Day 59: The Twins (again)

I am off to see the one day old twins soon with my mum. First, another poem. It is either this one or yesterday's that is the twins' mum's favourite poem of mine. I include this alongside the other because I need to get used to giving two presents every time I see them - and probably slightly different presents, as each twin, of course, wants to be unique.

Grimblegromp
He grimaces like a Grombit
when he tries to gremb a smile
and his teeth crockle and brockle
like shinebows on the Nile.

As he tockles throfting brickles
which twackle underfoot
the wimbling Wonchglocks
glatter 'bout a gless-plit brook.

Swanterin swontily
he bruzzes srommy shinshom
brenning brop brish-brosh,
brish-brosh in the crawm.

Day 58: The Twins

Today, my younger brother's wife gave birth to twin girls. Thankfully, the whole family are okay and all is well. I plan to visit them with my mum tomorrow - we are both excited. My mother always wanted a girl after having three boys and now, as a grandmother, she has two! To celebrate, I am reproducing another poem from my book as I think it is my brother's wife's favourite poem of mine and one that I made up for her.

Nonsense
I made this oop fer you’s,
‘cos I know you’s like me nonsense stews
an’ the clock was a-slowin’
while the wind-blown door was slammin’
an I’m sure I heard a howl like a Wholin.
No one believes in Wholins but me,
but no one stays up all night lissenin’ like me,
an I swear I heard a Wholin
howlin’ out your name
saying “Nonsense!”

Day 50: Poetry

I had intended to blog this yesterday, however, after working intensively on the computer, my eyes became very painful, so I stopped work for the day. The day before yesterday, I went to a poetry workshop locally and there made a female friend with whom I went to a film. Following on from the poetry workshop, I share with you a poem by Pablo Neruda, extracted from the third poetry book he published, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.

Every Day You Play

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing,
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwind in turning fans.
My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

I want to do with you
what spring does with the cherry trees.

Day 43: Time Out

I did a lot more research yesterday about magazines to apply for a position on and have a favourite. I also may contact a journalist friend and get on a newspaper. It's all what publishers want even prior to publication in order to get a writer's name out there. This morning, I planned to take my friend - who is originally from Trinidad and nearly 80 - to the bank in her motorised chair but when we had got ready outside the gate, she realised she had forgotten to re-charge the power on it the previous evening, so we had to re-arrange for next week.

I know some people who read this blog are literary-minded, so if you wish to get a free download of highlights from the current Guardian Hay Festival, lasting an hour, go to http://www.arts.guardian.co.uk/hayonsky before July 18. You can also catch a daily Haycast at http://www.guardian.co.uk/hay2007

I am rushing to go to see my good schoolfriend sing with her band now, along with another good friend who is also a poet (or should I say poetess?) It is at a place in North London called Monkey Chews! At least the music will be better than the name! I have volunteered to help with our choir's jumble sale on Saturday as Ania will be there and it will be fun to preside over the hordes of public (the great unwashed! Hehe). What a lucky man I am to know so many lovely ladies!

Day 36: A Poem for My Mum

My telecourse went very well. Today, I think a poem break is called for. I wrote this last year when I went on holiday with my mum - her friend was unable to go with her due to a health scare, but the holiday was booked, so I stepped in at the last minute. It was a great time and I feel blessed to have shared the weeks with my mother, whom I dearly love.

Look at the stars tonight

Welcomed by warm smiles
we arrive in the heat of Crete
and swim in the warmth
of the clear blue sea
rippled by a gentle breeze.

Goats with bells on their necks
graze on the hillside
and we enjoy pointing them out
over breakfast on our balcony
surrounded by green hills.

Eagles soar in the sky too
and we are nourished by the view
even before we get to the sea.

When there, we dip and read
dip and read, as lazily as waves.

We eat at a different restaurant nightly
- I try local goat; mum tries white bream.
Always they bring us something 'on the house'.
A slowness in bringing you the bill
is counterbalanced by real kindness.

Before we sleep, the plate of night
offers us a sumptuous display of light
- a low moon on the hill; stars in multitudes.

Day 24: A Bit of Culture

I was unsure what I wanted to present to you in my blog today until I came across this, to provide a cultural interlude:

from The Song of Solomon

Chapter 2

I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys.
As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.
As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.
He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love.
Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.
His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.
I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please.
The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills.
My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice.
My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;
The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.
O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.
Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes.
My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.
Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether.

Chapter 3

By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.
I will rise now, and go about the city in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth; I sought him, but I found him not.
The watchmen that go about the city found me: to whom I said, Saw ye him whom my soul loveth?
It was but a little that I passed from them, but I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go, until I had brought him into my mother's house, and into the chamber of her that conceived me.
I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please.
Who is this that cometh out of the wilderness like pillars of smoke, perfumed with myrrh and frankincense, with all powders of the merchant?
Behold his bed, which is Solomon's; threescore valiant men are about it, of the valiant of Israel.
They all hold swords, being expert in war: every man hath his sword upon his thigh because of fear in the night.
King Solomon made himself a chariot of the wood of Lebanon.
He made the pillars thereof of silver, the bottom thereof of gold, the covering of it of purple, the midst thereof being paved with love, for the daughters of Jerusalem.
Go forth, O ye daughters of Zion, and behold King Solomon with the crown wherewith his mother crowned him in the day of his espousals, and in the day of the gladness of his heart.

Chapter 5

I am come into my garden, my sister, my spouse: I have gathered my myrrh with my spice; I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey; I have drunk my wine with my milk: eat, O friends; drink, yea, drink abundantly, O beloved.
I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.
I have put off my coat; how shall I put it on? I have washed my feet; how shall I defile them?
My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door, and my bowels were moved for him.
I rose up to open to my beloved; and my hands dropped with myrrh, upon the handles of the lock.
I opened to my beloved; but my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone: my soul failed when he spake: I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer.
The watchmen that went about the city found me, they smote me, they wounded me; the keepers of the walls took away my veil from me.
I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find my beloved, that ye tell him, that I am sick of love.
What is thy beloved more than another beloved, O thou fairest among women? what is thy beloved more than another beloved, that thou dost so charge us?
My beloved is white and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand.
His head is as the most fine gold, his locks are bushy, and black as a raven.
His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters, washed with milk, and fitly set.
His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers: his lips like lilies, dropping sweet smelling myrrh.
His hands are as gold rings set with the beryl: his belly is as bright ivory overlaid with sapphires.
His legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold: his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars.
His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem.