Commonly, late in the afternoon mists form and the temperature plummets. But even in the enveloping grey, Tengboche is colourful and beautiful.
Author: Mick Canning
Creative writer, blogger, and painter, with two novels and one collection of poems and short stories available on Amazon or through my Etsy shop. Also on Etsy, my 'zines: Echoes and Imaginings issues #1 - #3 and An Atheist Buddhist.
In Between
In Between
Somewhere in between
The in breath,
And the out breath,
Is silence.
Therein,
There lies a tiny death.
The death of desire,
When time stops
It is
The fleetest of moments,
A tiny eternity
Of peace.
Tengboche – 3
To compare with the photo in the previous post, this is the same view in the morning – but with the addition of Ama Dablam on the right of the picture. This is possibly my favourite mountain; the classic ‘mountain-shaped’ mountain, similar to the Matterhorn.
Tengboche – 2
This view must have been photographed so many times, but how fantastic is it?
Sunset on Everest (left) and Nuptse (right), photographed from Tengboche.
Tengboche – 1
Tengboche is a monastery complex and a couple of trekking lodges on the route up to Everest Base Camp from Lukla, in Nepal. It sits high above the waters of the Dudh Khosi.
Inside Tengboche monastery following a puja (ceremony).
Rightly or wrongly, I don’t like taking photographs of pujas in monasteries. It feels intrusive and bad mannered. I would feel the same in a church, mosque or temple. This has nothing to do with any beliefs of my own, but is born of simple respect.
I noted in my diary: We have just sat in on a chanting puja, but my meditation failed dismally. I was completely unable to concentrate on my breath as all that I could think of were my freezing feet!
It was blooming cold!
A Poem With A Very Long Title
This is another poem from my notes from some twenty five years ago.
Walking Out Into The Country At Nightfall In Winter Whilst Heavily Pissed Off With Life In General Probably Caused By Artist’s Block
(Painting: Evening #1. Pastels on paper)
Grey clouds in salmon
– Reflected worlds!
Woodlands and valleys, rivers glow
Like magma.
My mood, dulled and burred,
Perceives…
Reluctantly. Stubbornly.
Between shakes of the head,
I see Turner setting up his easel
And painting frantically, dementedly…
Bleary eyed – look!
It has gone now!
Cold green and bluey pale,
Washes in and out
And blurs
Grey
Me
Sky.
Kanchenjunga
Kanchenjunga, the third highest peak in the Himalaya (and the world) taken from Observatory Hill, Darjeeling. It is the peak right of centre, with the spindrift blowing from the summit.
Have a great Thursday.
An Old One…
I happened on a notebook of poems I’d written some twenty to twenty five years ago.
My style has changed somewhat in the intervening years, and most of them seem rather poor now. One or two of them I still like, though, and I think I’ll put them up here now and again.
This one is just called Rain.
I hurried down the road before the storm
– this must be six or seven years ago –
Still silhouettes for trees within the mist,
Around ahead behind me dull and grey.
The air was chilled
And in the hills the thunder growled,
A tiger prowled,
In the high forests of the Weald.
A hundred miles away my cottage refuge,
A forlorn hope now far beyond the deluge.
Sharp blue electric yellow split the air,
A crack like washing harried by the wind.
Then came swollen lazy drops of water,
Beachballs of rain exploding all around.
Dull chattering
The pattering of rain on tiles
After the miles
I’d run through forests of the Weald.
The sound of distant gunfire possibly,
I closed my eyes to see where I might be.
Leaves
This is another standalone poem from my linked series, a work in progress, ‘Breeze’.
So much work in progress! One day, I’ll finish one of these projects, but for now I hope you’ll be satisfied with a few extracts. Unfortunately, I just don’t seem to have a great deal of time at the moment…
It is like a small dog,
The wind is.
Nosing into corners, and
Snuffling around piles of leaves.
Making them leap up in surprise,
And slowly come back down again.
All a-flutter.
Suspicious of the wind,
They cannot keep still,
But are continually on the move.
Looking this way and that,
And glancing over their shoulders,
Whispering…
Whispering ‘Did you see that?
‘Did you see it?’
Whispering…
Launch of ‘The Happy Bus’ by Louisa Campbell
Last night I was lucky enough to attend a great evening of performance poetry at The Java Bean cafe in Tunbridge Wells, for the launch of the new pamphlet by Louisa Campbell, a member of my local writing group.
Supported by published poets Ira Lightman and John McCullough, both of whom gave great performances, Louisa’s was easily the standout set for me.
A natural performer, she read a selection of poems from The Happy Bus, Published by Picaroon Poetry, which is a collection she describes as ‘charting the journey through anxiety and depression and on to peace and joy’.
This is not to suggest that her poetry is all dark, for that is certainly not the case. Each one bristles with hope and determination, and frequently humour – for Louisa does humour very well – and had the audience frequently chortling (we chortle a lot in Tunbridge Wells. We also chunter about stuff, but there was none of that last night).
And, let’s face it, how often do you get to see a poet declaiming a couple of their poems in a wolf onesie?, or getting an audience in Tunbridge Wells to yell out a chorus of ‘Bugger!’?
Below, an extract from the pamphlet:
To get your copy, click on either of the links below.
Mick Canning 