scripted collection. It was generated from my love and respect for them and the words, I hope over the next few weeks, will ring true and meaningful for many more. (Forgive the photography - old paper, seepage and difficult light were a challenge!)
Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction
It's that time again to let the words flow as they will, as prompted by an image. In this case, one I have manipulated from an old photograph I took while in India.
Pearl Of The Night
shimmering in the blanket of black that is the tropical universe
glimmering through the counterpane of eucalypts and star-sparked raindrops
whispering to the vapours of the void twixt thee and all that's here
glistening in the reflected light that is your brother's warmth yet
chillening the eye that gazeth upon thee no burning thine
whimpering I blur thee with the salted water heart drops blinding
soakering you absorb and exalt the ripping tearing egotist
soothening and leavening and calming and resizing everything.
©Yamini Ali MacLean 2021
Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction
I apologise for using last year's badge in my reminder post. My bad. Have deleted that file now so can't fall into that trap again. I must admit, also, that the day has come upon me a little unawares, due to all the load mentioned yesterday. That said, let's see what I can make of the following...
WOULD YOU...?
Dear madam, would you please
just a little portion,
nothing more.
A roti, some rice, an idli or two?
Dear sir, would you please
just a spoonful,
's all for now.
A cauliflower or some dahl would do.
Dear student, would you please
Bring a poori
or chana, just that.
Or pawhaps, more than that, a few?
Dear kitchen-wallah, please
whatever is left
would be fine.
And from all, just a little coochy-coo?
©YAM 2021
Kaneya was one of the ashram residents - tolerated for his excellent guarding duties and soft nature towards staff and students. As with most of the Pariah dogs in Mumbai, there was a bit of something else mixed in there - I strongly suspect Golden Retriever! He certainly knew about food and how to wheedle it out of us all. Despite regulations...
Menopertiirpurrytoppery: Honouring Dr Seuss!
March the 2nd is the most famous day
to reach out with words and with them to play
giving language an im-ajji-nay-teev boost
and no one did it like that old Dr Seuss!!!
Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction
Bubonic Septicemic Pneumonic
Bacterial Viral Ingestive Congestive
Periodical Pathogenic Pestilence
Four Twenty Nine BCE
One Sixty Five CE
Five Forty One CE
Thirteen Forty Seven CE
Fourteen Ninety Two CE
Sixteen Sixty Five CE
Seventeen Twenty CE
Eighteen Ninety Four CE
Nineteen Eighteen CE
Nineteen Fifty Nine CE
Nineteen Sixty Eight CE
Twenty Twenty CE
Decluttering?
(© YAM 2021)
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