The touch

There was a big arrowhead of rock, which was split off from the mother rock by the most recent surge tide and it pierced the air with a new shape.

Today I see that this arrowhead, its granite neck and abdomen, have been pushed away from the rock family, further up the beach. It reclines now, offering the kind of couch I'd love to have in my (sadly couchless) lounge. But this is nature's gift, which I accept in joy and wonder, and I settle in, protecting my butt from the rock's cold surface with a folded cloth.

And that's when I see the breaching whale, his fluke cartwheeling over the deeps. And a huge container vessel too, ploughing forward, east to west. The sun's on my left shoulder. Both vessel and whale are heading to where the sun will set later, to my right. 

Whale, you library of blood and flesh, intelligence and blubber, the engine's drone hurts, I know. Above the water, too, many humans don't have the marrow in their bones to feel the sounds, which they create in ignorance of the responsibilities of power. 

Parnassian philosophising! The whale's dived down, out of sight, as I've droned on.

Alright. I'll follow you down where you may be. No longer is it necessary for me to explain or to prove anything. The material I create is its own justification. Neither fans nor critics, nor those who will never read a word of what I write, can match what I do, the vast majority want answers. That is one thing I do not provide, cannot give - because that's not a need. Whoever heard of a mouse or an eagle wanting answers? Riding the wind is enough, hiding in a hole is enough, nibbling grass seeds, tearing apart a dassie, breaking dead wood, caressing a human cheek - all that is enough.

Touch is enough. As I touch all I write about, and all I write about touches me.

At this precise moment, I lock gazes with a dog, about fifty metres off, who sits down at my return look. Dog and I mirror each other - straight-backed, cautious, alert, self-controlled. Measuring one another up.

But now it starts barking - is the owner close? The dog is gradually, somewhat nervously advancing towards me. A pair of geese swoop overhead, a private plane buzzes by. The dog disappears as the geese and the plane divert my attention - no, he has run past behind me, surreptitiously, on to the other side of me, my left side, towards the sunrise. When I bent down to the page, he seized the opportunity, plucked up the courage to pass by behind my back. Funny thing! So proud of himself now, dancing lightly off upon his doggy toes. Uncommanded, dignified, opportunistic, self-preserving, forward-moving. Blessèd instincts, precious, self-motivated creature!

 

The fragrant ground and I

If you want to live happily ever after - and whatever place or realm (on or off earth) you finally (or not so finally) end up in, presumably you do want that - it is a good idea to stop at times, turn around and take in the view presented by your life thus far.

I bet you it's an amazing landscape, which you may be glad not to have to traipse through again, but which you're justifiably really proud of having got through. I mean: look at those cliffs of conflict between yourself and others; curious wetlands, alternating with high-lying plateaux, of love, relationships and friendships; deserts and forests you survived of classes, courses, exams, jobs, all kinds of duties; rapids of ill-health; oceans of grief; lakes and waterfalls of indolence and fun; fruiting orchards of joy ...

If you keep looking, you'll be bragging before long about all your adventures and tests of endurance and how often you definitely had enough, but, somehow, here you still are. So claim your title: top topographer, flagbearer, first explorer! Which you are: since none of us have ANY competition when it comes to our own life paths. We're once-offs, forever.

Each month I create a new cover for my Facebook Page, Give Your Writing The Edge, whereby I aim to project a concern or feel for the weeks ahead. Often, I allow my choice to be intuitive, but this month, both the picture as well as the poetry were a leap into the unknown as never before. I chose two poems, separated by more than 35 years (which is currently 63% of my life) - poems, which speak mysteries to one another.

I authored it, and can recite it on the spot, but I have never understood the first poem, Dog. However, a dear old friend, who has always favoured it, reminded me of it recently. Not only did that inspire the second poem, but also a new curiosity: what on earth (on earth indeed) was the language doing with me? 

I aproach the poem like any reader, tip-toeing carefully towards possible meanings. 

The houndedness of the faceless, fallen rose connects it, of course, to the dog - who doesn't even dig, so opposed is it: it "nibbles (nibbles!) own spaces in the ground" where nothing is wanted. The scene is tragic, a picture of perfect disempowerment, an apparently necessary secreting away of natural is-ness. The treasured symbol of love is nothing but an old bone.

The second poem launches on that connection between the rose and the bone and it turns out that not only has the flower survived, but it has multiplied subterraneously over three and a half decades. 

"in the ground" becomes, in Dog 2, 'under the skin', deep inside the tissues: the identification of rose and bone has built a structure, which not only has an I, but an unopposed, fearless, fragrant (!) inner body that can speak and declare its old ("after all these years") aliveness.

Whence comes this sudden up out of the adult marrow?

Certainly the identification between the "ground" (where roses and bones are buried) and the "I" (where years and sorrow have been buried) is a powerful place to begin. And end.

Photo: Detail from a picture I took of my potted peace rose. 

Song for my grandchildren

Song for  my grandchildren with Peace Bowl