Wednesday, 21 June 2017

Soup kitchen

I managed to publish a chapter of my book here, so I'll leave the title! 
I make no apology for publishing this Masefield poem:

Sea Fever - John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

When I was at grammar school, we had a reciting grioupo - yes, not choir. We were organized into 3 voice types and I was in the lowest, having a low speaking voice. The idea was to alternate accordig to vice pitch while reciting parts in unison. I have few memories of the actual reciting or even if we went public, but I remember the poems well, and this is one of them.

I live at least 3 hours drive from the sea and I miss it more than I can say. I always wanted to go back to living where I could hear the waves, but it never came to that as I have no home to go to in the UK and I'm not even sure I'd want to live there permanently when the UK decides to leave the EU, which for me was absolutely visionary. After nearly 52 years in Germany, I am a convinced European and ready to give up UK citizenship in order to preserve that status.

So-called Brexit is a witchhunt, the product of ignorance and lies, and the people now in charge of it are not fit for their self-styled mission of returning the UK to its presumed independence and assumed greatness.

And no, I won't talk politics any more. Reading poems or even writing them is more my thing. I've taken time off from writing poems while I work on novels. I read that if you persevere, one will get published one day!

One of my earlier poems follows. The "Fragrance of Yellow Flowers" is dedicated to my mother, though her name was not Maud! I try to stay within rhythmic boundaries, but blank verse appeals to me more because expressing my ideas in a succinct form that is not ruled by rhymes but by rhythm (that's where my musicianship comes in) comes more easily. If I write with rhymes I spend hours HERE and often come away empty-handed because the rhymes don't fit the rhythmic scheme.

Out of the sandy mists,
Out of the hazy sky,
Out of the void of death
We arise each new day.
Our bones are the frame,
Our tears are the energy
Of tomorrow.

The sand is broken shells and bones.
The sky is the air we breathe.
The void of death wraps itself
Around the joy of rebirth
In our children, in our words,
In our selves.

All the tears we weep return to the ocean
And are born again as mists of time.
We all breathe the same air,
And die the same death,
And grieve the same grief.

But those we grieve for live on
As long as we grieve,
So the grieving must never stop,
Must transcend our breath and tears,
Must join the clouds and the birds on the wing,
Must live on in us.

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