Be kind.
Achieve wisdom and exercise that skill.
The world has always been filled
With angry greedy people.
You cannot legislate them away,
Or hope that they will die out.
The world has always relied on people
Who are kind and wise,
To act as counterbalances to these others.
Unfortunately, the World supply of angry greedy people
Appears to be limitless,
So there will always be a need for kindness and wisdom.
You might just save the world.
I posted this poem a year or so ago, and I think it bears re-posting again now. In fact, I think I should post it repeatedly every year until everybody understands the situation most of these people find themselves in through no fault of their own.
The first time she ever set eyes on the sea,
She was forty seven.
It was a long road there.
She set off with little enough,
And arrived with much less.
She had a home, once.
A house,
In a well-to-do area of the city.
Life was good.
But fear came,
In the form of bullets, shells and bombs.
Once, gas.
Then everyone lived in fear.
Her house is rubble, now.
Memories and possessions buried,
Alongside her husband.
Alongside her daughter.
Alongside her middle son.
Her hands are scarred from the digging.
For weeks,
Her palms were raw and bloody,
from blocks of masonry,
Too large to move.
Dust and tears.
It was bad enough to lose everything,
But when you’re caught in the cross-fire,
And the food runs out,
What else can you do?
Her eldest son paid for the crossing,
With borrowed money.
Somewhere,
He is ‘paying off’ the loan.
A bonded labourer.
A slave.
She fears for him.
Her youngest son was washed away.
The dinghy was too small,
The passengers too many.
Fear.
You could smell it,
Alongside the despair.
The panic.
There were fewer of them when the sun rose.
There is shelter here,
Of a sort.
But when the wind blows she shivers,
Drawing near to the oil drum blaze.
There is food,
Once a day.
Of a sort.
There was a welcome.
She soon learns what sort.
Now, she walks down to the sea.
She wonders whether she should,
Whether she should just,
Just, slip under,
The waves.
We have all been encouraged to think
That our time is so important.
Yet it is only when we become old,
And we have so much less of it left,
That we realise this is not the case.
We’ve been told we must save time,
Instead of using it and moving on.
How precious time is,
As if it were a commodity we might hoard
And use when we need it most.
Instead of squandering it on what makes us happy,
And filling it with unimportant things.
But I say, let what you’re doing fill your time.
If you’re washing up,
Then let your plates be the cleanest.
And if you’re looking at the winter sun on frosty leaves,
Well, let that be the best experience you have ever had.
Sometimes I have these flashes,
When I think I’ve understood something deep and profound.
And usually it means an evening drinking wine,
Or half an hour sitting on a sunlit hillside.
But I do wonder what we’re all so busy chasing.
And if you think this lesson worth remembering,
There’s no better time than now.
I was writing a haiku yesterday, and decided to go the extra mile with it. Traditionally in Japan these poems were sometimes written in the form of tanka, which are essentially poems of five lines rather than three, with a syllable count of 5/7/5/7/7.
They could also be written as linked verse, with one or two poets writing haiku, and others supplying the two remaining lines between each haiku.
I’ve gone down the linked verse route, and also given myself the remit that each verse (of two or three lines) must contain a word or sentiment linking it to those either side – something that was also commonly done.
Yesterday was cold and miserable, hence the results.
It’s my first attempt – please don’t be too harsh!
The flowers have gone.
Crumbling stems standing askew,
In waterlogged soil.
Outlined against the grey sky,
Old willows by the stream.
Ten thousand leaves are
All that remain of autumn.
Wistful nostalgia.
Memories of warmer days,
Are all but forgotten now.
Wrapped up warm and snug,
Watching the grey willows weep.
Hands in my pockets.
Leaves fall slowly through the air,
Onto silent black waters.
Now a gust of wind
Swirls leaves around and around.
Racing each other.
Shifting clouds race overhead,
Sudden drizzle on the breeze.
Spiteful winter day,
Grasses shiver in the wind.
Low sunlight dazzles.
Walking in meditation,
Clouds unexpectedly clear.
Sudden bright sunshine
Reminds me the cold Winter,
Will change into Spring.
Pandering to my Inner Vagabond, here…
If I could just wave a wand,
I would wander the world.
With my notebook in hand,
And a bag on my back.
I would sleep under hedges,
In hotels and haylofts.
Drink beers under trees,
And eat cheese on the moor.
I’d watch clouds over hilltops,
And boats on the ocean.
Shapes and shadows at sunset,
A moon with a view.
And I’d write trivial poems
Of snowfall and sunlight,
Birds singing at dawn
And the sounds of a stream.
There’s the lure of a skyline,
And skylarks above me,
Wine and wood smoke my welcome
At the end of the day.
To travel, to journey,
There’s magic in wandering
Over moorland and downland,
Through woods and through fields.
The world’s full of wonders
All waiting for wanderers.
Let me follow these paths
For as long as I can.
While tweaking some stuff around on my site today I slightly updated my Gravatar profile to include my personal mantra, which is ‘Be Kind’.
Having done that it seems a good idea to post this poem, The Stranger
I’ve been away from the computer for most of the last week, but now I’m back with a slightly longer poem than I usually write.
At five o’clock the fire is lit.
Around the table we all sit,
With buttered bread and eggs and ham,
With cups of tea and cake and jam.
The idle talk is of the day,
The work now done, the latest play,
And ‘Anything to watch tonight?’
Or in the warmth and soft lamplight,
Perhaps we’ll read and play a hand,
Of whist, or bridge, you understand.
And ‘Don’t forget, at half past nine,
The radio – it’s music time.’
Then bank the fire, put out the lights,
The household settles for the night.
The heat blasts out in every room,
And lights and games and TVs soon
Take over so completely that
It’s pointless even trying to chat.
The sounds of gunfire, screaming cars,
Exploding buildings, and on Mars
The aliens armed with laser beams,
Are killed on several different screens
In different rooms by different boys,
With highly deadly killing toys.
The evening mealtime’s such a treat,
With pizza, chocolate, crisps and sweets.
Although it seems they all are eating
Different things at different sittings.
‘A cup of cocoa? I don’t think
That that will do, an energy drink
Is what I need, the evening’s young,
And there’s still much that’s to be done.
And if I cannot concentrate,
Upon this game, it’ll be too late,
The zombies will have won and then
I’ll go back down to level ten.’
It’s one o’clock, they still can’t sleep.
There’s not much point in counting sheep,
‘cause they’re all battery-powered toys,
Just so much electronic noise
And moving parts all running round,
And round and round and round and round.
I’m standing now beneath night skies,
Pale silver light from fresh moonrise.
I’ve walked for almost half a day,
It takes that long to get away
now, searching for a quiet place
Where I can pause and have some space.
I’m thinking how it used to be,
At five o’clock, the time for tea.
It seems to me that what we’ve gained,
Is not worth any of the pain.
And even more what we have lost,
We should have saved at any cost.
But anyway, now it’s just me
I have my flask, I’ll pour my tea.
It’s October.
That must mean it’s autumn. It certainly feels like it, now. So here’s a little poem for when the days are drawing in and it’s becoming colder and darker outside.
Keep watch at the window in the Westering light,
On the distant hill in the approaching night,
Under darkling clouds, over dew-touched heath,
Where the flowers of summer are now touched by death,
I’ll be coming home in the fading light.
Keep watch at the window in the fading light,
You’ll see me walking when the moon is bright,
My shadow before me coming down the hill,
My breath opaque in the air now chill,
I’ll be coming home in the last of the light.
Keep watch at the window in the last of the light,
When I’m weary you’ll see me come into sight,
Drawn by the firelight and the thought of wine,
By the thought of you; so glad you’re mine!
I’m home now, let’s shut out the night.
I should feel like an Egyptian pharaoh,
But I never had all that splendour.
Mine was such a short life,
And then I was mummified for the Hereafter.
There was never anyone to wait on me,
To bring me delicacies or fan away the flies.
You could not imagine Liz Taylor
Wanting to play my part in a film.
But I want you to take a moment or two,
To imagine that your feet and hands
Are permanently covered in cracks and crevices.
And to imagine the constant burning pain.
And contemplate now, the virtual blindness
That comes from seeing – day in and day out –
The bright sun reflected from the brilliant white
Of salt, from horizon to horizon.
And breathing, such a natural thing!
But even breathing was slowly killing me.
Coughing, spitting, rasping breath and breathlessness
And worse…
And when I died, they could not burn me.
Not properly, for the years of salt had seeped
Into my skin and as a final indignity,
Ensured that even death was not a true escape.
Sprinkle, sprinkle on your dish,
Shut your eyes and make a wish,
Up above the world so high,
If there’s a watcher in the sky,
Pray they somehow can arrange
For this indignity to change.
A couple of years ago I wrote about the extremely difficult conditions endured by Indian salt workers – and many others all over the world (the link is here should you care to read it) – which I don’t think have eased since then.
As you add salt to your meal today, think of them.
In a somewhat pensive mood, today.
We all try to do it in our own way.
Me, I walk the woods and hills, trying to recapture
That half-remembered birdsong from my childhood.
Looking for the clear nascent sunlight,
And the cool morning breath of a magical wild rose.
Others revisit old haunts,
Tread half-forgotten streets and peer in shop windows,
Leaf through foxed and fragile pages
Of Peter and Jane, hold china dolls,
And gaze wistfully at black and white seasides.
It’s more than elusive,
But what they have in common,
Is leaving today behind.
Maybe, what I’m really searching for,
Is a different me,
Although I wouldn’t want to be a teenager again.
And if you haven’t tried it,
If you haven’t caught the sound of yesterday,
Or smelt the stale cooking and damp mothballs
Of a long-dead indulgent aunt,
Then perhaps you’re still too young.
Mick Canning 