Monthly Archives: February 2018

Gate 67, SFO

SFO, February 2018.

Back to the place where I first set foot, 20 years ago,

And feeling as tired today as I was then, and bearing the weight of the years too.

But it’s always good to be back, even briefly, to a city of ghosts and memories.

These days it’s just for a short time, en route to somewhere else.

But wasn’t that the way it was then too?

San Francisco is always there, though. It’s where it began.

—–

Advertisements
Tagged , ,

‘My days of allnight parties are over’

Youngman

Passport photo, 1998

As my 40th birthday approached this week, I found myself casting about for an insight or a lesson or a fear to impart, as I slipped into my fifth decade.

Nothing pretentious, or too light-hearted, or egotistical, of course. It wasn’t easy.

And then I came across a Roger McGough poem, which – as my days are, thankfully, “rarely unruly” – summed it up better than I could.

 

Not for Me a Youngman’s Death

Not for me a youngman’s death

Not a car crash, whiplash

John Doe, DOA at A&E kind of death.

Not a gun in hand, in a far off land

IED at the roadside death

 

Not a slow-fade, razor blade

bloodbath in the bath, death.

Jump under a train, Kurt Cobain

bullet in the brain, death

 

Not a horse-riding paragliding

mountain climbing fall, death.

Motorcycle into an old stone wall

you know the kind of death, death

 

My nights are rarely unruly. My days

of allnight parties are over, well and truly.

No mistresses no red sports cars

no shady deals no gangland bars

no drugs no fags no rock’n’roll

Time alone has taken its toll

 

Not for me a youngman’s death

Not a domestic brawl, blood in the hall

knife in the chest, death.

Not a drunken binge, dirty syringe

“What a waste of a life” death.

_____

Tagged , , ,

Of reeds and rhymes and religion

Saint Brigid of Kildare

Where I’m from, Spring began today. Where I live, it won’t start until March 20.

In the Celtic calendar, February 1 is known as ‘imbolc’. The midpoint between the winter solstice and the spring equinox, it’s seen as the first day of the earth awakening from winter.

In Ireland it was, and is, Saint Brigid’s Day, a celebration of the pagan (later Christianized) St Brigid of Kildare, a patroness of medicine, arts and crafts, cattle and other livestock, and sacred wells.

The sacred bit is important. As a schoolkid in Ireland, we’d make St Brigid’s Crosses from reeds – a plentiful resource in my then-hometown of Athlone, on the banks of Ireland’s longest river. The crosses would be pinned up at home – a religious talisman of sorts, ahead of the spring season.

Today I’m a long way from the River Shannon, or from spring – that won’t happen until late March in Oregon.

But, after the dreary month of January, I’m trying to get in the spring mood. So I’m seeking out seasonal verse.

St Brigid was known as “the goddess who poets adored”, but I’m not aware of Philip Larkin’s thoughts about her. However I do know – and enjoy – his take on spring, which contains the wise call, despite some cynicism, to “begin afresh, afresh, afresh”.

The Trees

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

_____

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,
Advertisements