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Category Archives: poetry
Poor Mother My Earth I strain to rise, but I cannot move, I'm leaden. The pressure on my throat is growing, I can hardly breathe. I'm slowly choking, consumed by a profusion of gases. I'm diminished by seas, not of water, not now, instead, a dryness stretching out across my surface. Forests, once verdant, my crowning glory, gone. Icecaps spent. Diversity lost. I was an object to be plundered, no seduction there. They lusted after me till I was spent, too late was I loved, truly loved, as me. Come rescue me my lovers, that you and I may be. ©Paul
With apologies to T.S. Eliot 🙂
My Cavity, My Cavity My cavity's a mystery pain, it's called the hidden hole. My cavity, my cavity, there's nothing like my cavity. It defies diagnostics, it isn't anywhere! The dentist seeks it here, the dentist seeks it there; but my cavity, my cavity, well, it's not anywhere! To all intents and purposes, my mouth still looks quite right. But underneath that pearly grin, the enamel's worn very thin. Some say its all the acid, others claim alkaline. Well it could be all the sugar! But whatever may be the science, my gums are sunken in. My cavity, my cavity, the Scarlet Pimpernell. How long till they find you, and fill that crater in? Paul, pvcann.com
Photo: i.ytimg.com via Bing
It's that look, the blank look, the unreadable you. I wonder what you're thinking, what you're hiding. Why? why don't I, Why can't I know? Will you show your hand when I call? Maybe I'm bluffing, but you, you're impenetrable. I can't beat the dab hand of your inscrutable look, that look, that keeps me wondering. Paul,
The waves are gentle, a rythmical undulation like inward and outward breaths of meditation, a life giving force that captivates the heart, and takes prisoner the mind and thralls it with wonderment. Gliding along I enter a new space and feel refreshed. There's something about being on the water. It's not possession, because this is a privileged and shared space, no, it's about surrender to the water, and all that it brings. The water rythmically laps the sides of the kayak, the undulation, beautiful. Nothing profound, simple, joyful ... gift. It is late, and yet the day is just beginning, undualting, water, soul friend. ©Paul Cannon 2018
Well it’s almost 2018. Days and years roll into one another too quickly for my liking. But every so often a year comes along that is not like other years, and 2017 has been a difficult year in many ways. There are the dearly departed who I miss, the friends who have parted company, the institution I am engaged with which has overly corporatised itself, the strain of the economy, and so on. But the strain for loved ones who have battled in body, mind and spirit in 2017 has been great and has left an indelible mark on me, on family and on friends. The old Persian adage: “This too shall pass”, is pertinent.
Of course, there has been an equally positive side to the year, with much achieved, loved, enjoyed, celebrated and realised, but it has been difficult, and more so than recent years. I don’t hate 2017, I won’t be glad to see it go because time itself has not made the difficulties, indeed, time is a mere construct.
I prefer to think in seasons, as many ancient cultures have done.
But there is something about marking out a new year as a new personal beginning, a new opportunity, a chance to alter the mindset, set new paths and goals, and release the negatives of recent time. So in that sense, it is almost time for me to set my inner compass and see what holds need to be loosed.
Walt Whitman puts it so well in ‘Song of the Open Road’
From this hour, freedom!From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of the limits and imaginary lines,
going where I list, my own master, total and absolute,
Listening to others, and considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
It’s almost 2018, I hope yours will be blessed and your holds released as you need them to be.
The road taken, the trail traversed, the track experienced, this is my bliss. It plays into aspects of my life not walking related, the roads taken in reading, painting, gardening, meals, friendships, driving … There are friends along the way, sister tree, brother rock, birds, marsupials, fish, so much to enjoy and take in, and get to know in some way. The road taken might mean another or others not taken, but so be it, and as Frost says, this one “has made all the difference.” Though, clearly, he could have said the same had he walked the other one. But, and I agree, the road less travelled is somehow more inviting. Perhaps its the liminance of choice, the threshold that is truly delicious?
And, speaking of Robert Frost, one of the truly great poets in my estimation, wrote this wonderful poem, a poem which is ingrained in my psyche, a poem I have embodied, and which in part goes some to explaining my bliss of bush walking and love of nature. I tell it with a sigh, a sigh of longing, and a sigh of love.
The Road Not Taken (Robert Frost)
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.