FAITS D'HIVER(2)

jan 1 2013

And so a great sadness settled on the land.

The mountains - for there were some – had become forgotten, obscured by freezing mists and a heavy, rank fog now fills the village streets. The people have either given up or moved away and the houses are ruins, choked with bramble and thorn and the walls crumble under the strangling ivy. By day even the vermin stay away and at night only one light shines in the gloom, but it is not defiant. The pathetic light serves only to highlight the desperation of the time and the place.

jan 2 2013

There's a thing in the French newspapers - Faits Divers - sort of translates as 'news in brief' and then you could say fête d'hiver which would translate as Winter Festival. The two phrases ALMOST sound the same - but not quite. Faits D'hiver sort of combines the two ideas as they appear in my head and i have used it as the title here for this new page.
So...
Some winter facts.

jan 3 2013

A copy of The Guardian Weekly magazine lies on the table.
I flick through it.
Find this.
Do it.
Compare it to this? 

When were you happiest? The day my son was born.

What is your earliest memory? It’s ok.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? Distraction.

And in others? Lack of passion.

Property aside, what’s the most expensive thing you’ve bought? A car.

What is your most treasured possession? Is it a possession? Family.

If you could bring something extinct back to life, what would it be? My hair.

What is your most unappealing habit? Not shaving.

What is your favourite smell? Pine forest of a summer’s eve.

What is your favourite book? Cannery Row.

Which word do you most overuse? Maybe.

What is your guiltiest pleasure? Chocolate.

To whom would you most like to say sorry and why? Myself. I need to.

What is the worst thing anyone’s said to you? Grow up.

Who is the greatest love of your life? She.

What was the best kiss of your life? Hoping it will be the next.

Which living person do you most despise and why? Despise is a strong word that I don’t really relate to but I don’t like that clerk at Budget Car Rental very much.

Who would you invite to your dream dinner party? Not her (the lady at the ca rental), but certainly a female.

What is the worst job you have ever done? It could have been worse.

If you could go back in time, where would you go? 1955.

When did you last cry and why? Today, I was watching Flight of The Navigator. Because I wish.

How do you relax? Easily.

How often do you have sex?

What is the closest you have come to death? Today.

What item would improve your life. Item? I guess hair doesn’t count as an item? A boat.

What is your greatest achievement? I don’t know. Someone else would have to say.

What keeps you awake at night? My days. Sometimes.

What song would you like played at your funeral? La Balencoire played on the piano by Minnie, I’ve told her.

How would you like to be remembered? With love would be nice.

jan 4 2013

Yet it was to this light that the lonely wanderer came.

Wet and cold in the night air, tired and worn from his journey he looked up at the light struggling from an upstairs window. It seemed a thousand miles away from where he stood, hooded and cloaked before the icy wind that raged from the distant mountains from whence he had travelled, losing so much and wasting so much time.

Now it felt as if that was all that remained - time, though it gave him no comfort.

jan 5 2013

The inn - for it was an inn in front of which he stood – had once been alive with music and song; people had danced and lives had been forged with promise and desire. Tonight, as it had been for too long, there was only silence and the howl of the restless winds.

The traveller, for he was so, opened the door and entered. No lock prevented him for no one ever came; no voice welcomed him, for there was no longer anything to say.

Dust greeted him.

Layers of years covered everything; if someone were following they would have seen the footprints that he left even in the dark.

But no one was; he was not alone, he was non-existent.

jan 7 2013

From his pocket he took the stub of a candle and fumbling with cold fingers he lit it. The yellow glow seemed only to deepen the gloom that surrounded him, but through it he could see that he was in what once was a reception room; on one side a desk where guests would have been assessed and registered, on the other a staircase that led to the rooms where they would sleep.

As he stepped towards the reception desk the dust under his feet shifted, if there had been sunlight he would have stopped and marvelled at the way the particles seemed to dance in the light but in the glow of a stubby candle it just looked like dust.

jan 8 2013

He looked around.

The room keys hanging on the message boxes had long since lost their shine and they seemed lifeless and uninterested, but one was missing and a note sat unclaimed in the box beneath.

“Probably the upstairs light” he thought to himself.

jan 9 2013

He opened the register that lay in front of him and though the ink had faded he could read that the last entry was dated 1953.

Leaving it open, he rang once on the desk bell and listened as the sound resonated through the empty corridors.

He rang it again and waited.

Silence slowly settled and the candle in his hand flickered in hesitation.

jan 10 2013 (where we are up to so far)

And so a great sadness settled on the land.

The mountains - for there were some – had become forgotten, obscured by freezing mists and a heavy, rank fog now fills the village streets. The people have either given up or moved away and the houses are ruins, choked with bramble and thorn and the walls crumble under the strangling ivy. By day even the vermin stay away and at night only one light shines in the gloom, but it is not defiant. The pathetic light serves only to highlight the desperation of the time and the place.

Yet it was to this light that the lonely wanderer came.

Wet and cold in the night air, tired and worn from his journey he looked up at the light struggling from an upstairs window. It seemed a thousand miles away from where he stood, hooded and cloaked before the icy wind that raged from the distant mountains from whence he had travelled, losing so much and wasting so much time.

Now it felt as if that was all that remained - time, though it gave him no comfort.

The inn - for it was an inn in front of which he stood – had once been alive with music and song; people had danced and lives had been forged with promise and desire. Tonight, as it had been for too long, there was only silence and the howl of the restless winds.

The traveller, for he was so, opened the door and entered. No lock prevented him for no one ever came; no voice welcomed him, for there was no longer anything to say.

Dust greeted him.

Layers of years covered everything; if someone were following they would have seen the footprints that he left even in the dark.

But no one was; he was not alone, he was non-existent.

From his pocket he took the stub of a candle and fumbling with cold fingers he lit it. The yellow glow seemed only to deepen the gloom that surrounded him, but through it he could see that he was in what once was a reception room; on one side a desk where guests would have been assessed and registered, on the other a staircase that led to the rooms where they would sleep.

As he stepped towards the reception desk the dust under his feet shifted, if there had been sunlight he would have stopped and marvelled at the way the particles seemed to dance in the light but in the glow of a stubby candle it just looked like dust.

He looked around.

The room keys hanging on the message boxes had long since lost their shine and they seemed lifeless and uninterested, but one was missing and a note sat unclaimed in the box beneath.

“Probably the upstairs light” he thought to himself.

He opened the register that lay in front of him and though the ink had faded he could read that the last entry was dated 1953.

Leaving it open, he rang once on the desk bell and listened as the sound resonated through the empty corridors.

He rang it again and waited.

Silence slowly settled and the candle in his hand flickered in hesitation.

jan 11 2013

This will be part of St Pancrass station London and this is a poem, or splurge, that slipped out.

The blank stare
Of the empty page
Humbles
The one whose pen 
Dithers.
So be strong,
add line and light,
illuminate
the void of folded
thought
and rile, 
sooth and defile
the purity 
of unspoken desire.

jan 12 2013.

Now I am sitting on the sofa thinking about earlier this afternoon when I was waiting for my doctor to stick metal needles into me, though what I really want to talk about is yesterday evening.

This afternoon, whilst waiting, I was reading part of The Hobbit and I came to this passage – “now it is a strange thing, but things that are good to have and days that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to; while things that are uncomfortable, palpitating, and even gruesome, may make a good tale, and take a deal of telling anyway.”

Maybe true of moments too.

Yesterday evening was one such.

The temperature had dropped and the sky had cleared, coming out of the supermarket at dusk I stopped; a sky of late-winter blue clarity is rare. I shouted to passers by to stop and look.

An hour or more later I came out of the photographers in the old streets of the city. The city is medieval, probably earlier, and the stone of the streets can hold the winter chill long into spring. Above me the lights of Christmas stabbed the dark, a wicker ball of blue and drops of white. The night was crisp, a frost announced and the sky was alive with starlight.

It felt like Christmas, it felt like Spring; nostalgia and hope.

My daughter is eighteen tomorrow, I want to remember this moment.

jan 14 2013

He rang the bell for a third time and was answered by a sharp intake of breath that came from behind him.

Turning, he saw dimly the outline of what once had probably been a fireplace and which now was little more than a pile of crumbling and broken stone. He had not noticed it when he had entered and now he could see that a number of broken armchairs were drawn around it. Rising slowly from them was the waking figure of an old man.

jan 15 2013

Dust covered his head, his hair, what there was of it, was thin and grey and looked like an afterthought. He started to cough and as he raised his arm the dust swirled around him hiding him from view.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you”, apologies came easily to the traveller, “I was looking for a room.”

The old man appeared through the dust suddenly, “was?”

“I mean, I AM looking for a room.”

jan 16 2013

It was raining so I went to the city.

The countryside where I live is beautiful in sunshine but once the clouds get grey and leaden and dump gallons of wet on our heads it can be grim.

Wet doesn’t matter in the city.

So, I parked the car on the roof of the multi-story car park and headed down into the fresh food market built in its bowels.

And bowels Is the right word.

At the foot of the stairs is an incomprehensible sign informing clients such as my self that the car park is -  “Scented by Da Vinci perfumes”.

Personally I would keep that information to myself because it smells of concrete, stale beer, piss and loneliness.

I’ll add a picture when I go back there with my camera.

Of the sign of course.

here's something else

jan 17 2013 (the old man- above)

Dust covered his head; his hair, what there was of it, was thin and grey and looked like an afterthought. 

He started to cough, and as he raised his arm the dust swirled around him hiding him from view.

jan 18 2013

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you”, apologies came easily to the traveller, “I was looking for a room.”

The old man appeared through the dust suddenly, “was?”

“I mean, I am looking for a room.”

jan 19 2013

“It’s all the same here’, coughed the old man, “the past and the present that is. Do you need a bath? We don’t have one but if you do, you can’t have one so I don’t know why I asked. It’s all the same here, no baths.”

“I just need a bed.”

“Are you tired? Have you come far?” The old man was now behind the desk and he turned the register towards the traveller, “Sign here” and he handed the traveller a pen.

The traveller said nothing, and signed his name.

‘That’ll be fifty pounds, in advance, will you be staying long?’

“Is there anywhere else to go?”

jan 21 2013

The Old man raised his eyes and looked at the traveller. His eyes were blue and the traveller could see in them that they had seen too much. The old man said nothing for a long time. Then suddenly he laughed, “No!” and leaning forward he blew out the candle.

The traveller was surprised and reached into his pocket for a match, but in the darkness a hand gripped his own and held him fast. He could feel the strength in the old man’s wrist, a strength that once had meant so much, and in the darkness he could feel the man’s breath as he whispered in his ear.

‘Room 17. If you can find it in the dark, you won’t need to pay,” and with that a key was pressed into his hand. He heard the shuffling feet as the old man went back to the armchairs and settled back into his sleep.

jan 22 2013

An empty room harbours the memories one brings into them, but the traveller found some already waiting for him.

jan 23 2013

jan 24 2013

Room 17 had a bed, a chair, a table and a bare floor, all made of wood.

And a window.

The window was cracked and fog from the street was seeping in, glistening like mustard in the hesitant, yellow light shining again from the traveller’s candle. He let the wax drip onto the table and then set what remained on the corner of the desk.

Although the fog and the night obscured everything the traveller stood and looked down at the street. 

Perhaps he needed to be sure that no one was following, perhaps he hoped someone was. 

jan 25 2013

He searched through the pockets of his coat for something he could use to block the cracks in the window through which the fog was drifting, but they were empty. Looking around the room he realised that there was nothing there that he could use, so reluctantly he returned to the entrance hall.

jan 26 2013

I do this quite a lot it seems - i did it on the third of this year for instance (above) and i did it here too.

I think, or hope, that by repetition i will achieve definitiveness eventually.

Or truthfulness as opposed to flippantness.

And we get a break from the unfolding tale of the traveller.

This time it was inspired by Danny DeVito who you can read here.

I was 17, walking home from my girlfriend’s house.

Really scary.

Love.

Weakness.

Lack of passion.

A car. This probably won’t change.

This.

Flight.

Hair on head. Not.

Yearning.

My Great grandmother.

Me.

Repetition.

A secret.

I don’t know.

Goodbye.

Chocolate.

Night Club doorman.

Me, sometimes.

Jan 28^th 1955.

Yesterday, listening to a song.

See Danny.

Very, more than once.

A small hut by the sea.

In front of me.

Do it.

jan 28 2013

jan 29 2013
(...returned to the entrance hall)

The old man was still sitting in the chair by the fireplace, he looked as if he hadn’t moved but as the traveller approached he jumped up, as if expected to have to fight.

jan 30 2013

“Need something?” he asked.

“Just a piece of paper or some string to stuff into a crack.”

“Here, you can use this,” and the old man walked over to the message boxes and took the note that had been sitting there, “room twenty won’t be wanting this.”

“Are you sure?”

The old man looked at him as if he was studying a specimen in a zoo. “Room twenty won’t be wanting this” he repeated and then turned away and sank back into the armchair and the shadows; clearly the conversation was over.

jan 31 2013

Back in his room the traveller held the note to the wavering light of the candle. 

It seemed to be a poem.

feb 1 2013

Reach out

Feel the beat

of a heart

still warm.

Even though

steam from its pulse

rises into the winter night

from the cold hand

that holds it.

feb 2 2013

The forest door
Is the tree.
And leaf fall
on frozen ground
the carpet.
Winter breath
and cold hand
leads you in.
Into depth
of valley
shrouded by
light and flame
imagined.

feb 4th 2013

The water is deep
but the hand
that hesitates not
will breach the waves
that try to force aside
the determined.

feb 5th 2013

Give it to the one who
desires the least
but 
hungers the most.

feb 6th 2013

The line between two tales
leads to the end of time and spaces.
Like mountains that separate
sky
from footfall.

feb 7th 2013

Oh yeah?

so YOU say.

But

What of the others?

Who crowd at the door

beating

with angry fist

and calling out

with anger?

Will you open it wide

hold them in your arms

and drain their hurt?

Or will you run?

Let's hope the dry dawn of day

will find you

in the right place.

feb 8th 2013

The road through tis town
lies broken.
Weighed down by the steps
of men
who wept as they fled
the rages of darkest night.

feb 9th 2013

ask not the riddle
that the beggar
scrawled on the castle wall
when famine
fever
and fear
swept the land.
instead
search
for the hidden pearl
left by the maiden
that danced
by forest stream.

feb 11th 2013

Can truth be distilled
from the waters of envy?
can ice
melt
under the flame
that leaps from your eyes?
can fire
scorch the sky
when clouds threaten rain?

feb 12th 2013

Does the well have no bottom?
does the heart of the mountain
beat
to the rhythm of the raven's wing?
How do i know?
But i will seek
the one who does.
and if they refuse to tell me
I will shake the roots
of the first tree of time.
The one that holds all knowledge.
Then i will gather what remains
once everyone has had their fill.
And i will give it to you.
Eat it wisely
Or not at all.

feb 13th 2013

before you go
know only
that this was meant to be
can never be
but always will.
return at night
when all do sleep
and pick the petals
of the night rose.
her colour is known
only to those
who can not see.

feb 14th 2013

feb 15th 2013

And when the day rises,
sun setting on frozen field,
mist shimmering
in the early rays
of the heavenly orb
warming the fools
who slept too long,
Remember your own life
as one among many
troubled by truth and honesty
as well as any lie
dishonest in the telling.
speak only 
to the little child
that wanders in the forest,
lost.

feb 16th 2013

Upon the sea
under distant sky
a small boy stands
Amidst the wreckage.
The boat is sinking
but he will swim
the water warm
from the dreams
that were lost
by the pirates
who came this way
once
before.

feb 18th 2013

This means nothing.
You know that.
You should not be fooled
by the minstrel's tales
of undying love.
Turn aside
and ride on.
seek the path not travelled
through the forest
that is not there
except in your
silence.
Until you come
to distant shore
where roses grow
in the sand
and swans
swim
graciously
beneath the setting sun.
look towards the light
and see the reflection
of all that has been lost.
And ask the price
of having it back.

feb 19th 2013

feb 20th 2013

Empty page

New pen

Words appear

From thoughts

Unspoken

Unsaid

Look with eyes

Not daunted

By the task

Speak with tongue

Not tired

With life.

feb 21st 2013

feb 22nd 2013

Is this one
or is this all?
are we rising?
Do we fall?
And where shall we be
when we land,
stand and stride
toward
the distant light
that we can not see
but must imagine
lest the folly of our ways
reduces us to dust?
Fear not that decay
For sure as day
it will come
and leave us all reduced.

feb 23rd 2013

Pages and pages
of worthless rhyme
slips from the fingers
of the writer
stalled
at the crossroads
waiting 
for the devil
who never comes.
Who never existed
except
in the fevered imagination
of a poet
broken by time.
Who lives where he fell.
Strangers pass, some look
none stop.
Not even the Samaritan,
who anyway is blind
and only sees
what others say is there.
Today the night will last until tomorrow.
And then it will be gone.
Forever.

feb 25th 2013

feb 26th 2013

the blank stare 
of empty page
humbles
the one
whose pen dithers.
So be strong!
add line and light
illuminate
the void
of folded thought
that can rhyme
and rile
sooth
and defile
the purity of unspoken desire.

feb 27th 2013

It will not stop,
It will not cease.
Cracks will deepen
until the essence of all things
sinks into the abyss.
But that will only be the start.
Deep in the night of the days
that never come,
a single drop will float
into the dreams
of one who sleeps.
Unaware
of the turmoil of these days.
When they wake
the lark's song
will fade before the joy
expressed 
trough the open window
of the breaking day.

feb 28th 2013

Back in his room the traveller held the note to the wavering light of the candle. 

It seemed to be a poem.

Open wound

Left side

Weeps

Forlorn

and forgotten.

Aged beyond time

Empty now

of

Blood or pain.