In Another Lifetime I Could Have Been…(1)

On June 7, 2023 By Mick CanningIn dreams, music24 Comments

…a folk musician.

There are any number of reasons why I haven’t become one in this lifetime, only one being a lack of any obvious talent. Perhaps if I hadn’t gone abroad when I did, I might have inveigled myself into a group of musicians and played a little more, and a little more regularly. Perhaps if I’d practised more I’d have been a little better! Perhaps if I’d actually learned to read music properly I could have learned more tunes properly. Who knows?

I could play both the guitar and mandolin fairly competently, if nothing more. It has been many years now, though, since I owned either – or a fiddle or a whistle either, come to that, both of which I had pretensions of being able to play, at least a little. I still play a pretty mean air mandolin, though, and my air guitar licks would put Richard Thompson to shame, although so far I’ve had limited success with my Henry Parker air guitarwork – unfortunately he uses a different tuning. I am occasionally tempted to buy another mandolin, or perhaps a guitar, but if I’m realistic I have to admit I would never devote the time to them that would be required. It’s going to remain one of those dreams realised only in my imagination.

But a note for that other lifetime: I’m not one of those folk who have to be the very best at whatever they attempt, otherwise they feel it isn’t worth the effort. I wouldn’t have to be a star, I’d be content to be a session musician, a backing musician. Just to make a living doing something you love is awesome and something not given to many. Or not even to make a living, perhaps, just to make music with others is a delight and I could still be happy with it being a spare time occupation.

So, sticking to going to gigs and listening to CDs this time around.

All The Lost Words

On August 10, 2019 By Mick CanningIn poetry, words, writing38 Comments

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Last night I dreamed I sank into the depths of some great ocean.

I went down, right down to the bottom of the sea and

There I saw a wooden chest.

And then a mermaid appeared and smiled, and indicated

That I should open it.

But having done as she had asked,

I thought at first I had made a mistake,

For I beheld countless stars shining in the depths of the chest,

Which appeared to be as large and as wide as the sky.

And even as I thought this, those stars rose up and surrounded me

And then, dismayed, I saw them floating up until they reached

The surface of the sea,

Where they were taken by the tides and currents

And swept away to every corner of the Earth.

***

When I awoke, I felt sad for the loss of those stars.

But then I realised it had been a dream, and

I fell asleep again and dreamed I laboured down a mine.

And I was hot and weary and grimy as I crawled

Through low passages, searching for precious stones.

It was tiresome work but finally,

Rounding a corner, I saw a distant glow and

As I drew near, I saw a gem that shone amidst the darkness.

I found then I carried pick and hammer, and

Any number of chisels, so I set to work.

After much labour I held the gemstone in my palm and

The light from this treasure seemed to flow out from my hand,

And illuminate every corner of the mine.

This gladdened my heart, but one appeared who I had been dreading,

Although I had not known it until that very moment,

And they took the jewel from my hand and disappeared,

I knew not where.

***

And so again I awoke and then

I slept a third time – troubled sleep! – this time

I dreamed I walked on crowded streets

And watched the many who surrounded me

And listened to their talk.

These were the conversations carried on

By every man and woman who had ever lived,

Or ever would.

But after time their speech became confusing;

I could no longer distinguish any words, and then

The world fell silent, although they still spoke,

And still I watched and found that I could see their speech,

And all their conversations floated on the breeze

Before me,

For their speech was made of stars and gemstones,

Mingled now with flowers and with ash.

Mingled now with night soil and with butterflies.

And I was content with that, and now slept deeply.

The Collector

On January 24, 2018 By Mick CanningIn Fiction, inspiration, novels, poetry, short stories, writing46 Comments

Inspiration, writers’ block, ideas…I could write about all or any of these topics. Instead, I thought I’d simply post another poem – plus, of course, a picture (with far better weather than we’re having here) – and let it do the job instead.

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I’m a collector of images long stored in my memory,

A desert inferno of razor-sharp rocks.

A mountain breeze rippling an icy cold puddle,

Thick mists and thin soups, flowers, trains, and old shoes.

I’m a collector of memories, both mine and ones borrowed,

The harrowing journey, the lovers’ first kiss.

There’s betrayal and loyalty, flatulence, hope,

There’s a child being born, and a wolf at the door.

I’m a collector of stories, the stranger the better,

Believable, odd, and ridiculous too.

Close to home or historical, alien, fanciful,

Some to keep secret and some I can tell.

I’m a collector of moonbeams and of chance reflections,

A collector of sadness and bittersweet pain.

A collector of strangely shaped stones in a circle,

And dreams that tell stories I don’t understand.

Clouds

On September 5, 2017 By Mick CanningIn blogging, clouds45 Comments

It’s one of those days, today, when the clouds are thick and dark and slightly threatening, but are shifting rapidly across the sky and continually changing shape in a rather exciting way.

I’ve always loved clouds.

When I was young, I was always very conscious of the sky. I still have a copy of a poem I wrote when I was fifteen or sixteen, which I won’t reproduce here, but was titled ‘Clouds’ and compared their shifting shapes with dreams and ambitions. Quite prescient, in my own case, as it happens, but I’ll not go into that now.

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I wonder whether the average fifteen or sixteen year old even sees the sky on a day to day basis, now. After all, you tend to look down at your ‘smart’ phone, do you not?

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Summer clouds…

When I dream about getting away from the daily grind, running away from it all, whatever you care to call it, the image in my head is always a compound of the Himalaya, and clouds. Or English Downland, and clouds. Anywhere remote and away from crowds, really. With clouds.

Ethereal, ephemeral, forever changing shape, never boring.

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