This week, let's listen to the voices of some of the men in our community. We selected poems by Eric, of Erbiage, Bjorn, of Bjorn Rudberg's Writings, and Nicholas V., of intelliblog. Take a break, pour yourself a cup of tea, and settle in. We hope you enjoy.
there is a me in here
…
(somewhere)
between the mind, the ego, the inner child
those are the bricks. i’m looking for the house
***** *****
Sherry: I was very taken by this poem, Eric, recognizing that you are on the seeker's journey. I love, "i'm looking for the house." I suspect it is close by, behind a few bushes. Smiles.
Eric: There has been so much growth in my
life in the last two years, and it really has been wonderful and a tremendous
blessing. One of the difficult pieces of this though is I'm really not
liking who I was. I used to have an opinion of myself that was not shared
by very many people. This was painful to realize but it does explain a great
deal. It’s so easy to get lost in that.
My wife's counseling practice
incorporates a Mind-Body-Spirit framework, but all these things, they are just
elements. The self includes all of these things, that little voice in my
head that says I'm not good enough etc., but the self is more than the sum of
these parts, the way a pile of bricks becomes a house.
This is probably
way too much for a tiny little poem, it came out kind of
stream-of-consciousness.
Sherry: I love your explanation. We all have that voice in our heads that says we aren't good enough. Our life's work is to silence it. Thank you for sharing, Eric.
Sherry: Bjorn recently wrote a poem that seems to answer Eric's first poem rather beautifully. Let’s take a peek.
You crave a house;
a garden with a stately oak,
a library
a place to rest.
Walls you build with
thoughts,
and windows form from dreams,
the roof is tiled with friendship;
so keep your gates unlocked.
In winter you need warmth
that only love can give.
while summers could be
sea-breezed far away.
But if your fancy is
for mansions, moats and turrets
you have to leach the land,
cut the trees,
dredge the bluffs
and crush the dreams of others.
Your house should wear its
moccasins —
never boots. Bjorn: I wrote this poem based on
a prompt on houses. I often try to find another meaning than what’s obvious at
first. I see “developments” of housing, how we as humans absorb nature and
expanding. The area per person is constantly increasing, and fills out our small
properties. I feel that there are no limits to the needs of humans for space,
and we do not mind trampling the toes of others.
At the same time a house
is a wonderful place. We need it for warmth and company, we need it to meet our
guests. I dream of houses that blend and are part of nature. I want houses that
invites nature in summer, and shuts the cold wind out in winter.
I also feel that we need
houses that we are ready to leave. We should not grow roots unless it’s needed.
Maybe houses should have the soft soles of Moccasins rather than making deep
footprints like the boots of mansions. Sherry: I so agree about the heavy footprint monster houses leave on the landscape. I much prefer small cabins and cottages, tucked among the trees, not set on a scraped-clean lot - enough space, no need for thousands of square feet. I love this poem, Bjorn. Thank you so much.
A short while ago, Nicholas wrote a bittersweet poem we enjoyed very much. Let's read:
And yet, they left deep aching scars in their wake.
You are a sweet bitterness, Love,
You enchain us all with gossamer,
You wound with feathers and you heal with thorns;
You nourish us with mellow poison
And we starve when we have surfeit of it.
Love, you’re contrary, and your steadfastedness
Betrays all trust, punctures all boats of hope;
You lift us up to heaven, only to dash us down to Tartarus,
You give us strength, only with silken threads
To captivate and weaken us, making of us in our death, immortals.
Sherry: Love does all of those things, brings us the sweetest of joys, and the depths of sorrow. But we wouldn't be without it! This poem resonates with me, Nicholas.
Nicholas: My poem “Sweet Bitterness” looks at the contrariness
that love is: Feelings pleasant and heady and heavenly mixed as it were with
those of melancholy, disconsolation and hellishness. If one is in love, there
is the sweetness of honey, but also the sting of the bee. Love raises us up to
the sky but in the same instant may cast us down into the darkest of abysses.
Sherry: That it does. Thank you for sharing it.
There we have it, folks: houses, moccasins and the bittersweetness of love. And us, enjoying it all. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!
This week, poet friends, I thought it would be nice to hear from the men. We have poems by Nicholas V. of Intelliblog, Robin Kimber, (our beloved Old Egg), of Robin's Nest, Marcoantonio, of Life Whispers, and Cheong Lee San, (whom we know more familiarly as dsnake), of Urban Poems. Each has offered a unique look at the world. And Robin has a treat for we dog lovers in this feature that will make you smile. Pour a cup of tea, draw your chairs in close, and let's dive in. Enjoy!
Sherry: Recently, Nicholas, you wrote a poem that really spoke to us, titled "Closed Doors". Let's take a look at it, shall we?
Our doors are closed – Just like our hearts – For these are hard times, Harder than corundum Ready to grind down Any trace of mercy.
Our doors are closed – Just like our minds – Free thought causes dissent, Dissent is disunity And disunity is weakness: Far easier for prejudice and fear to rule.
Our doors are closed – Just like our fists – Clenched tight, ready to strike: The best defence is swift attack, Hit now, question later, Collateral damage easy enough to justify.
Our doors are closed – Just like our borders – For we are pure and superior, And we do not want to be tainted By foreign blood, Content in our incestuous decadence.
Our doors are closed – But some of us leave the keys under the mat: We of the generous open heart; We of the free, open mind; We of the outstretched open hand; We of the open borders.
We wait for our door to open And lay another plate on our table For our food’s enough for one more. We welcome change and progress And we embrace the stranger For our gods have taught us hospitality’s sacredness.
Sherry: Indeed they have. I love the message in this poem, especially in these days when divisiveness is calling upon us to open our hearts and stand united with those seeking asylum from unspeakable horror.
Nicholas: I wrote this poem because of increasing instances of refugees being refused asylum being turned back to return to countries where their lives may be put at risk. Although we live in times that are hard for all of us, there is a mindset now that if we want to preserve what we have we must protect it and keep it for ourselves and not share it, especially not with "foreigners, strangers, people of other religions, people of other ideologies." This doesn't sit right with me. I have personally experienced the immense generosity of people who did not know where their next meal was coming from, yet their soul and heart were full of riches that billionaires will never have.
Sherry: I have also noted that generosity, that inner joy, in people who have very little materially. They offer what they have with open hearts. It is humbling.
Nicholas: I have experienced true Christian values from people who did not know who Christ was. And I have been given the greatest of respect by people whose ideology was diametrically opposed to mine. We can change the world for the better by opening doors and hearts and minds.
Sherry: I completely agree, Nicholas. Thank you for this.
Let's take a peek at Robin's poem next. I know it will make all dog lovers smile. Dogs are often refugees, in need of rescue, as well.
Now I can just see heaven's gate
Sparkling lights wink a welcome
As angels whisper on the trees
And choirs of songbirds sing for me
What blessings have I to account
To retell my life spent on Earth
They shuffle round in wild array
Are these judges in somber robes?
A scroll unfurled tells my earthly life
It matters not my memory fails
It seems I've not sinned that much
But loved both animals and trees
I've talked to birds and played with fish
I tilled the soil and fed myself
Clearly I have passed all these tests
But then I heard an unholy row
Barking and yelping now was heard
As all the pets I ever had
Now bounded up to wish me well
Clearly they'd put a word in for me
Sherry: Well, Robin, of course you know how much I love this poem. Tell us about it, won't you?
Robin: Thank you for thinking of me for the feature “Men’s Voices”.
My poems are always a mixed bag, although I am sure most readers would associate mine with love and romance. This is of course easy to do for me but when posting time comes round I always seem to have a bag full experiences to draw from to put into verse regardless of the prompt. Writing about pets is easy too if they have been part of the family for most of your life.
When the family dog died when I was about four, the neighbours' dog jumped the fence and decided us two kids next door were much more fun than the older couple who owned him. So it was that when we went out to play in the nearby fields or the woods with a stream running through it, he sensed it and came with us as we were so much more fun. Once married and with a home of our own, Maureen, my wife, thought it would be good with children on the way to have a dog for company and the same pattern was repeated with me as the big kid and the toddlers walking over the heath land throwing sticks in the ponds for Nero (Yes, black as the ace of spades) jumping in the water to cool off and maybe retrieving the stick if he felt like it.
When the family came to Australia we were in a more urban environment and didn’t get a dog until the next door neighbour pleaded with us to take a black Collie cross who had to be expelled from the farm of a relative because he had started chasing the sheep. So we had him a for a few years and his main fault was that with a dog pound fairly close to call him when he thought the bitches there were in heat. Twice I had to retrieve him from the felony of trying to break into a pound.
Sherry: LOL. I love it!
Robin: Our last dog was a Golden Labrador cross rescued from a pound as a present for my elder daughter who wanted a dog of her own as a teenager. She gave him the name Caesar and he immediately became one of the family. Despite having a large block of his own to play in, he decided to burrow under the fences and meet the other local dogs and chase off over the fields and in the streams and pretend they were wolves in the wooded areas before coming home for tea worn out and too tired (almost) to eat his dinner.
Eventually I made the garden fences dog proof and when my daughter was married he had to stay with us, as her accommodation did not permit pets. I was most upset when he became too ill to carry on and I had take him for his last trip to the vet and be brought home again to be buried in his favorite place in the garden.
Luckily all our pets thought they were legitimate members of the family and quite miffed if they couldn’t join in all family activities. Caesar was the only dog, however, that had the sense to go to pick the newspaper up from the front lawn and bring it inside. However he overdid it one day by noticing that there were papers on almost every other front lawn in the street and further afield, for when I looked out the window I saw he had collected at least 20 of them and placed them in a pile and when he saw me looked up waiting to be encouraged to collect a few more. So I had to be paper boy and try to locate the houses to return them to their rightful owners, quite a number of whom were not all that pleased!
So you can see I don’t regret one moment of my life with our pet dogs and thus had no difficulty in writing the poem to their tribute. I forgot to mention that each member of the family could translate Caesar’s growls, woofs and howls into English, so understanding what he was talking about was no trouble at all.
Sherry: I smiled with joy through every word of this. What wonderful creatures shared your life, my friend. I especially love Caesar, bringing home the entire neighbourhood's newspapers. LOL. Next, Marcoantonio has been hearing voices on the wind. Let's listen with him.
WHAT COLOR IS THE WIND what color is the wind, when blowing through the forest, the flora, the fauna, the trees?
what color is the wind, wisping across the ocean, over rivers and over streams?
what color is the wind, soaring above with clouds and riding the azure sky?
what color is the wind, i breathe as it flows through my lungs, my veins, my heart?
what color is the wind, that gives verve to our souls? is it not the color of everything,
the color of all ?
Sherry: This is so beautiful, Marco. I can almost feel the wind, sifting through the trees, including us all with its touch. Tell us about this poem. Marco: The wind is a metaphor for our souls all being connected, because the nature of our souls is the same. But I also wanted to point out the analogy that our physical makeup as living beings manifest a commonality, stardust, without a pre-existing prejudice or bias of color, of ethnicity, of race, of gender, of genetic makeup. Our souls are "one" with life, and integral in the makeup of the soul of the 'Universe(s)'. Sherry: Well said, my friend. We are all the same in all the ways that matter. Our biggest lesson to learn as a human race. Some weeks back, I deeply admired Lee San's anti-war poem. Let's take a look. only the dead have seen the end of war*
when i returned in the dead of night to our little house you were sleeping, holding our child your eyelids trembled, just slightly that cold draft of air that ruffled your hair is the howl from my throat as an arrow pierces my breast.
you rose in the smoke-filled dawn when the sun had not yet risen over the rice fields, the tiled roofs of the town. you went to the Wall with our child scanned the stone towers with your eyes still red with pain. you read every weary face every returning warrior and with each passing day the smoke rose higher from the rains.
only the dead have seen the end of war. only the dead see what your tears are for. [*The title is a quote often attributed to Plato, but possibly written by George Santayana.]
Sherry: Your poem takes us into the human side of war, the contrast between the woman sleeping, holding her baby, then next day her red eyes, her pain, the reality of suffering in wartime. Your closing lines are powerful, true, and so moving.
Lee San: A little background on this poem. It was the Chinese 7th month and I thought, I will write a love story, but with a ghostly twist. The setting was ancient China, during the building of the Great Wall. I pinned it to a specific time, but if you change the setting, it could be anywhere in the world. Rome, Mesopotamia, Vietnam. Then I came across this quote "only the dead have known the end of war", often attributed to Plato. And I used it as the title and, hey, do I have an anti-war poem?
Sherry: You do, indeed, my friend. Knowing the background lends added impact to the poem.
Lee San: Thank you, Sherry, for this opportunity. I think there are many talented poets in this community, male or female, and there are some very distinctive voices. Never looked back since I found this site :)
Sherry: And we are happy you found us! Thank you for this poem, Lee San.
Thank you, fellow poets, for bringing us your wonderful voices, poetry that speaks straight to our hearts, and for coming back, week after week, to share your work with us. We appreciate you!
Wasn't this wonderful, kids? I hope you enjoyed these meaningful offerings. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!
We have a special treat in store for you today, my friends. Nicholas V., who blogs at Intelliblog is sharing with us his poetry, photography, art and music. Nicholas has travelled the world and, as you know from visits to his blog, has a wealth of photos and memories of his world travels to share. We will have the pleasure of hearing Nick read one of his poems, plus enjoy a very beautiful music video which accompanies his beautiful photos, with music he composed himself. Draw your chairs in close. You won't want to miss a minute!
Sherry: Nicholas, it is lovely to be chatting with you again. Bring us up to date, won't you? How are things since we talked in 2015?
Nicholas: I am glad to be “chatting virtually” with you again,
Sherry, and thank you for this opportunity to bring you up to date with what is
happening in my life since the last time we caught up last year. My cordial greetings
to all the poets of “Poets United”.
I am still living in Melbourne, Australia, still in
a happy stable relationship and still working for myself in higher education
consulting. My area of specialty is medical education and online learning. I
love living close to the centre of the City in the inner suburbs and
fortunately still in a house with a fairly large garden.
Nicholas: Melbourne has once again been voted as one of the "Most Livable Cities in the World" (number 15, in fact - http://www.traveller.com.au/worlds-most-liveable-cities-2016-vienna-sydney-and-melbourne-rank-in-top-20-gn1vug). Unfortunately, we have slipped and we are no longer the number one "World's Most Livable City" as occurred in the past. We are currently seeing rampant over-development throughout the city, with huge apartment buildings being erected, increased traffic, pollution, noise and poorer infrastructure.
Sherry: Thank you for this virtual tour. You have a wealth of wonderful day trips close to home. But I know you also enjoy travelling farther afield. Is there a favourite place, aside from Melbourne, that you especially love? Anywhere on your Bucket List you still hope to see? Nicholas: Yes. I love to travel and have been in a great many places around the world: to nearly every European country, many Asian ones, Mexico, USA and Canada, Africa. Highlights include USA and Canada (really enjoyed every time I visited there), India, Egypt, Britain, Germany, France, Spain and, of course, Greece and Italy! On my Bucket List are Antarctica and South America. Argentina and Peru would be lovely to see. Sherry: Yes, they would, especially Antarctica. Wow. You have seen the world. Now let's turn to your poetic journey, shall we? When did it begin?
Nicholas: I remember writing poetry while in primary and
secondary school as part of “creative writing” assignments. I enjoyed it even
then. However, it was only when I was in my late teens that I began to write “seriously”,
a need sparked by young love!
With poetry I can say things that I cannot say in
any other way, except perhaps through music (I also compose music). Poetry can
be very economical in the way it can completely encapsulate, in a few lines,
deep feelings, a variety of attitudes, many experiences and a wealth of
observations. I also think that a good poem can get the reader to resonate with
the poet’s point of view and feelings in a more immediate fashion than other
ways of expression. Sherry: Well said, Nicholas. Do you have a set routine for writing?
Nicholas: I need about 5 hours of sleep daily. This means I
can work well into the night when all is quiet both outside and inside the
house. At my desk, with the lamp burning, I can work on my various interests –
writing (prose or poetry), drawing, writing music, processing my photos,
posting on my blogs. Sherry: I am very impressed with the frequency and caliber of your posts. They always inform and entertain, with daily posts on poetry, food, music, travel, movie and book reviews. I saw a stat on your site saying you have had close to six MILLION pageviews, which is just mind-boggling! How do you feel about your reader response? It seems like a mutually positive exchange.
Nicholas: I think creative persons create because they must
create. Creativity is an awfully self-indulgent process. However, wise creators
will always be mindful of the effects their creations have on others. An
artist, poet, writer, actor, playwright will interact with the audience and be
further inspired to create more works if the reaction of that audience is a
constructive one. Yes, reader response is important but I shall continue to
create even if there is no audience. For example, very few people have played
or listened to my music, yet I continue to write new pieces and I develop as a
composer – my harshest critic and audience being myself. Sherry: I agree; we create because we must, audience or no. But friendly visits are certainly appreciated! Tell us about your art, Nicholas. What style of painting do you enjoy most? What medium do you prefer?
Nicholas: I both draw and paint and I certainly enjoy both.
Drawing is quick and I have several “visual diaries” that I fill with drawings
when I am in the mood or when inspiration comes, or when I see something that
stimulates my “drawing fingers”.
Sitting down to paint takes more planning and
there is a “studio” in the house where we have our paints and canvases, and
where we often sit and paint. I enjoy both watercolour and oils, although my
first preference is oils. I like painting landscapes, although symbolist
elements are also included in these.
Sherry: Your work is quite wonderful, Nicholas. Beautiful! Is there a well-known painting (or artist) you admire above all others?
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus by Brueghel
Nicholas: One my favourite paintings of all time is the
wonderful Pieter Brueghel’s “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus” ca 1558. You
can read why I like it here:
Sherry: A beauty! But I prefer your landscape, personally. Nicholas: I have included an art video I shot many years ago, and for which I wrote the music. Sherry: It is incredibly beautiful, Nicholas. Thank you for this. What a pleasure. Your musical composition is gorgeous. Are there a few poems of
yours that you would like to share with us today? And please share your thoughts on each one?
OK, here are four:
The first is a Winter poem. We are still in late
Winter here in Melbourne, but Winter in this poem is about absence of the
beloved. How often we need to part from the one we love and how distance makes us long for their return! All the more so in the dead of Winter, when even the season
and the weather seems to mimic the coldness in our heart:
Winter A winter morning: Cold, wet and the sky blacker now Than in the dead of night. The car headlights Reflected on the moist tarmac; My breath in steamy clouds, As I wait to cross the street in falling rain.
A winter morning: The sidewalk deserted, Empty, just like my heart. Your absence lingering Like the smell of fallen leaves; Your face, glimpsed as it were, On a window as a passerby is reflected.
A winter morning: A steaming cup of coffee Warming my hand. Thoughts of our shared breakfasts Your ardent hand on mine, The sound of your laughter, The taste of fresh, warm buttered toast.
A winter morning: The dawning day, grey and cold The sun, absent, like you. I linger expectantly for your return; Spring thoughts in deepest winter, Flowers made of the few yellowed leaves on bare twigs; warmth imagined of our reunion. Sherry: I can feel the anticipation of the loved one's return in this poem, Nicholas.
Nicholas: A poem on a similar theme is “Absence”, which you
can hear as I recite it on YouTube:
Absence They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, But ever since you left, my heart is smaller, colder. Now by myself, all of my time is mine to squander; But so much time is worthless and I feel inert and older.
They say that absence from our love is worse than death And feeling all that distance separating us, I sympathise; My life is empty, cold, each gulp of air a dying breath, A heart that’s stopped, a silent mouth and closing eyes.
They say that absence lessens small loves, increases great ones; How true that seems, as my love for you grows evermore; With absence watered, my rushing river of love, swells, runs And takes all with it, till it reaches welcoming far shore.
They say the joy of meeting pays the pangs of absence, But all I feel is pain and torture; no thought of future bliss Will now console me, and your lack is my quintessence; I abide your deficit, only to live again when we shall kiss.
Sherry: Nicholas, what a beautiful video!The combination of words and images is really breathtaking. What a treat! Nicholas: The next is a poem about old age. We all travel
relentlessly towards it and unless our journey is cut short, we shall all
become old. The lucky amongst us will gain wisdom, the unlucky amongst us will
be lost in the fog of oblivion and dementia. Having experienced dementia in
elderly relatives and friends, this poem is a reminder that many elderly people
will unfortunately have to face this terrible disease (as will their families and
friends)… My Foggy Brain The fog creeps and covers the landscape In a pall of gray – like a winding sheet Around a corpse recently dead. My mind dulls, and ashen woolly thoughts Flit in and out of my consciousness; now like butterflies, Now like strange visitors, intruders in one’s house.
The wintry mist obscures and blunts perception, The cold numbs me and the wetness seeps in, Drenching my clothes, chilling me to the marrow. Sunlit memories of childhood are vivid, with scents, aromas, The woody, resinous smell of newly sharpened pencils On the first day of school… Last week, wasn’t it?
The twilight yields its realm quickly to night And as darkness falls, I am disoriented, yet strangely alert, Feeling like a nocturnal creature: I must go out, go there! The days all merge into one and no matter how hard I try I cannot remember what I had for lunch, if did have anything, Where I was five minutes ago, or who the person I talked to was.
In darkness I wander, searching for some unknown goal, My random peregrinations having some higher purpose That I cannot divine; yet its all-important gravity, overwhelming. I see my wedding day clearly, attended by my adult children, I hear old familiar songs, sounding new and fresh; And who is this strange child calling me “Grandma”?
Summer falls heavily this year and freezes everything it touches. Snow falls and merges with the white hair of the old woman Staring at me reflected in some shop window, waving to me as I wave to her. Who is this person who apes my every move? Where am I? I wore a pink chiffon dress yesterday at my birthday party, I turned seven… I was so happy…Why is this old woman staring at me crying?
Sherry: This is very affecting, Nicholas, especially to those of us in this age demographic. So sad, to lose one's memories and history. So sad for the family members to lose someone in this way who is still alive.
Nicholas: The fourth poem is about our planet and the terrible
things we are doing to it. It is a dire warning and a message of hope too. Can
we stop destroying the environment and learn from the mistakes we have made?
Sherry: You know how pertinent I find this poem and the statement it makes, Nicholas. I suspect we might listen to an extraterrestrial with this message, though we have failed to heed the warnings of scientists and environmentalists for decades. Is there anything you'd like to say to Poets United? We are so happy to have you here among us!
Nicholas: Poets United is a special place on the net. It is a
wonderful nest for birds of a feather to roost in. I have met lovely people
here and have been exposed to many types of amazing poems that I would
otherwise have not read. I appreciate being a member of this creative
community.
Thank you, Sherry, and all of the other hard-working
people behind the scenes of Poets United that make this such a great site! Sherry: Thank you, my friend, for this rich sharing of poetry, art, music and photography. We look forward to enjoying your interesting posts for years to come. This was certainly a memorable visit, wasn't it, kids? Such chats are especially enjoyable for we armchair travellers who don't get far from home. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!
