Remembering Myanmar (Burma)

In recent weeks, actually beginning before the recent coup, I was finding I was getting little flashbacks of snapshot memories about living in Yangon among other things further back, long forgotten. I had been meaning to start recording them but in the rush of moving house didn’t do so until yesterday, when I wrote this poem after some prodding by a friend.

It seems so distant now, and yet these memories that flood back make it seem at the same time at the edge of my senses.

Let me know what you think in the comments, and of course share, like, and follow the blog.

I Remember

I remember standing on the U-Bein Bridge 
In the dust and heat,
Walking under the huge, orange, evening sun,
The old teak creaking and swaying underfoot,
The water beneath us almost gone. 
There were Chinese and Burmese tourists, 
Excited to see a redhead, 
Coming close to ask
(and not ask) for photos.

I remember the roads in Yangon, 
Jammed with traffic,
Stinking.
Sweltering.
The people, the strange plants – the small beer stations
Where we sat in the evening warmth,
Drinking Myanmar Lager,
Eating high-risk, high-reward local food.

I remember Mohinga-sellers in the morning,
Waiting by our flats with their rice and fish soup,
Plus an egg.

I remember the roar of mating saltwater crocodiles at dusk
Thrashing in the mangrove creeks.
I remember the moonlight on the Irrawaddy,
Reflecting ghostly pale,
Too delicate and mystical for a camera.

I remember sitting with Flo at night
On the deck overlooking the delta 
Sharing two chilled beers. 
Thinking together how wondrously strange it is 
To contemplate our location,
To think of where we were on Google Maps
And where we came from.

And then there was the boat trip back, 
Back up the Irrawaddy, 
Back to the town whose name I can’t remember,
Where we sat in a beer station.
Flo, in her white t-shirt,
Me, burnt by the Burmese sun,
In shorts and sandals,
Basking in gratitude
At the wonders of the world
And the joy of unlikely connections.

I wrote those bards a poem. Bards love poems.

Back in January, I met up with my friend Sarah de Nordwall (a Bard with a Bardschool previously mentioned on this blog) in a pub above Kings Cross Station, with the purpose to start off a regular curated poetry evening. The vision was for an hour and a half of poetry, music, and art that was imbued with a Catholic spirit and was open to all (we’ve had some wonderful contributions from a chap who describes himself as an angry Buddhist). We got the name from a Jewish prayer, that goes “It is already night when joy begins.” Sarah learnt this prayer while sat around the fire on the Sabbath with some hermits she visited in Nova Scotia. The plan was that every 6 weeks we would host an evening of creative arts infused with a joy that provided respite from the troubles of the world and flowed out into our lives once we left. Artists would come together in the Bardschool a couple of times to share ideas and grow and be formed in their talents, before sharing their subcreations with anyone and everyone who wanted to come along to When Joy Begins.

We had really started to make progress on planning dates, finding a venue, and drawing in artists inspired by the vision – only for coronavirus and lockdown to happen. Not to be deterred, we did it on Zoom instead. The remarkable effort and skill that Sarah brought to curating the the talents of the poets, singers, musicians, painters, and authors culminated in a truly wonderful evening in late May, where strangers came together online to listen to beauty and truth and share their reflections with each other.

My role in all this was a fairly minor tech and organising part. I wrote this poem below to perform because I was under pressure, having requested all the Bardschool bring something nearly-finished to the final rehearsal for the first public When Joy Begins. It is based on a holiday I went on, having had one stanza of it rattling around my brain for about 10 months but had never really gone on to anything. (The power of deadlines in the creative process, eh?)

I have been reluctant to share it, but others have been poking me to do so. I hope it provides some reminder of the wonders we will share again once this whole crazy time is over, grants a brief escape from the still semi-quarantined lives we live at present, and inspires you to look again for the transcendent beauty that is bursting through your life.

Beauty is

Beauty is the light in Venice
Changing the city throughout the day.
The sunset on St. Mark’s mosaics,
Restaurant windows illuminating night

Beauty is a Slovenian church
With white walls and curved steeple
In a wide green valley,
Between tree-topped mountains.

Beauty is clear cool water
Drunk from an Alpine stream,
Cupped in the hands,
Raised to the lips.

Beauty is Plitvička jezera;
Water cascading between calm blue pools
through dazzling sunlight
Within a sheer canyon.

Beauty is Vrbnik at sunset;
Dinner on the cliff top
Overlooking the sea,
And a deserted beach.

Beauty is our arms entwined;
Yours brown, lissom, lovely,
Mine – pale and strong – speckled
With your kisses, and my freckles.

But most of all,
Beauty is the feel of home;
The dew on the grass,
Green and silver in the sunrise,
And the joy at a friend’s wedding.

I hope you got something from this. I hope it gave you a sense of travelling while at your laptop at home unable to leave, or a reminder of the beauty of someone you love who is far away.

Please get in touch. Whether you would like to come to When Joy Begins, become a bard in the Bardschool, or just talk to someone who has gone on retreat with the dancing hermits of Nova Scotia who take a vow of leisure, we’d love you to get in contact with us at bardschool@gmail.com. And, of course, please comment on and share this poem and blog, I’d love to hear from you.

Here is a list of websites and book titles of people who perform or present at When Joy Begins, they too would love to hear from you:

Chris Arning

https://chrisarning.weebly.com

Charlotte Harmer

www.charlottebd.com

Jim Hamilton

The Ironwood Staff, JE Hamilton – a fantasy novel available as an e-book or paperback from Amazon.

Sarah de Nordwall

“50 poems for my 50th: A Beginner’s Guide to Opening the World with Words” – a few copies are left on Amazon, but this and many more resources are available by contacting Sarah on bardschool@gmail.com or on her website https://sarahdenordwall.com/

I’ve got a blank space, baby…

On Friday I was meant to be reading a collection of poems at an open mic night in Yangon. Unfortunately it was cancelled at short notice, but I had already put together a set so I decided to blog about one of the poems I was going to read called ‘Her Absence’, which actually ended up sort of being published last year.

The inspiration for this was a C.S. Lewis quotation from a book called A Grief Observed that I found in the months after mum passed away. Lewis writes: ‘her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.’ Lewis is talking about losing his wife, Joy Davidman, to metastatic carcinoma and I tried to write in response about how I felt about mum’s absence at the time, just over three years ago. It feels poignant sharing this one on British Mother’s Day and being so far from family at this time.

One of the things I really enjoy about writing poetry is utilising the techniques I studied during my numerous university courses, partly because it is interesting to try to incorporate them and also because it helps get some distance and perspective in processing the feelings I’m writing about. In this case, I sought to use blank spaces in the poetry to explore the idea of absence and how emptiness on a page can be used to convey meaning, how it can emphasise the words around it.

It is free verse poetry, which is dangerous territory because it can just look like you wrote some prose, hit ‘Enter’ at random points, and used it as an excuse to call yourself a poet. However, I think I managed to do something useful and good.

Her absence

“Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything” – C.S. Lewis.

Her absence is like a hole
Which can never be filled.

Her absence aches like
I’m being torn apart.

Her absence is tempered by
The promise of the Resurrection

Her absence is like a rolling breaker;
Sudden, inevitable, crashing all around.

Her absence is a chance
To grow and mature.
For new life
And new kinds of love.

Her absence is like

Her absence

Her absence

 

 

The next poem was not one I planned to read at the open mic night because I don’t think it is of the same quality as the one above. I wrote it around a year ago following a chat with Fr. John Dickson, the Catholic chaplain, as the grief was still weighing me down a lot during my studies. He asked me to describe what I was feeling using an image, which was of being unable to fill mum’s grave, to which he replied ‘but it is filled.’ I then went up to the library and penned this poem. It was so healing, it felt like there was a shift inside and a transition to a new phase of life filled with hope and beauty.

“Do not grieve over much, for she achieved her life’s goal.” – Lagertha, Vikings, Season 5.

The Grave is Filled

For so long
I imagined filling your grave.

Soil shovelled in a hole
Disappearing,
Never filling up,
Always empty.

But no.

Your grave is filled.
Good things grow
In the space framed by Dad.
Plants flourish among the bark chippings,
Fed by the ground you’re in.

Now I see
That we are filled.
Good things grow
In the space you left behind.

Lucy lives, joy-filled and giggling.
Rebecca loves, blessed to be a mum.

Your Mike, now Grandpops,
Rejoices in your granddaughter

Cath and Bea excel,
Having fun, laying roots.

I read Medievalism,
And write my poems.

And now, I think,
I have some peace.

For now I know
Your grave is filled.

 

Looking back on these poems with some distance from them now, what strikes me is how while there has been an overall movement from the former to the latter, it is by now means a consistent or smooth journey. There are days where it is as hopeful as the second, and days where I feel as empty as in the first, and most of the days I am somewhere in between.

 

The full set I was planning to do is below, and consists mostly of incredible poems by brilliant poets like Zbigniew Herbert, Sarah de Nordwall, Dylan Thomas, and Lord Alfred Tennyson in an attempt to compensate the audience in case my poems bombed. I really want to write about Herbert at some point in particular. He’s flipping brilliant.

 

Pebble – Zbigniew Herbert

Her Absence – Tom Willcox

I must leave you/I must love you – Sarah de Nordwall/Tom Willcox

The Month of Tabaung – Anon (a translation of a lovely Burmese poem)

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night – Dylan Thomas

The Power of Taste – Zbigniew Herbert

Crossing The Bar – Alfred Tennyson

Playing with punctuation and thoughts on graduation.

A few months ago I graduated from my English Literature course at the University of Westminster with First Class Honours. Apparently this fact eluded many people because I failed to post anything more than a photograph. (Sadly my request to be granted a doctorate for having completed six years of study was turned down, so I’ll have to make do with a BA).

To be honest, it was a mixed day. In many ways it was very joyful. It was wonderful to celebrate with family, lecturers, and course mates, to recognise the achievement each of us had made, and to express gratitude for all those who had helped us along the way. (I’d also never been inside The Royal Festival Hall proper before and it is stunning). However, for all those reasons mum’s absence was very prominent and the underlying feelings of grief lent an odd, uncomfortable, and painful sense to the occasion which increased as the day went on. Afterwards, I went home and scribbled down a poem about it, which is below. It’s not long and I don’t know if it’s any good. I also don’t have much to say about the writing process or techniques – other than that for me the punctuation is as important in conveying the meaning as the words. Nevertheless, I hope it brings some kind of enjoyment or edification to someone and helps explain why it took a long time to get round to properly mentioning my graduation elsewhere.

 

Graduation, Gratitude, and Grief

I missed mum

Today at graduation.

I was so grateful for them all –

Dad, sisters, Desmonds present –

And mum,

Not present.

Responsive writing

One of my pastimes is writing poetry. Unfortunately, I find it difficult to get going and unpack nascent ideas, so I regularly bother my good friend Sarah de Nordwall, Founding Bard of The Bard School, for tips and inspiration.

One such piece of advice that Sarah gave at one delightful Bard School session (featuring ginger wine, pizza, and a replica of Elrond’s sword in the corner) was to try to write in response to things, whether that was a quotation you like, a conversation you had earlier in the day, or just a piece of furniture. I found it to be a beautifully relational way of composing, as you are required to try to understand another perspective before you can begin to express your own. Furthermore, it enables you to write without having to necessarily speak from personal experience; rather than be autobiographical you simply enter into dialogue.

Sarah set me the task of writing a piece in response to one of her own poems, called ‘I must leave you’. It turns out I completely misinterpreted the poem, but I found it such rich material in conjunction with such a fruitful method that I wrote my piece in about 20 minutes. I received good feedback from others present and the experience helped me to produce more poetry over the next couple of months than I had in the last few years, so even if you think my poem is total rubbish it’s clear the method works at least in increasing productivity. Of course, not everything works for everyone, but I find this method particularly helpful.

(credit to geeksaresexy.net)

Looking at the canon of English literature, such illustrious names of the English Renaissance as Christopher Marlowe and Sir Walter Raleigh wrote responses to each others poems, most famously in ‘The Passionate Shepherd To His Love’ and ‘The Nymph’s Reply To The Shepherd’, though I think that was less about writer’s block and more about Elizabethan banter.

Below are mine and Sarah’s poems. If you want to read more of my attempts at responsive poetry let me know; I have one that responds to a C.S. Lewis quotation and another that responds to a part of Thomas Babington Macauley’s Lays of Ancient Rome.

 

I must leave you

By Sarah de Nordwall

 

I must leave you

By the fountain

By the garden’s inner wall

I shall close the door behind me

So I cannot hear you call.

 

I look towards the mountain

Though the mountain looks so far

But you are so much further from me

Sitting where you are

 

I must leave you

By the fountain

By the garden’s inner wall

I shall close the door behind me

So I cannot hear you call.

 

I’m sorry if the jungle

Is the garden that I seek

I would bring exotic flowers

But I fear they would not keep.

 

You watch me unprotected leave

To walk this vagrant’s course

And you sit beside the fountain

But I seek the fountain’s source.

 

I must leave you

By the fountain

By the garden’s inner wall

I shall close the door behind me

So I cannot hear you call.

 

I leave, but must I lose you

You could follow

Will you come?

But the door is locked behind me

And is silent

It is done.

 

I walk towards the mountain

Till I hear another cry

The waterfall calls distantly

And I run beneath the sky

 

Sarah kindly gave permission to reproduce her work here; it can also be found in her anthology 50 Poems for my 50th, which is utterly fantastic. You can get hold of a copy by contacting her on Facebook or through her website, which also has audio material available to download, or on Amazon. Her handle for instagram and twitter is @sarahdenordwall.

 

I must love you

By Tom Willcox

 

Is the door shut tight?

Or can you hear me call?

If it does not budge

I will climb the garden wall.

 

In sackcloth and in ashes,

I ask for one more chance;

To live this loving way,

To dance your loving dance.

 

I’ve turned away from you,

From the path I want to walk.

Although I fear the viper,

With your love I will not baulk.

 

I’ll protect you in the jungle,

In the face of death itself.

I want to see its wonders –

Those flowers and much else.

 

I don’t want to lose you –

So help me know The Source –

I want to walk beside you

As you trace this vagrant’s course.

 

I will run towards the mountain

Until you hear my desperate call.

I can’t say that I have much to give,

Only who I am, that’s all.

—————————————————————————————————————————————-

I met Sarah through a friend who described her as a ‘genius’ and sent me a piece of her work while I was attempting to finish a poetry assignment for my university course, which required me to write a poem and then analyse it. It immediately spurred me on with new ideas, and a phone call to her later that day was the beginning of what is, at least for me, a very fruitful writing relationship. Sarah writes poetry and prose, both of which function very well in either private reading or performance. Not only is Sarah a very gifted writer, but she also has a fantastic charism for bringing out the creative talents of others. Based in London, she delivers a wide range of seminars and sessions to people of all demographics all over the world, and I thoroughly recommend getting in touch if you want to explore your own artistic gifts whatever form; visual, written, or performance-based.