The Rains Return
The sky weeps;
Hills soak to refill rills.
Upon the porch, we sit still.
The rain – snow in the high ground – has finally returned to much of Spain, bringing some relief to the drought we’ve been experiencing this year.
The spring that supplies our village in the Valdorba is still flowing at a trickle, though. It will take much more rain to raise the water table and refill the reservoirs.
the spring last week above, the same spring in September below…
But everyone has been happy to see the rain, despite the need for umbrellas instead of sunglasses.
This is a photo of one of the beaches in San Sebastian, aka Donostia, taken when I was there last week.
I sat on the beach and wrote this poem.
Donostia, December 2017
On the breakwater, as tide rises,
Shielding eyes to see gleaming mountain
Snowmelt trickle by.
We shouldn’t be able to see the mountain from the beach at this time of year, for the blanket of cloud that normally shrouds the city.
But what is normal anymore?
Anyway, I wrote a few poems that afternoon. It reminded me of another poem I wrote a few weeks ago, which describes a little of why I’ve written so little recently, and posted less.
But maybe we’ll get back to normal sometime soon…
Words Come Forth
They say our words won’t be kept down;
They bubble up, under pressure, like lava
Pushing through a fissure,
Bursting forth if they can’t flow.
But instead, they are drawn
Under empty sky,
Sucked out by silence,
Pulled forth by the vacuum
Of open space,
Giving them a place to emerge
Timidly into tranquilly
Like deer from the thicket at twilight.
It’s been a while. It’s been busy.
But I’ve been doing a bit of writing.
I have a few poems to share, over the next few weeks, as the summer proper hits us.
Meanwhile, if you want me, I’ll be on the porch….
The House Stands Built, the Garden Lies Laid
If we needed lumber, I’d gladly go into the wood,
Cut logs and split them all afternoon.
Were there a shelf to put up, a cupboard fixed,
A picture to hang, I’ve no problem lending a hand.
Should the lawn need mowing, or the hedge trimming,
The garden path cemented, a fence erected,
Bicycle mended, stone wall constructed, a pond dug
Or a border weeded, you can count on me;
I’m always happy to go to work.
But the house is built, the garden laid,
There’s left little to do but watch the grass growing
So if you want me, I’ll be on the porch.
(This is a short video of what’s in front of said porch….)
A little poem as we note the start of spring here.
The bats indeed did come out that night and now, a week later, there are lizards and frogs about, as well as cranes coming back north and storks reclaiming their nests.
Leave Off the Light
Leave off the lights
At least until the light leaves;
Let us feel it while it lasts,
Catch sight of birds flying to roosts, crying
As it dies, and perhaps bats will wheel past.
Let night descend inside, too, before
Filling our night with brightness,
Let the life outside touch our lives a little,
For at last there is light as twilight arrives.
The last song of the thrush before nightfall,
The final swings through the sky before swifts eventually settle:
The ensuing silence – if you can find it – as dusk sinks in
And pink clouds vanish into black.
These call out, loud as swift screams
To all who have ears:
Open the windows, shut off everything else,
Watch the darkness descend and catch the bats first flight;
You are alive now, but might not last the night.
In the thick of the festival of San Fermines now.
A couple of dangerous and incident-filled bull runs the last two days. Reminds us that this is not a joke, and it reminded many of us of the way the bull runs used to be – before anti-slip coatings and better street surfaces.
I’ve been busy with kids and having meals with friends on our street, and have only gotten to see the fire works once, the bull runs on the telly, and haven’t been near the bull ring yet. It reminds me of a poem I wrote during my first San Fermin festival – exactly 20 years ago (my mother-in-law was astounded when I told her we met that long ago!).
Lines Written in Pamplona
I have held my red bandana aloft,
Tied it round my neck
And worn it proudly:
Opened champagne at noon;
Held a candle at midnight.
Sung and danced and drank and walked and watched
And smiled in between.
But to experience San Fermin;
You need to have no need for sleep,
A body unaffected by alcohol,
The pulling power of James Bond,
The stamina and sperm count of a bull;
A bottomless stomach, to hold all there is to taste,
The ability to float above the crowds, so dense;
Yes, that was in the days when you could take a bottle into the packed Plaza Consistorial – and I was a young man!
Now I spend the afternoons doing thinks like bringing my kids up on the big wheel and having a picnic as the heat of the day dies down.
And another poem, before my first ever San Fermin lunch, of which my son just shared his first ever this year – he’s 7 months.
Lines Written in a Spanish Home
A stranger sitting at a Spanish table,
Eating things he never thought of
In ways he never knew,
Listening to the lunchtime
Talk of the household,
In another language he does not know;
But understanding something of the banter,
Wishing he could speak;
If, he could
Live like this.
Five Minutes in Spring
Five minutes on a park bench
To catch sight of birds other than doves,
A walk along a tree-lined street
Instead of screen-staring upon a bus,
A pause between passing engines to
Actually hear the blackbird,
Lingering by a flowing fountain
To listen to the lovely gurgle,
A long gaze upon a hillside
Growing shades of green for grazing,
A halt, a hesitation, to inhale the
Heady horse chestnut scents;
Five minutes in spring, just five,
To remind us this here is life.
It’s been a busy few weeks here in Pamplona.
I’ve my children’s book, Peter and the Little People out today! You can get it here... https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore/index.php/museitup/fantasy/peter-and-the-little-people-detail
As well as that, I’ve a novella under the name JD Martins, One Night in Boston, out tomorrow! You can get that here… http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Martins_JD/one-night-in-boston.htm
What with promoting these and my other books, and preparing a blogtour for One Night in Boston, as well as normal life stuff like end of school year, taking care of the kids and having a baptism, I’ve not had time to do much reading or writing, or getting a chunk of time to get out in the mountains.
But it’s vital to take just a few minutes as spring spins past to appreciate why we’re here, to pause to see just how fast life is flying by. Then get back to the kids and exam correcting, and the edits of the book you swore would be done by Christmas…
A Watcher on Calvary
A man named Barabbas was once heard sighing,
From an alley on the path to Calvary, upon spying
A raucous crowd, carrying crosses to the top, go by,
And saying, “There, but for the grace of God, go I.”
As the mild winter ends, we’re still getting some snow, which is a sting for the bees and their blossoms…
But a few signs make me think of things, and remind me embrace the environment.
Spring Should be Here.
The blackbird has deemed
It propitious this St. Pat’s
To screw the snow and sing.
Sometimes when the traffic signal stops us
Those sixty seconds
Bring the most serenity to our day.
Too often taking a few minutes
To scribble down some new words,
Staring at the screen and soaring
In our imagination, but not taking
Time to just sit and watch the world;
Interacting with the environment,
Embracing our ecology.
Capturing Solar Dances
The sun, from its distant observation, shone
It’s light upon the far side of the moon,
Which hung out past our horizon;
A vast cloud bank over the mountains.
In the purple sky above a rising line of blue
Tinged yellow, the glow curled around
The curve of the moon – its back to Venus,
Reflecting the same light in
Full resplendence from much further away.
Had I had a camera, which could have
Captured the four Solar dancers
Through the window of the aeroplane
The way my eye did, well, it would have
Made a wonderful photo. But I didn’t.
Yet the scene is still forever captured;
Set in the store of my memory,
Seared upon my retina and etched
By my very nerve cells which shall
Never let me forget it.
I wrote this on the plane on the way to Israel last week as we flew the length of the Mediterranean. I had my phone on airplane mode, but it just couldn’t do the scene justice, so I didn’t even bother.