APRIL

“A wind has blown the rain away and blown the sky away and all the leaves away, and the trees stand. I think, I too, have known autumn too long.” -  e. e. cummings

Poets and Storytellers this week has as its theme “October”. That is all very well in the Northern Hemisphere, where it is Autumn, but here in the Southern Hemisphere October is a Spring month and our equivalent autumnal month is April. Hence, with poetic licence, here is my autumnal April poem.

April

Ahhh, April,
Welcome, friend…

Come, April, my old friend, again
Let’s talk, let us exchange pleasantries.
You bring me gifts - more white hairs,
More experience, my wrinkling face the evidence,
And yet I am none the wiser...

Come friend, let’s drink, and in our cups
Let’s reminisce of days gone by,
Of nights long past, when autumn moons
Shone bright and clear, and we,
We used to walk beneath the frosty starlight...

You watch me, smile and speak not;
April, you always were a good listener,
Hearing out my softly whispered confessions,
The patter of your rain, your grey skies our cover,
Our camouflage, your smile my absolution.

Year after year, my friend you come
Bringing chrysanthemums, rain-clouds
Crisp, frosty nights, woollen days, capricious sunlight.
As Autumn ripens, you herald Winter’s arrival,
And I with each of your visits understand your silences more…

Come friend, let’s drink, and in our cups
Let’s reminisce of days gone by,
Of nights long past, when autumn moons
Shone bright and clear, and we,
We used to walk beneath the frosty starlight…

Ahhh, April,
Welcome, friend,
Ahhh, April!

The poem is set to music again, and you can find all my music in my “Otidorchestre” channel or listen to it on YouTube, Spotify,  Amazon, Deezer, Flo, Pandora, and other music sharing sites.

DEATH IN AUTUMN

“My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.” - Robert Frost

The prompt from “Poets and Storytellers United” this week is t write a poem in a formal, traditional form. I have chosen the villanelle. (A villanelle is a 19-line poetic form with a specific structure of five tercets (three-line stanzas) and a concluding quatrain (four-line stanza). It features a strict rhyme scheme (ABA, ABA, ABA, ABA, ABA, ABAA) and two repeating lines, called refrains, that alternate as the last lines of the tercets and appear together as the last two lines of the quatrain.) It can be quite tricky to write...

Autumn Evening

As evening falls so softly, cold
Memory’s scent I follow,
And life grows dark and old.

Leaves die, as they turn to gold
The sound of voices hollow.
As evening falls so softly, cold

I try to break its stranglehold;
My spirits fall and ebb, so low – 
And life grows dark and old.

I try to be so resolute and bold
To make my song again to flow
As evening falls so softly, cold…

The wood attacked, consumed by mould
Decay eats into it so slow,
And life grows dark and old.

My dreams to highest bidder sold
Love’s ghosts in sadness wallow:
As evening falls so softly, cold
And life grows dark and old.

Here’s the poem set to music, and you can find all my music in my “Otidorchestre” channel or listen to it on YouTube, Spotify,  Amazon, Deezer, Flo, Pandora, and other music sharing sites.

BIRTHDAY

“Don't just count your years, make your years count.” - George Meredith

The New What’s Going On blog is prompting about birthdays this week. I’ve just had mine last week, so this is quite apt. Here is my poem to read and it’s accompanied by best wishes for all who are celebrating birthdays (and not necessarily the day of your birth!).

Birthday

There was no cake -
Too many carbs and empty calories;
Besides, sugar is evil we are told.
(Act your age, cake is for five-ear olds!)

There were no candles -
Definitely a fire hazard!
And they always melt and make a mess on the frosting
(Anyway, there is no cake, and you don’t like eating wax, do you?)

There were no presents -
You have everything you need.
What do you want at your age?
(You’re too difficult to shop for anyway…)

There was no party -
I’m sure the neighbours would complain,
Strangers popping in, noise, loud music all night
(Can you imagine yourself wearing a paper hat?)

There was no card -
Who sends cards nowadays?
You’re lucky to get an email:
(With “Belated Birthday Wishes” a month later.)

There was no alcohol -
In your condition? That’s a no-no,
Too many interactions with your medication.
(The doctor forbade it, you know it full well!)

So I went out alone to the pub,
And had a good counter meal with a nice wine.
There was a piece of cake with a candle on it afterwards;
And the barman sang “Happy Birthday”
And everyone joined in.
I felt quite merry, and the fellow patrons too.
There was music playing on the jukebox
And we all danced like there was no tomorrow,
With no complaints from anyone.

A touch of indigestion later,
A deep sleep (thank you, alcohol/medication interactions!),
A bit of molten wax on my coat sleeve,
A gift of a bottle of champagne in the fridge,
And in my pocket a little card,
Scribbled in neat, flowery script:
“Happy Birthday, from Julia!
That was great fun tonight.
Call me… 74530029
It's my birthday next week.”

BRIEF CANDLE

“Forty is the old age of youth; fifty the youth of old age.” - Victor Hugo

The New What’s Going On Blog  has as its theme in this week of writing the topic of “Contradictions”.  I thought about it and once again a line from Shakespeare was my inspiration. Death and life, youth and old age, togetherness and loneliness, Winter and Spring… Here is my offering:

Brief Candle

“Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player.”

My life is like a candle stump

Flame sputtering, in a formless lump.

Life’s now in the Winter of its course,

No energy, no strength, no force.

The years have flitted by so quick

Memories rapidly go past, flick.

I see their images as time goes by

Too fast to recognise, be seen by eye.

The coldness grows, the chill advances

No more reprieves, no second chances.

Winter with rain and snow that fall

Death nearing, having me in his thrall.

And yet, I’ve loved back in a distant Spring,

My heart was taught to fly and sing;

My soul with the beloved’s soul had merged

And up to heaven high we’d surged.

Love’s potions are as strong as death

Love’s spells are potent shibboleth.

My life’s a moth circling a flame

Diving into fire that its being will claim.

Life’s lived, and used, and spent

It came, lingered a little, and it went.

The hours, the minutes precious now,

It’s time great truths to utter, avow:

Life’s a brief candle, burning fast

Enjoy its light while it may last.

And yet, I’ve loved back in a distant Spring,

My heart was taught to fly and sing;

My soul with the beloved’s soul had merged

And up to heaven high we’d surged.

Love’s potion will preserve my essence,

Love’s spell is an eternal inflorescence.

And once again, here’s the poem set to music and you can find it in my “Otidorchestre” channel and listen to it on YouTube, Spotify,  Amazon, Deezer, Flo, Pandora, and other music sharing sites.

MY NOVEL: "THE NURSING HOME"

"There is no old age. There is, as there always was, just you." - Carol Matthau

In the densely built up suburbia of Melbourne's outer West, surrounded by a high wall, is the large oasis of "The Golden West" Nursing Home. A beautiful, large garden surrounds sumptuous period buildings of great charm, with excellent amenities, caring staff and a charter to provide the "best possible care for seniors who are used to the lifestyle of the well-to-do".

A cavalcade of memorable residents, carers, administrative staff, relatives and friends, all confront the problems of old age with varying degrees of success. All seems to go well, until a series of deaths amongst the residents puts the Director of the Home and his staff in a difficult situation, and threaten the serenity and restfulness of this microcosm that reflects society outside the walls.

Love, hate, envy, deceit, compassion, selfishness, altruism, guilt, religion, atheism, dreams and harsh realities, all the stuff of life and death, are laid out in a procession of humanity's common concerns.

PROSE/POETRY

“Remaining childish is a tremendous state of innocence.” - John Lydon

Poets and Storytellers United has prompted us this week to write a piece that is poetry in prose, or vice-versa. Here is my offering.

The morning sun shone brilliantly and his warm rays caressed the earth with the love that has been forever.  The dew-drenched land and the lambent cool sea vied for his affections, each one wanting to ensnare the sunshine, outwitting the other in the sharing.  The frothy wave crests caught the sunlight and broke it into a myriad cascading fragments, which in their turn crashed upon the strand creating long tongues of serpentine agility, licking the sand smooth before returning whence they came.  Mirroring the sky, the ultramarine depths of the sea seemed indifferent, unusually calm and still, as though unaware of the goings-on near the shore.

Amidst the rainbow clumps of coral and the verdant meadows of the depths there was a Child.  A dark-haired, honey-skinned, bright-eyed imp of a Child whose laughter reminded one of crystal bells.  It lived there and spent its time playing with the giant shells, the multi-hued fish of the deep; catching the stray sunbeams that escaped from the tight embrace of the sea surface and plaiting them into translucent chaplets of light and hope.  Thus did the Child of Light live amongst the fish, the shells, the lush underwater gardens.

For many years it was content, living amongst its childhood companions, enjoying the friendship of a little crimson starfish, its constant playmate.  The Child was happy in its simple life, rejoicing in its ignorance, its needs all seemingly fulfilled.  And yet one day, the laughter stopped and innocence lost the game to knowledge.  The Child was growing and as it began to become aware of the world surrounding it. In this new-found knowledge it discovered that something was lacking from its life.  It did not know exactly what, but still its childhood companions, the games and playmates abruptly grew tiresome and inadequate for its new needs.

Happiness gave way to melancholy, light-heartedness to moroseness, and gaiety to long periods of reflection.  Slowly the Child perceived itself to change and the Child of Light became the Child of Darkness.  Gone were the days of sunshine, rainbow colours and coralline remembrances.  Instead came nights of sleeplessness and phosphorescent imaginings, of desperate evasions from the woeful, sinuous enticements of the anemones, all observed with wicked amusement by the baleful eyes of the medusae…

MY NEW NOVEL

My new novel "The Nursing Home" has been published and is available on Amazon. I've been told by several people that it's a good read :-)

MUSIC SATURDAY - ITALIAN BAROQUE DANCES

“Old things are always in good repute, modern things in disfavour.” - Tacitus

Let us travel back in time… Let us transport ourselves to Italy of the early Baroque and let us take a few steps in courtly dances that delighted nobles and amused princes. Here is a selection of Pavanes, Gagliardes, Ciaccones and Passacaglias played on instruments old and wondrous with sounds that fall easily on our jaded ears and manage to captivate our attention and gladden our soul.

0:00 Innocenzio Alberti: Pavana & Gagliarda Jordi Savall Hespèrion XXI

5:14 Biagio Marini: Passacaglio Jordi Savall Hespèrion XXI

8:39 Antonio Valente: Gagliarda Napoletana Jordi Savall Hespèrion XXI

11:40 Benedetto Marcello: Ciaccona from Sonata F Major Op 2

15:57 Antonio Bertali: Ciaccona L'Arpeggiata

21:49 Maurizio Cazzati: Ciaccona & Passacaglia Christina Pluhar L'Arpeggiata

31:42 Tarquinio Merula: Ciaccona

34:47 Andrea Falconieri: Passacaglia & Ciaccona D'EL'SA Consort

40:24 Tomaso Antonio Vitali: Ciaccona Virtuosi Italiani

48:56 Niccoló Jommelli: Ciaccona per Orchestra Gioacchino Longobardi

WATCHING MOVIES - ELSA & FRED

“The biggest adventure you can take is to live the life of your dreams.” - Oprah Winfrey 

"Elsa & Fred" (2014) Romantic Comedy/Drama – Director: Michael Radford; starring Shirley MacLaine, Christopher Plummer, Marcia Gay Harden – 6.5/10 

“Elsa & Fred” is the story of two people who at the end of the road, discover that it’s never too late to love and make dreams come true. Elsa has lived for the past 60 years dreaming of a moment that Fellini had already envisaged: The scene in ‘La Dolce Vita’ at the Fontana di Trevi. The same scene without Anita Ekberg in it, but with Elsa instead. Without Marcello Mastroianni but with that love that took so long to arrive. Fred has always been a good man who did everything he was supposed to do. After losing his wife, he feels disturbed and confused and his daughter decides that it would be best if he moves into a smaller apartment where he ends meeting Elsa.

From that moment on, everything changes. Elsa bursts into his life like a whirlwind, determined to teach him that the time he has left to live (be it more or less) is precious and that he should enjoy it as he pleases. Fred surrenders to Elsa’s frenzy, to her youth, to her boldness, to her beautiful madness.

We watched this film last weekend and it kept us amused and interested, although it was a little predictable and just a tad saccharine sweet. Both Shirley McLaine and Christopher Plummer act according to type, and the romance they play out in the twilight years of the characters they portray adds a twinge of a bitter taste to the sweetness. OK to watch on a wintry afternoon, as we did.

POETS UNITED - BLOOMS

“If your heart is a volcano, how shall you expect flowers to bloom?” - Khalil Gibran

This week, Poets United is looking at “Blooms”. The challenge is: “In a new poem, add a bloom to our bouquet.”

Here is mine:

Faded Blooms

Pressed between the yellowed pages

Of an old diary,

Some faded blooms you once gave me.

Memories of a Spring long gone

And of a love, alas, forlorn.

As if the flowers weren’t enough,

I read the pages,

Reliving agonies in cursive script:

My heart to you was given whole

Gifted was I, yours, body and soul.

The years have passed, I have survived,

Hollow perhaps,

But with a heart regenerated.

Fresh blooms in icy Winter flower,

December roses now adorn my bower.

Time flows like an endless river forward,

I float and swim,

Refuse in swirling eddies to drown.

Experience makes my garden grow

Blooms in my glasshouse shall I sow.

Your faded flowers a bitter souvenir

Of lesson learnt;

A life that stopped, restarted, grew.

Young buds now have I in abundance,

And love aplenty in redundance.

Ah, how the wheel of time quickly turns,

And how our life old baggage burns…

Wisdom of heart allows old wounds to heal,

Lets us new pleasures, joys fresh to feel.

POETS UNITED - CATS

“Some people who like dogs don’t like cats, but I’m not like that.” - Viggo Mortensen

For this week’s Poets United Mid-week Motif, Susan the well-known ailurophile has set a theme close to her heart: “Cats”. Even though I am dog person, like Viggo above I also like cats… My contribution to the theme below:

A Cat for Every Season

A kitten gambols
On a daisy-strewn green field;
Like it, the year’s young

In yellow noon’s heat
A languid cat stretches out
Biding time till night.

An open window:
A curious cat smacks at
Falling yellow leaves.

As crackling fire burns;
An old grey cat sleeps and dreams
Of erstwhile nimbleness.

MOVIE MONDAY - THE LADY IN THE VAN

“A civilized society is one which tolerates eccentricity to the point of doubtful sanity.” - Robert Frost

Maggie Smith is an accomplished veteran actress and her work is quite exceptional in her long and very successful career. I enjoy most the movies and series she has played in and I have watched. When for my birthday I was given a copy of Nicholas Hytner’s 2015 movie “The Lady in the Van” I was very pleased and saved it to watch on a special day as a treat. Well that day came last weekend and yes, it was a good movie and we enjoyed seeing it, but somehow it was a little disappointing too. I guess I da raised my expectations quite a great deal and when the film failed to deliver fully, it was a little bit of a flat feeling.

First let me say this was Maggie Smith’s movie and she played her role with relish and great gusto. It was as if the role was written for her and she performed with her usual aplomb and panache, greatly enjoying playing the down-and-out Miss Shepherd. Beside her, her co-star Alex Jennings faded into the background, even if there were two of him on the screen most of the time (a cheap, gimmicky device where one of his selves was the “doing” part of him and the other the “writing” part of him). The other actors were competent and did a good enough job of supporting Maggie Smith’s performance.

The plot is based on the “mostly true” story of Alan Bennett’s curious relationship/friendship with Miss Mary Shepherd, an eccentric homeless woman whom Bennett befriended in the 1970s before allowing her temporarily to park her Bedford van in the driveway of his Camden home. She stayed there for 15 years. As the story develops Bennett learns that Miss Shepherd is really Margaret Fairchild (died 1989), a former gifted pupil of the pianist Alfred Cortot. She became a concert pianist, had played Chopin in a promenade concert, but things went wrong, she tried to become a nun, was committed to a mental institution by her brother, escaped, and then things went downhill and full of guilt for a “terrible sin” she had committed became the vagrant that Bennett unwittingly becomes associated with.

The plot is thin and depends very much on what the characters say rather than what they do. The “mystery” of Miss Shepherd’s identity is thinly veiled and the “surprise” ending where we learn the truth about her “terrible sin” is rather predictable. However, the viewer does get involved, does sympathise with Miss Shepherd in one scene and in the other becomes as infuriated with her as Alan Bennett does. There is poignancy, gentle humour, pathos, bathos and bombast. It is a very “English” movie which reeks a little of the stage, one thinking on many an occasion whether this would have made a better play perhaps?

Nicholas Hytner, the director, who also made “The Madness of King George” and “The History Boys” amongst others, is better known as a regular director for National Theatre productions in London. This may explain the “staginess” of the film. I often felt uncomfortable during the parts where Alan Bennett spoke to his alter ego in a greatly contrived manner.

Overall this was a gentle, slightly humorous, slightly melancholy film, a great showcase for Maggie Smith and a little bit of a bragging piece for Alan Bennett – there was a certain smugness about him whenever he was on screen. The subplot with his mother was a little perplexing, especially given the way he interacted with Miss Shepherd, but still overall the film was entertaining and well worth watching.

WINTER IS COMING

“People don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy.” - Anton Chekhov

And what Mr Chekhov implies is that the seasons are much more acutely felt and more likely to affect our mood when we are unhappy… Even in the midst of Spring’s delights a melancholy soul will make of the joyous season a funereal feast, the flowers merely a doleful accoutrement to the hearse. What if Summer’s glorious sun shines bright and hot? If one is sad, the heat’s enough to fever one’s brow and cause one’s brain to run into nightmarish places hotter than hellfire. And Autumn’s bounty and mellow delights will be overtaken by the dejection of the falling leaves, the rampant decay and falling rain. As far as Winter goes, a sorrowful heart may simply be itself and attune perfectly to the season’s frozen emptiness and endless despair.

Winter is Coming

The sun’s trajectory has shortened,

Now that his chariot runs a course

Much closer to the horizon.

The night is quicker to claim

The earth as her realm

And the moon barks orders

At the brilliant (but oh, so cold) stars.

The wind howls at night

And even the wild dogs are tamed

Becoming silent in obeisance.

Rain comes and falls, and fails

To tether the wind who takes each drop

And spins it into long, liquid streams

Until they fall like waving sheets.

The cold freezes puddles solid

And no leaves, no fruits no flowers

Survive the blizzard cruel.

And even colder still, inside,

My heart keeps on beating,

Gelid though it may be

To keep me alive, me who has died.

Like Summer, you have left me

And unlike Autumn you’ve given me

No ripe fruits, no grain, no berries.

My crop was poisoned by bitter tears,

Endless regrets, false promises, nightmares;

My Winter’s deep, bleak and long-lasting

Expecting no Spring’s arrival.

MOVIE MONDAY - KRAKATOA

“We cannot stop natural disasters but we can arm ourselves with knowledge: so many lives wouldn't have to be lost if there was enough disaster preparedness.” - Petra Němcová

Sometimes you remember a film you saw when you were a child and the memory of it is so powerful and haunting that you can’t wait to find the film again in your adult years and re-watch it in order to savour those feelings you experienced the first time around. Of course, nothing is the same as it was the first time around, film watching included… We live, we experience more and more, we grow, we change, we become jaded, we see the world differently. No surprise when we re-watch that movie that we may be a little disappointed!

This was the case with the film we watched last weekend, which I had first seen as a child of 11 years. I remember then being completely overwhelmed and watching in awe, breathless with excitement and wide-eyed with amazement. The movie was the 1968 Bernard L. Kowalski disaster/adventure flick “Krakatoa: East of Java”, starring  Maximilian Schell, Diane Baker, Brian Keith, Barbara Werle, Sal Mineo, and Rossano Brazzi.

Krakatoa (Indonesian: Krakatau), is a volcanic island situated in the Sunda Strait between the islands of Java and Sumatra in the Indonesian province of Lampung. The name is also used for the surrounding island group comprising the remnants of a much larger island of three volcanic peaks which was obliterated in a cataclysmic 1883 eruption, unleashing huge tsunamis (killing more than 36,000 people) and destroying over two-thirds of the island.

The explosion is considered to be the loudest sound ever heard in modern history, with reports of it being heard up to 3,000 miles (4,800 km) from its point of origin. The shock waves from the explosion were recorded on barographs worldwide. In 1927 a new island, Anak Krakatau, or “Child of Krakatoa”, emerged from the caldera formed in 1883 and is the current location of eruptive activity. Just to set the record straight, Krakatoa is actually located west, not east, of Java, a boo-boo that has haunted the film ever since it was released, being widely mocked in the critics reviews which were mostly quite scathing for the whole of the film...

The plot of the movie centres on the recovery of a valuable cargo of rare pearls from a shipwreck close the island of Krakatoa. When the expedition sets off the location of the wreck seems not be a worry as everyone believes that the volcano on the island has been dormant for around two hundred years. The eruption of the volcano in August 1883 will of course prove them wrong. The characters are the ship’s Dutch captain (Schell), his beautiful mistress (Baker) who is fleeing from an abusive husband and looking for her young son, from whom she has been separated, a drug-addicted diver (Keith) with health problems and his girlfriend (Werle), the British inventor of a diving bell (Leyton), an Italian father-and-son (Brazzi & Mineo) team of balloonists and four female Japanese pearl fishers, hired for their diving expertise. One of these girls becomes romantically involved with the younger Italian. By this stage you’d have thought the plot was already bogged down with too many subplots, but there is another one! The captain is forced by the authorities to take on a load of prisoners to be transported to Madura, which of course will cause problems later…

Needless to say, the eruption of Krakatoa and the subsequent catastrophe is what dominates the film. In an unusual approach to making the film, the producers of the movie had the special effects scenes shot before the script had been completed. The script then was written so as to incorporate the special effects sequences! Although now quite dated in appearance, the film’s special effects were considered impressive enough by 1969 standards for it to be nominated for the Academy Award for Best Visual Effects (it lost to the sci-fi disaster movie,  “Marooned”!).

Well, watching the film as an adult all these years later certainly made me aware of my age. The film was not how I remembered it and scenes that in that distant time made me feel awed and amazed now raised a smile or even a laugh. The film was utterly and completely demystified and its many shortcomings were blatantly obvious. There were plot holes, bad script writing, abominable dialogue ordinary acting and too much reliance on the special effects (used excessively and repetitively) to carry the movie forward.

So what was the final verdict on this film with a pedestrian, badly paced, and poorly told story and where the special effects were so constant and overwhelming as to become numbing? Well, we actually enjoyed it. First, because it was associated with nostalgia, second because it was a movie you could watch and take the mickey out of, having a laugh here and there, and finally because it revived memories of the old Hollywood (perhaps memories of Hollywood 1950s B-grade potboilers). Maybe if you will watch this film now for the first time you will run out of patience and stop watching it half-way through. Or maybe if you reduce the size of your expectations you may enjoy it too…

POETS UNITED - NINETY

“Cherish all your happy moments; they make a fine cushion for old age.” - Booth Tarkington

This week PoetsUnited has as its theme “Ninety”. Here is my contribution:

Ninety

You turned ninety last month
And I can see it in your eyes –
Rheumy and glaucous blue
Revealing all.

The years weigh heavily on your back
And I can see it in your heavy step –
Your tottering gait
So limiting…

You turned ninety last winter
And I can see it in your hair –
White, thinned, still soft,
Like snow.

The years have not been kind to you
And I can see it in your skin –
Translucent yellow parchment,
Where all is written.

Ninety years, a thousand months and more,
And I can see it in your wrinkles –
Each tells a story, sadness mixed with laughter,
It’s been a full life.

And when you speak to me, I listen:
The voice of the last century, still strong and loud;
And when you touch me, I feel:
Your heartbeat, propelling blood we share;
And in my embrace, your frail body trembles:
Your love unchanged, still burning undiminished,
Inextinguishable, a beacon for eternity,
Deriding death…