adieu

Da Drongs, Eshaness, 13 Aug 2023

Unexpected

This afternoon, my joyful heart at Breiwick Café turned silent with the news of the passing away of the father of Geopoetics, Kenneth White, at his home in Brittany.

His vision of our place in the world may have been perceived as radical back in the 1980s, but the Glasgow born poet & original thinker – as the intellectual nomad – has a body of work in which I, among the many Earth-connected creatives, have developed as a poet. Through his writings – either in English or in French – I have defined my own and continue to do so.

I, in the world 🌍 because we have our place as part of it all.

Love and Light

My heart is sad tonight.

Have lit a candle for his soul, as well as for his survivors. I treasure his writings and vision, as well as his life journey, from Scotland to La Sorbonne via many wanderings around France, and eventually Brittany.

And when I look at the sea, headlands and towers of lights from my 60N latitude, I remember the man, and celebrate our homeworld through his spirit.

Washing of the ocean, Atlantic.

Rest in Peace, Mr White.

You have taught us the meaning of l’archipel.

spaekalation

November, month of hellery – this fine Shetland dialect word that encapsulates the worse from the sky in the form of storms of any kind – enshrouded in darkness since daylight feels more and more elusive.

Hel, hell, hellery, as 2020 has never matched our expectations; held us hostage within our walls, and loved ones disappear…

Spaekalation – another fine Shetland dialect word that translates as gossip – is a raw piece written at night, as an attempt to deal with both the savagery of the sky and a sudden and an unexpected bereavement. This poem was first written in the dialect and then translated in English

spaekalation


Whit's yun?

Is yun a gooster or a ghoul?

Twa goggly eens i'da tree, 

is yun an owl o some kind?

Ta da dare-say o'da mirken, da vaelensi is juist

begun;

dey say dat ghosts ir among wis,

waanderin, lone, aroond
wir laand - dy an

me hoose,

da tattie crö, barn an byre -

dey say dey travel wi da flan an da snitter,

skid juist laek bairns apö

da snaa an glerl o ice,

hide i'da white o'da moorie ta

mind da reek o chimney stacks.

Dey say dey sit by da fire atween

da caird an da wirsit -

da Slockit Licht,

crabbit embers ta keep 

da memory alive.

Deir shadows

glide alaang da waa,

listen ta da saang o'da nicht.

----

Gossip

What's this?

Is that a messy gust of wind or just a ghoul?

Two goggly eyes inside a tree,

is it an owl of some kind?

To the hear-say of dusk,

That brisk downpour has just begun;

They say that ghosts are among us,

wandering, lone, around

the land, my and

your house,

the spud corner, barn and cowshed -

they say they travel with wind gusts or biting cold air,

skid just like kids on

snow and ice,

hide in the white of a blizzard to

reminisce smoke from the stacks.

They say they sit by the fire, between

carding tool and the yarn -

Extinguished Light,

dodgy embers to

keep the

memory alive.

Their shadows glide along

the wall,

listen to the tune of

the night.


© Nat Hall 2020

For you, dear Nybakk Clan ♥️

wind of change

We are never fully aware of things until they skelp (slap) you in the face.

My first drive back north to catch the sunset at Mavis Grind – the gateway to Northmavine, the north end of the main island – turned far darker as I caught windfarm ground work in progress with trucks at rest at the foot of hills along the A970 off Sandwater Loch. My heart sank. So far, I had only gazed at stills and drone footage in social media… All of the sudden, it became real.

For years, I have marvelled at Central Mainland – Sandwater, Kergord, da Lang Kames… Nesting, Voe – legendary places of wilderness teeming with rich and varied life. For years, we have been wrestling with a nightmare that will change life and lives – wild as well as human – forever.

For years, I have walked the shore and shared it openly: take a picture of it all before it is changed for ever.

We have lost a battle.

Yet instead of the expected pictures taken from the roadside, I thought of friend & artist Paul Bloomer’s current project entitled Shadowed Valley.

Whilst Paul has been developing his response on canvas through the main medium of charcoal, selected recent pieces of his work struck me over recent time.

Shadowed Valley by Paul Bloomer

Shadowed Valley by Paul Bloomer

In turn, I am expressing in words as my response to his work. With gracious thanks, Paul, for your kindness & powerful work.

Da Death Valley

Winds of change,

listen to the silent valley.

Through the darklands we now wander –

round da paets’ broos, where

whimbrels nest,

gigantic claws obey men’s will;

among heather & crowberries where

merlins hide their love and genes,

metallic claws slash & plunder deep through

this land where

redshanks call, protect their youngs between a loch and

Peta’s print,

way past the ridges of wir Kames,

Lottie’s Half-Way Hoose and

Nesting.

Shackled men to demon-money only

see gold, far away vaults,

far too oblivious to

ravens,

whimbrels, merlins or

mystic mountain hares, Heather Ling or rich purple bells,

the divine sanctuary of life.

Men dunna ken,

they come with trucks as giant claws rage through wir laand,

rape in peace to satisfy needs

whilst

nearby folk dread the shadows of longer blades,

Don Quixote’s nightmare

far north.

© Nat Hall 2020

Poet’s Notes

da paets’ broos: (Shetland dialect) the edge of eroded peat (turf); da Laang Kames (place-name): the long valley shaped from Sandwater Loch to the Village of Voe and Nesting area; Peta: (from O.N. & Shetland folklore) name given to a giant that fell asleep in the valley of da Laang Kames; “Men dunna ken”: (from Shetland dialect) expression meaning “people don’t know”; wir laand: our homeland.

Shadowed Valley by Paul Bloomer

awakening

Here comes a piece right from the heart, as I begin to come to terms with a virus that confine us and still stirs fears won’t go away and belongs to Natural Laws.

As soon as we accept this, we become survivors. Put aside politics, those daily obscure statistics… Are we seriously reminded daily about death rates related to the flu, coronary disease, smoking & other drugs? And if only… If only we were reminded daily about the state of our homeworld; victims from climate change.

Yes, it is dangerous; yes, it can kill. Yet like others, we will pull through or disappear… Life is precious and every new morning feels a blank page.

Blank Page

New,
New beginnings,
threads from loose ends, shreds of blankness left in
a corner of a page, chapter so void of
ink and thoughts.

New,
that point of
singularity where dreams wonder out of
nowhere, elemental as
hydrogen in
time and
space,
where syllables
echo like dots
from a ballpoint
pen ready to blacken first page, new beginnings in
a cartridge without smudges, writer’s mistakes…
Look at it now,
It has darkened beyond
belief, as
new beginnings set to sail as
asteroids, debris, comets,
bouncing flash balls from
nebulae still
to be imagined and
penned.
Fresh universe to the writer.

© Nat Hall 2020

Vagvísir

Now, to a darker one…

Have you chosen your place of death?

Is it in the shade of blossoms, 

where the 

wind 

blows to carry words

no 

one will 

know? Or 

is it outside a

lighthouse – where 

whiteness stands so 

close to

gold,

where

maalies* glide,

the great wild bairn* 

free and 

shameless?

Now, in

the 

eye of

the compass,

you see the meaning of

your birth –

your talisman 

in between breasts,

the 

tattoo of

staves in circles;

what’s left of

It lives inside you,

deep inside

the womb of the dead, and 

yet you need me

as a

guide – as

no one points to

their last 

breath.
Notes:

(From Shetland dialect)

maalies: fulmar petrels 

bairn: child 
© Nat Hall 2016 

Five Photos, Five Stories – Day 2

From the lightness of being, to the darkness of despair… Or, is it?

For tonight’s second attempt, I chose a “raw” image – not gore, but dark within lightness. That carcass of life on white sand. Mortality as the finality of life.

 
The poem that accompanies the image is called Bird on Your Shoulder –

and goes like this:

 So many feathers 

outside cage.
Long,

black, broken,

creased, keratin –

inside my book of elements,

jinxes & spells,

blend in

swift’s

tongue with

snapdragon and

asphodel –

tell me

you can dream 

on the wing,

share an

apple

with

a

waxwing,

high on a roof

     with a blackbird.
Chose si belle,
above spring waves,

with storm petrels

that avian

urge to

reach

your

home,

and
lose your way across 

the sea.
© Nat Hall 2015

united

Before might of Mother Nature, in disarray when her crust shakes, fashions herself though molten rocks, we need to yield and face chaos.

In unison with prayer flags flying at will between Lhasa & Katmandu, every arête of mythical Hymalayas, I have unleashed my humble ones.

A quake terrifies us all. 

Man may wage wars against his kind, inflict suffering to the world through various ways, including planet poisoning… But man remains powerless before anger from his homeworld – as that thin layer we call ground destroys his own making… 

I watched yesterday’s first reports via a French channel. My heart sank at the people directly affected by yesterday’s massive quake. However, I was also appalled to hear of their [French reporters’] focus on “the terrible loss of UNESCO buildings & fear of French nationals on the Hymalayan slopes.”  …As if they were more preoccupied by stones & privileged mountaineers in search of fame than the Nepalese folk dying under the rubble. 

Let us hope the media change their discourse & that humanity responds quickly enough in an effort to help everyone affected by such natural disaster.

Man has learnt resilience. 

I live in an island not so far from Iceland, where tectonic plates, rifts and volcanoes can be felt at my local level. I wonder how the world would react should it happen closer to us…