Painting Finger

Calderón de la Barca

Calderón de la Barca In my last post I looked at George Herbert.  Calderón de la Barca was his contemporary in Spain.  The two are not particularly alike, but I came across them both when I was a teenager.  We studied El medico de su honra for A level Spanish.  The story did not engage me in the least, but there was something fascinating about the language.  I remember poring over these…

Whereas my birth and spirit rather took The way that takes the town; Thou didst betray me to a lingring book, And wrap me in a gown. I was entangled in the world of strife, Before I had the power to change my life. Yet, for I threatned oft the siege to raise, Not simpring all mine age, Thou often didst with Academick praise Melt and dissolve my rage. I took thy sweetned pill, till I came where I…

In this post I am looking at two poems about spinning by Novoneyra. You can listen to the Podcast here: Poetry in the Mountains

-Slender little spinner always at your spinning always spinning and dreaming in the end to come to nothing. -In the end to come to nothing, that has still to be seen since with the linen threads as I twist them from their place something has to take. -Something has to take an…

Pondal Nadal: Christmas Celts and Nationalism

Listen to the Podcast here:

Podomatic

At the hour the sweet morning star Begins to soften and melt, His well-horned mountain goats Trotting along in front, Temenday the Celtic shepherd comes Returning to his sweet fold Alone and singing through the broom Of Xallas, decked with heather so white. Trembling vague with solitude, He begins his song like this: “Ancient tomb of Pïosa, The…

Misreading and Noriega Varela

Humble song Sweet-smelling April breeze Ethereal clouds Go with you.

Humble stone Lost in mud Wounded by sun Becomes a star.

Black branches Touching sky Paint themselves Celestial blue.

Drop of dew Trembling light I see sun Inside you

Humble things No one sees Branch or leaf Grain of sand.

A charm more Than divine The God child Come to earth.

Humilde Belleza

Noriega wrote, in another poem, “toda…

Cesário Verde: Poppies in a Cleavage

At that bourgeois picnic, There was something so simple and beautiful, With neither history nor grandeur, Yet worth a watercolour all the same.

When you dismounted the donkey, With no foolish pretensions, you went to gather In a blue chickpea-patterned cloth A ruby bouquet of poppies.

Shortly after, on top of the cliffs, we camped out with the sun still going down and there were sliced melons and…

Ó Longo das Ribeiras Ao longo da ribeira

Yearning along the water’s edge I go, my girl.

Where are the boats and flowers?

The rivers head nowhere now. Far distance and sea don’t exist. It is all right here and clear.

The hour is anchored, a barren stretch, no birds, no wind.

Sleep’s wellsprings are full of dust, and these eyes are tired and ageing.

But night must come that went down beyond Urbazán,

This is a short note to let my subscribers understand my position on the new privacy law.

I am not going to be sending out one of those advice notices that you probably delete instantly without reading, just as I do.  I have read about this privacy law and what I understand is the following:

the law to protect people’s digital identity is a sensible move in an increasingly online world

it is…

Ultreya: the Ten Commandments

The Ten Commandments of the Galician Youth Movement Ultreya

  – Porque amo a Galiza con toda a miña ialma, adicareille os meus millores esforzos pra tornala eternamente feliz.

Since I love Galicia all my heart, I shall dedicate my best efforts to make her eternally happy.

– Porque a vida está encheita de mágoas, miña mocidade será unha leda canzón que ha erguer o esprito de tódolos coitados.

Ultreya, Wandervögel, Boy Scouts- what do you make of it? It does nothing for me.

I offended a friend.

“The Boy Scouts?  That’s the Hitler Youth with ginger beer, isn’t it?” I said.

“I love the Scouts,” he replied.  “Choose your weapon!” I backed off quickly because, if he had been a scout, he could probably tie me to a tree and whip me to shreds with his toggle.

I have to say this by way of introduction.  You see, I don’t love the Scouts.  I don’t love the military trappings…

The Unfaithful Wife

And so, I took her to the river Thinking she was a maiden, But she had a husband. It was the night of Santiago And almost like a date. The streetlights went out And the crickets came on. On the last of the corners I touched her sleeping breasts, And they opened up for me sharpish Like branches of hyacinths. The starch of her petticoat Sounded in my ears Like a piece of silk Scr…

Ammiel and the Mountains Ammiel Alcalay

In the early eighties a friend went to Greenham Common to protest against the cruise missiles. When she got home, Mel told me about the mixture of experience: serious women sharing ideas and feelings in a community of tents outside the missile base.  She was alive with contemporary readings.  She read feminist discourse going back to Simone de Beauvoir and…

What Light Can Do

Robert Hass

I have been entertaining myself with Robert Hass whilst I wait for a book to arrive in the mountains.

Hass has something to say to me.  I want a poesy that responds to the hard grain of the world.  He does not shut himself away in the small particular.  He doesn’t just make pretty objects in exquisite form.  His friendship with Czeslaw Miloszand his work as a…

I am thinking about this verse today.  Noriega is talking about his own language, Galician.  Look at these two photographs of Galicia from the air and draw your own conclusions:

On the left you can see native woodland.  On the right you can see eucalyptus plantation.

Maybe I am a sentimentalist but I was affected by reading this blog:  esmola

https://esmola.wordpress.com/2015/12/09/eucaliptos-la-desaparicion-del-bosque-atlantico-emergencia/

Noriega tells us that language is tied to the landscape.  Can we repeat this picture around the world.  With every hardwood forest that is felled from Papua New Guinea to Brazil, what more is being lost besides the trees?  It is not just natural diversity that is destroyed but language, customs and culture.

Our Language

The mountain man is coming now.

Why?  Oh dear heart!  He is blind- He cannot see past the veil: He is coming to speak Gallego He is coming so that Gallego can live.

Our language is a little bird The child will usually see In the sky of the shaggy mountain; Whether on a wild rose branch Or the border of a fountain.

It is a flower you can’t take From the heath, and well tricks The one…

Happy New Year!

An afternoon in spring Murmured these words to me: If you are seeking paths With flowers in this world Then put to death your words And let your old soul speak. Let the same white linen That you are wearing now Clothe you in your mourning Clothe you at party time. Cherish your happiness Cherish your sadness too, If you are seeking paths With flowers in this world. I spoke then my reply To that…

In this Christmas post, I am thinking of you sitting at home with a brandy in your hand.  I want to share with you some of the sounds of the poetry we have been talking about.  And with that in mind, I have been researching some of the poets on You Tube.

First Novoneyra:

Cousos do lobo! Caborcos do xabarín! Eidos solos onde ninguén…