dogs

WestWords Perfect Christmas Pair

There’s something about horses at Christmas.  It’s in the dark eyes I think, the stillness,Digital image the mix of warm breath and magic on a crisp winter morning.   I’m fortunate that wherever I’ve lived, there have always been horses nearby in fields or stables.  Being able to stand with them for a moment, rub their necks and manes or feed them carrots and apples, stirs something in my soul that I can’t explain.  It’s like entering a church or sacred place, there’s a spiritual hush that comes and takes you out of your own reality and puts you into the wild and earthy presence of something otherworldly.    Gorgeous creatures.

Digital imageI remember being snowed in one Christmas.  I lived in a cottage in the forest, about two hours drive away from family and friends and unable to travel, I spent a couple of days alone with my dog. Digital image On Christmas morning, we walked out through the Scots pine (ouch!) and fir, heavy with snow and reached a clearing at the top of the hill where my neighbours three horses were waiting. A mare, her yearling and a cheeky friend.  The animals touched noses and we all stood reading one another’s thoughts, lashes frosty in the wakening light.  The horses’ steaming breath on my hands, their snorting nostrils calming to slow inhalations, hooves prodding the frozen ground beneath, everything was sonorous with snow.  Later, thumbing through an anthology, I came across this poem by English poet Henry Shukman.  It was his attempt to write about his new born son.  His poems have appeared in The Guardian, The Times and The London Review Of Books and his first poetry collection, In Dr. No’s Garden, was published by Cape in 2003.  As a fiction writer he has published two novels, Sandstorm in 2006 and The Lost City which was a Guardian Book Of The Year.  I’ve paired it with the traditional folk carol Let Us The Infant Greet by Loreena McKennit, hope you enjoy it 🙂  Happy Christmas!  – Feliz Navidad! – Frohe Weihnacten! – Buon Natale! – Sona Nollag! – Kala Hristouyienna! – Joyeax Noel!

HORSES AT CHRISTMAS
By Henry Shukman

In our little house Creedence were singing
About the old cotton fields, the baby
Was flat on his back in front of the fire,
Eyes swimming with flame.
Christmas morning, and you were at church.
I thought of going to join you late,
But instead took the baby up to the horses.
Out in the field he started crying.
Maybe I should have taken him to the bath
Of stone, the discipline of a saviour, the sanctuary
Of hymns –

But the horses saved us.
To be close to them, so tough and nothing
To do with us, and their breathing all over him,
And the flaking mud on their necks
Where they had rolled, and the sucking of hooves
As they walked the sodden field.
The horses with their long heads,
Underwater eyes, watched us watch them.

Then they turned, drumming the field,
Leaving us alone – the damp morning
All about, the soaked grass under foot,
The baby’s diaphanous ears going pink in the cold
As silence bowed back to earth.

A Poet Walks Into A Bar …

The double negative didn’t walk into no bar!humour

What’s a Grecian Urn? About twenty thousand drachmas a year after taxes!

Okay I’ll stop now, so today we’re talking about HUMOUR and like poetry, humour is everywhere and we all respond to it. Cracking jokes can take the awkwardness out of some social situations; at work it can help build relationships; it’s a coping strategy too that relieves tension taking the edge off daily stresses which is critical to promoting harmony in our lives and diffusing negative emotions. In the serious business of poetry, humour is often viewed with suspicion and yes there are a lot of nonsense verses out there, fun nursery rhymes and terrible gibberish but then you get the great stuff, the satire, the irony the comic timing from writers like Billy Collins who uses comedy to lighten the pain of loss in his poem Putting Down The Cat which we’ll read later, but also here about his dead parents in No Time, he writes:

In a rush this weekday morning,
I tap the horn as I speed past the cemetery
Where my parents are buried
Side by side beneath a slab of smooth granite
Then, all day, I think of him rising up
To give me that look
Of knowing disapproval
While my mother calmly tells him to lie back down.

So through humour he crafts a poem that is full of feeling without being over sentimental. This reminds me of something Russian playwright Anton Chekhov said about having a necessary coldness when you write ’when you want to make the reader feel pity, try to be somewhat colder … the more objective you are, the stronger will be the impression you make’. So using poetic devices such as humour, satire and hyperbole ensure that otherwise serious topics pack more of a punch.

When we laugh, we temporarily give ourselves over to those who make us laugh and that’s what we’ll do now. Today’s show features Putting Down The Cat by Billy Collins, The Cremation Of Sam McGee by Robert William Service (read by Johnny Cash), God Says Yes To Me by Kaylin Haught, Symposium by Paul Muldoon and also, in Ill-wishing Him British poet Dorothy Nimmo takes a stoical approach to her lovers departure. You know it hurts when somebody leaves us and I think that how we heal depends on how we deal. Our outlook is everything and sometimes humour can help to mend the wounds of loss. Humorists have one cardinal rule: Don’t be inhibited. It’s better to take a rebellious attitude toward sensitive subjects than to pussyfoot around them. Nimmo writes from a pared back place, of a strength gained through painful insight, and with clever sleight of hand, she wittily gets her own back on the man who walks out on her.

Now there’s a joker in every pack isn’t there. There’s always someone who will, I don’t know, lets say eat the food someone else was saving! We know who you are William Carlos Williams! Somebody has eaten all the plums – and New Jersey doctor and poet William Carlos Williams gives us a poem written in the form of a note or memo left on a kitchen table, probably a note to his wife that turned into a poem, or as the experts call it – a found poem – where you take an existing text and refashion and reorder it. Was it a fair trade for the plums she was saving for herself? Is he really sorry? Known as an innovator, his poem This Is Just To Say is written in the imagist style, a poetic form that focuses on precise imagery and sharp language.  It reminds me of younger days when I used to house-share with people and we’d all have our names left on random grocery items in the fridge or in the cupboard and woe betide anyone who put their hands on my plums!

Next, the American poet and playwright Kenneth Koch gives us a spoof on the plum poem in his Variations On A Theme. Labelled as just a comedic poet, Koch himself spoke of the comic element as something that enabled him to be lyrical. But he was a very funny poet and here in Variations On A Theme By William Carlos Williams, Koch extends the original poem from one to four topics in what seems like almost a retaliation for Williams having eaten the plums! The plums were being kept for breakfast but with Koch now having nothing to do he chops down Williams’ house and so on, asking for forgiveness as Williams does in the original.

Remember humour can have a significant positive effect on our lives. Laughter, as they say, is the best medicine and it’s one of the first things we learn to do as newborns. And funny people receive a lot of attention and admiration don’t they? Most studies find humour to be a highly desirable attribute, which probably explains why the acronym GSOH is so popular in dating ads. Humour is big business too, when you think that it influences many of our daily decisions about what books or magazines to read, TV shows to watch, marketers’ are constantly trying to grab our attention with funny ads and products, all with their own in-house humorists writing them. And for writers, its all about imagination, constantly asking what if?, looking at ordinary things in extraordinary ways, it’s imagination that drives comedy and practically everyone has an imagination – or else no one would ever get married BOOM BOOM!

Music from Clem Snide, The Divine Comedy, Morcambe & Wise, Cathy Davey & more.  Enjoy the show!

… p.s.

funny dog sign

 

 

National Poetry Day UK 02.10.2014 #thinkofapoem

National Poetry Day(UK) #thinkofapoem – In memory of my darling Keema who loved poetry, classical music, the sea, forests, rivers, running through dry leaves and after squeeky balls, eating snow, stones and sausages (but not banana’s) and who sadly passed away two weeks ago on the 18th September, just after her 13th birthday. I miss her.

A DOG HAS DIED
By Pablo Neruda
(trans. By Alfred Yankauer)

My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.
Some day I’ll join him right there,
but now he’s gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I’ll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.
Ai, I’ll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.
No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he’d keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.
Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea’s movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean’s spray.
Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.
There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don’t now and never did lie to each other.
So now he’s gone and I buried him,
and that’s all there is to it.