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#worldpoetryday

With the Vernal Equinox, that sense of joy and revival, as Mother Earth awakes and grows deep in her bounty and belly, comes an invitation to create, celebrate, as today, Wednesday 21st of the third month, was chosen as our World Poetry Day. 

The chance to reconnect with ourselves as Mother Earth’s children, and allow creativity to flow like sap inside our souls.

It is exactly what happened this morning during Period 3 in the classroom with Fourth Year pupils who wished to practise their own creative writing skills through poetry. 

They asked me for the first theme, whilst they picked the second.

They sat down inside our world, and, with a few words of guidance, began to write their poetics. Not only happy to hint them into using their own senses, they asked me, the poet, to write my own.

Theme 1

The Rain

It drips and clops like

a metronome against time,

Clop, clop, clop, clop… 

that sense of Spring past Equinox, as they lash into their 

trillions, clones,

cold water unleashed from clouds;

aborted, unborn icicles,

unwanted so late inside March.

I hear them crash against windows, on every corner of

meadows, and feel them

drop inside the

warmth of my collar, as 

morning vanishes in

vain.

——–

Theme 2: 

The Beach

There isn’t a pebble in sight,

heart-shaped, 

polished by angry tides, 

riptides and rollers 

rolled in wrath

a jealous moon pulled & twisted.

But there are prints from

our own past, 

hundred of footprints in white sand

a gale will blow, obliterate through

hands of time, like

a school slate wiped by a child,

timetables & mathematics in

an attempt to unwind 

Pi.
NH 2018

————-

Now your turn to be creative and celebrate the spoken word on this fine day! 🙂 

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wild

starlings in black n white

October, the month of heaven & grace

Marvellous moments of lightness, privileged times among paired swans, preening and sharing love in grace at last light… Statuesque haigries (herons) around our bays, the joy to reconvene with our beautiful Earth. I observe them from the distance, with that humble feeling, so intimate the moment. The light is soft, nearly sunset. The air is charged with tenderness and love in that autumnal sense of rawness…

Intimate. So privileged, I feel.

Sensual, magical.

This north end corner of Spiggie Loch gradually welcomes them back, as the Arctic winter dictates. They will flock in and preen, share a few weeds with a few ducks – gather on the shore for bathing and arrange their feathers, and roost by twos… A bit of love inside a world so few can taste.

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swallows

 

 

 

 

 

On the topic of migration, hirundines – the embodiment of summer – and swallows in particular have always captivated my heart. I remember them nesting under the roof in rue de la LibĂ©ration in Gisors as a child; and their return every year throughout life – wherever I have settled – remains magical.

Today I watch them return on the island, so far away from my grandmother’s home, and every time they rekindle that moment of discovery as a child… They fly from West Africa to reach us. Their journey feels incredible – travellers without papers across our northern hemisphere. They come to create the next generation – they have two homes, they are the product of two worlds, and they embody with so much grace many of us, humans, who have been blessed with more than one home…

A powerful allegory.

 

Here, to celebrate those amazing avian wanderers, a string of micropoetry, first written in French, then, translated in mirror.

 

Les hirondelles

1.

Furtives,

des anges habillés bleu et noir,

avec dans leurs yeux, du courage;

l’iris rivetĂ© au soleil, avides d’amour hors des nuages, sous

les génoises, elles font un voeu.

1.

Furtive,

they, angels clad in black & blue,

with courage in their eyes;

iris riveted to the sun, avid to love in cloudless skies, under

a roof they make a wish.

2.

Intrépides,

elles traversent déserts, champs et mers,

se confient aux cours d’eau, les chansons de la terre

pour retrouver enfin une once du berceau.

2.

Intrepid,

they fly across deserts, meadows and seas;

confide to waterways, the many earthly songs, to

find at last an ounce from home.

3.

Je les entends venir enfin,

leurs longues plumes dans mon ciel,

s’arrĂŞter  sur un fil de fer, entre iris et mur de pierres,

un rebord de gouttière,

la latitude de leurs ancĂŞtres.

3.

At last I hear them come,

their long feathers inside my sky,

to perch on a wire, in between iris and stone walls,

the edge of a gutter –

their ancestors’ latitude.

 

 

 

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outcry

It’s all about adding and substracting… In the artist’s own words.

Paul Bloomer’s latest exhibition ar the Shetland Museum & Archives in Lerwick, Scotland, UK, feels an epic saga in charcoal, cladding the whitest of walls inside da Gadderie, that non-static space devoted to the muable world.

The huge pictures felt they had been tailored to perfection. Paul needs to create his own creative time at his Bigton studio when he is not lecturing at the Shetland College at Gremista, or travelling to Europe with (or without) his students. 

My top favourite picture – swans’ flight –  was inspired by a recent trip to Vienna…  A regular visitor to Spiggie Loch as a visual artist or devoted angler, I was both surprised and amused to hear it on Sunday as Paul spoke of each charcoal on paper gigantic pictorial metaphors. 

Originally from the Black Country, Paul anchored his heart &  art  on this symbolic latitude where time and space are regulated by light and darkness in that perpetual dance of seasons.

However, as an islander, he too looks at the world in a unique perspective. 

And he works like a poet or a writer, with a pocket size sketchbook, to capture moments he will later reproduce on a gargantuan scale… 

Paul makes parallels between people and avian migration. His dreams transcend through circles… Black versus white.  

He constantly reminds us how mankind generates that poisoning world, itself pictured as a leitmotive throughout and in various ways, metaphors, as Paul reflects on each throughout that Sunday afternoon stroll in his presence.

Paul the environmentalist – politically engaged… Raged by a poisoning world, in which political disciples hide, such as those deduced by populism. His charcoal stick does not fail to challenge the viewer…

He nonetheless searches for lightness through nature, to find love and sensuality among geese, swans or starlings, Shetland’s commonest and yet captivating birds.

Sensuality expressed though the oneness of entangling whooper swans.

Paul very aptly entitled his exhibition a prayer for the healing of nations.


A must see. 🙂 

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world tales


On Top of the World



After the rain,

three herring gulls on

chimney pots;

now

sun’s blazing

Anderson’s slates.

In

between

two rounds of

showers,

blackbird voices,

raw

arc-en-ciel. 

young maa



out of wharf, ripples & ruffle,

it comes to dip among

brown kelp;

bobs

up

&

down

water surface

and finds solace amid

islands,

where clouds

harness silver edge

tides… Where wings wrangle

herring gull pride.

Where they

come to

feed

at

present.

The Edge

Look at the edge of your own world.
Free your heart & feet from tarmac,

where gutters offer

no relief.

Untie your boat, grab your

own oars.

Hear the call of the

waterline,

everlasting song of rollers

melts in white

sand –

some call it a desert

island,

but to my heart,

it is music.

Either side of the shining

edge,

we find our prints tied around kelp:

on the dry side of the mirror,

men have wandered among knives and

white broken

shells spewed offerings;

so few can listen to the wind,

the song of seasons inside wings

of a kingdom made of

lush Land,

where the sun rests

after crimson.
I hear you

say,

“you’re a dreamer” –

“time is money to all of us.”
I say “throw your coins to a sea, paper to oblivious

limpets..

The world you live feeds from

despair, liars and lice;

they gave you dreams as

tasty bait.

Tied to a tree inside concrete,

sea rockets smell so alien…

We imagine resolutions

and yet

shackles

locked around feet,

with their keys kept inside

boardrooms, between

the

hands of

their makers –

make no mistake,

they will not give them easily;

magpies like anything

shiny.

This world I love has its

pure gems.
© Nat Hall 2017

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belle (#wearewoman #1) 

les-coquelicots-by-isabelle-foriat

We are woman, we are beautiful

How I love the way she paints those flowers, poppies, coquelicots, as she knows them in Provence.

In first #wearewoman post, I am celebrating  lifelong friend I met in 1990, in transit between two life chapters, en route north, beyond the horizon…

Her name is Isabelle Garnier Foriat.

isa-foriat-restauratrice-de-tableaux

Isabelle Foriat

Sensitive eye, accurate, meticulous in every sense of her iris,hand and brush… Please click on the two following links, ELLIA, the painter’s constellation, and ATELIER PATRIMONIUM, where the artist turned saviour of artworks.

Every visit weighs all its gold.  We reconvene at spring by the shores of River Durance. Our friendship flows by Les Moulins.

 

I recall a poem I dedicated to the artist. Initially written in French back in 2003 and available online at Poésie Française.

 

Pour toi, Isa la Belle, en attendant de te rerouver dans ta constellation.

 

Regards de peintre

A Isa, avec tendresse.

CĂ©zanne, Ă©coute :
Le LubĂ©ron s’est Ă©veillĂ© –
Maître Foriat,
Isa la belle
A fait jaillir
De ses palettes
Un pic Ă©peiche,
Un âne bleu –
Dans la chaleur du vent,
Ses pinceaux sont encrés ;
Dans un panier de pĂŞches
Tout son génie est né.
Coquelicots,
Cyclamen,
Iris ou fleurs d’amandiers,
Entre Haute-Loire
Et Durance,
Mont Mezenc
Et Sainte Victoire
Se sont comptĂ©s fleurette…
Pommes d’amour
Ou coloquintes,
Ses mains de peintre
Ont enfanté
La magie des couleur,
Tout un plaisir
Des yeux,
BleutĂ©s par l’huile,
Ou l’aquarelle –
Dans ses regards
De peintre,
Crue luminosité.

© Nat Hall 2003

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entente more than “cordiale” :-)

1917, somewhere in hell, the fabric of humanity and life

I smiled tonight as, scrolling down the “Reader” section of wordpress, I found a xmas post from fellow poet & blogger Jackdaw.

One hundred years ago, London and Paris were building that Entente Cordiale, from the ashes of centuries of political warfare that engulfed generations of men to their deaths via so many bloody battles. Even though distrust was/has always been de rigueur, the two old enemies had found common ground. The necessities of the alliance system had eventually prevailed in an early 20th century torn by imperialistic competition and jealousy. Ironic, when we know it all began with a family feud between cousins who, notably, did not seem to agree on their own “gallery of toys”… Incidentally, 1917 also resonates with the entry of the US in that war of attrition, as well as the collapse of the medieval tsarist Russia…

This image, so powerful, prompted a comment to Jackdaw’s post. How humane, powerful will to defy the absurdity of war (total or not)  and show the world nations do not “hate” one another… There is light in darkness.

2017… One hundred years later

Russia has her 21st century blend of tsar under a more capitalistic etiquette, dealing happily with the world in a nostalgic way… The US have a new leader looking towards such Russian counterpart… Writing a brand new page of history that – I dearly hope – will not plunge our planet into chaos as in the first half of the last century. London is on her way alone… Somehow I would like to think that today’s generations of men and teenagers will not end up in a patch of no man’s land filled with horrors and absurdity. My grand mother’s words still echo in my head, as I still hear her telling me, as a child, how lucky I was to be born under “the right star”. By this, she meant in a period of (relative) peace in our homeworld. I still want to believe it. And I am also reluctant to be sucked in a bipolar world again. I still remember die Grenze between East and West as a teenager on a school exchange in (then) West Germany back in 1983 and 1984. Much favour a united world in which people feel “home” without (too many) fears…

Thank you, dear Jackdaw, for such blogpost. What a kiss!

May the image be plastered, like W. Owen’s poem, Dulce et Decorum Est, on every town square, national parliament, school, embassy and the UN, both in Geneva and New York.

A soldier of the Machine Gun Corps in a sheepskin coat kissing a French farm-girl under a sprig of mistletoe. Hesdin, France, December, 1917. Merry Christmas to you all. Don’t get chapped lips from all that kissing.

via Christmas Kiss — City Jackdaw

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