Snow fun

The Holiday Season, this year in the UK, has been marked by the advent of lots of white stuff. You know – slippy, freezing, powdery, crunchy, slushy, icy, get your feet entirely wet in three minutes walking, white fluffy stuff: snow.

In other countries, this really wouldn’t be such a big deal, but in Britain, we have largely enjoyed mild winters for the last two decades. Meaning the odd sprinkle or dusting of icing sugar crystals.. but nothing akin to the literal big freeze that has more or less ground the UK (and some parts of Europe and China) to a skidding halt.

So why after only a few feet of snow are we experiencing so many problems? Over the last 20 years, Britain has enjoyed an abnormally warm climate – wet, temperate, mainly damp. Our local authorities prepare for each winter with about three days grit for the roads, our utilities hold reserves for maybe a week’s worth of upsurge in energy usage due to a cold snap.

What we didn’t expect was nigh on three weeks of solid ice and snow. Politicians have been busy throwing insults at each other over why government seemed so ill prepared for such a climatic challenge.

Thing is, Britain is used to routine: it’s a way of life over here. We don’t plan for the unexpected. We just seem to think things will keep plodding on the same way they always have. It’s an attitude we simply can’t afford any more – because in my opinion, I think there’s a likelihood of more erratic climatic change. On a larger worldwide scale, I think we can’t have been meddling with the environment for so long without tipping something off kilter. We’ve seen mass deforestation, pollution of the seas with mass death of marine life, extensive droughts due to over extraction of water tables, landslides and desertification due to over-farming – the list goes on.

I’m cynical that the world is warming up: the irony being that with a mass meltdown of glacier ice, it could dilute the North Atlantic ‘conveyor belt’ of heated water and bring it to a halt. That same conveyor belt of warm water that keeps our worldwide weather system on the positive side of zero degrees. It could just as easily cool down and we could all end up in a mini ice age. Everyone’s so busy jumping on the CO2 emission ‘Earth could become a hot-house’ band wagon, they really haven’t considered things could very easily go the other way. Instead of going for sunblock, maybe we should be reaching for the anti-freeze and a big fake fur coat. Don’t believe me? Some bedtime reading for you…

Big freeze plunged Europe into ice age in months

House of Mirrors

An image stands, solitary and many
staring outwards in multiplicity
each without moving, shifts: a company
of reflections ghosting infinitely

through each distorting glass pane
not perfect in their fracturing mimicry
these aspects of the original retain
the missing words of a lost story

where, in the dark mazed corridors
is the path around and through
this labyrinth myriad of mirrors?
which semblance, is the first and true?

distortions serve to confuse perception
focusing only upon each duplication
breaking through, connect each one
many as all, through the wall, to freedom

Tenement Symphony

A dawn chorus appears with the sunrise
whistling council builders sweep
in, with no care for those still in drowse
from half a night of sleepless sleep
slammed doors; clattering across the floor
metal scaffold tubes; blunt banter on
how they’d done the wife the night before
heavy booted feet on concrete stone

and heavy lidded eyes, prise open
with a dull sickened feeling of dreams stolen
before a final denouement
latching on to the beside lamp to check
the time: 7.30am – exactly five hours…
not so much get up, as slide and hit the deck
to the pulsing sound of neighbours
bass techno beat – clubbers still
going strong on party poppers

dawn cold is a sharp wake up call
no heating on from the night before:
rapid dress, and move towards the hall
an increasing noise crescendo
as through the wall, a two year old
shriek temper tantrum squeals
setting sharply on edge, nerves, dulled
from midnight insomniac hours

upstairs, the care in the community
uncared for by his brother, howls pathetically
like he always does before breakfast
like a pet wolf on a chain
seeking out the moon, or some sympathy, in vain
and all the while, the grey semi-solid rain
beats hard upon the frosted window pane
with rhythmic, wind driven timing
whilst the hard pound of late, late, late for work stiletto heels
stabs each stairwell step, hurrying
towards the front door, obscured by itinerant builders

and I retreat to the security of a fleece blanket
and freshly brewed cup of tea
the morning’s news on streaming net tv
with a quiet end to this morning’s tenement symphony.

Cybele’s herald

Last night, the shade flickered
that covered the glowing floor light
as it moved, buzzed and quivered
against the silence of midnight

did a moth flitter around
all a skitter, silken wings excited?
no: low the drone and humming sound
reveals a different visitor alighted

impossible creature graces my home
so far from warm rayed, white gold days
oh how does a honey bee come
to visit me, in this dark winter’s place?

Melissa’s messenger bears me a gift
a reminder that summer is still
only hidden a season’s drift
sun magic merely sleeps against the chill

Delphic portent, this buzzing omen
dances drowsily, distractedly
heralds in advance a later time when
buds will unfurl;  life awakening newly

I lift this small yellow and black wonder
gently from its bound state
I carry it outside to the cool air
hoping it will wander to a safer fate

Madhava graced me this evening
presaging, that the darkest hours
precede Yule’s solstice passing
before the dawning, of better brighter days.

Dream Diving

She slips, seamlessly into a sea of purple velvet
that swirls and unfurls in a crash of crushed violet
soft rustles and bustles of curving iridescence
that caress her naked skinned ivory surface

falling deeper into this slumber of polychrome
reality changing and shifting with each turn
flowers into birds into shoals of angel fish
mirages of images indistinct as morpheus

ambivalent blurred edges like tear eyed vision
she drifts, swims, walks, pulls, pushes ever on
through somnambulant turbulent changing landscape
ideas and forms and thoughts that reshape

the dreaming: an etheric wakeful, wishing place
where time does not pass in an endless space
but mind becomes centred in the whirl of what is
and was, and what may well be – Sybils’ promise

the depths of oneiros – nothing remains as it was
her memories turn into all possibilities
a kaleidoscope of desire, hope and knowing
as abstract finally becomes understanding

Vetr

The air is thick, damp and heavy
with the breath of people
long since fled to warm comfy
homes, deep walled
against the dead cold
of November evenings
blue black night skies sharp
with blue white stars, burgeoning
shine stark like ice splinter shards

As above, so below
frozen panes laced with crystals
refract the warm amber glow
safe heat against deep froze
ramparted silhouettes
municipal stone towers
old solid buildings: stalwart
lookouts through the solitary hours

Footfall trips and kicks hard
against unforgiving ground
a solitary echo against subzero
empty space filled only with ice
and a harsh lucent reality clearer
than the overhead abyssal skies
of overwhelming silence
a place so full yet devoid of presence

This city, that is a ghost
covered with hoary frost
once full with noise and dust
commotion and a heat hazed lust
silent witness
against winter’s progress
whilst the populous, remain oblivious
of season’s change: centrally heated
buried deep, in tv unreality.

amīcus

On days abandoned to silent contemplation
when elation, has been sat on a back burner
that’s been on slow glow
for the last 17 days and furthest
from your mind was the idea
that anyone gave a damn now
that anyone might draw near
and say.. How..
is it going?
How are you doing?
You’ve been quieter
than a church mouse
in a midwinter’s
midnight empty house
with a window creaking
in the empty wind
and only ghosts
to keep you company as friend.

Except, the mark of the friend
is the one who raps
on the quiet door
when you could no more
raise a hand to write a mail, make a call
throw a rebuttal against the dark wall
that is mood and self imposed solitude
that comes like a baleful black cloud
sitting on the sunshine
deadening the sound
of your heart
beating in time
with your over active mind
that insists…
retreat is the best option.

It isn’t.

The sign of a friend
is imposed connection
when they push you
step on step
cajoling you to tell them next
asking when you’ll phone or text
and if, after a day blurred to four
they’ll tough love push some more
and demand a response
in recompense
and self repentance
for your pointless, personal exile

it’s understood it is worthwhile
connecting, not retreating
losing self-abnegating denial
in exchange for speaking
your mind, your heart, your soul…

and knowing,
your friend,
without judging
will listen
and lighten, the load
returning the favour
you once told
them, in their darker times:

a true friend will know
and call
and will never require
anything reciprocal.

…thank you.

Siren’s song

The seas lie, calmer and flatter
than an obsidian speculum
reflecting deepest slate grey skies
the colour of my eyes on
darker days

Inert waters
belie deeper currents
where subdued ire
and frustrated wonder
flow in eddies and undertow
that pull ever deeper

Cinerescent clouds
pallid faced
paler than ashes
dullen and silence, words

that fall in cascades
with no sound
but pound
and ricochet
like buckshot
to no effect
like hailstone pieces
that bounce
off the frozen surface

this perfect waveless
self possessed
reflection
that lies a smoothly
dispassionate
imperturbation

All I want to do
is break the surface:
this perfect glass
and dive to the deepest
place
where currents sweep
and roil and pull
a maelstrom of action
the only place where I can clearly
hear you call
away from the deadening calm
in the flux and flow

where, in the swell
and chaotic fall
it is all,
or nothing.

Kōan

“the path up and down is one and the same” ~ Heraclitus

What happens
when an unstoppable force
meets an immovable object?
a connectivity paradox…
does an encounter of opposites
signify some kind of unity?
or agreeing to disagree,
separately?

perhaps,
the unstoppable force stops,
and the immovable object moves.

Dare to be different

This afternoon, whilst walking into Edinburgh city centre, a man in his thirties, happily sauntered down the side of the road in parallel to me. I couldn’t help myself, I just started to grin, like a Cheshire cat. With a wonderfully pronounced wiggle in his walk, said chap was sporting a dapper black dinner jacket. He was also wearing khaki shorts, brown ankle socks with jesus sandals and a bright sky blue knitted beanie hat. Wow.

It was quite obvious that he was enjoying the odd double-take glances he received, and that said get up was a deliberate ploy for attention, or a dare; I couldn’t figure out which. What struck me was in the very uniqueness of his dress sense (or lack of), he stood out like a beacon as he very merrily, dancily wandered his way down the street. He was the extreme exception to the ’standard’ rule of dress.

That having said, in my time, I have worn clothing that has been deliberately selected to incite a reaction. Be it in rebellious youth mode wearing outrageous punk goth chick gear, or later on, the alternative femme fatale provocateur in bohemian silks and modded boots. It seems to me, historically, during past generations – that in dressing up, we aimed to establish ourselves and please and tease – to grab attention. Somewhat like the peacock displaying it’s best ruffled and fanned feathers, humans are capable of tarting themselves up to elicit a reaction. But always in a way of expressing some form of individuality: some self expression – an extension of who you were. Effectively accentuating your own personality to share with others and celebrate the difference.

Except, is it just me, or in recent decades, has the western world gotten a tad more conservative in its’ self expression? Or simply less original? Previous generations have expressed themselves through unique dress sense, make up, hair styles… but the most recent generation of youth I can’t help but notice some degree of bland out. Girls seem to all have shoulder length straight hair, peachy make up, shimmer fake tan, regulation slouch t-shirt, leggings and ugg boots. Boys wander around in sports shirts, slouch jeans and jello stylee hair. Even the little emos seem to pick their designer stripy leggings, rock boots, slogan shirts and dark khol looks off the pre-made, catalogue sourced shop shelf.

Perhaps, in an age of mass media and ready made commercialism, originality seems to have laid down and surrendered to a mass conformity in a pre-made standardised one-size-fits-all identity of not so much self expression, as mass unoriginality. Even in the expressions of so called ‘alternative’ – the spark of indie customisation, has given way to mass accessible off-the-peg attitude. Over commercialism makes it all too easy to access everything pre-selected, pre-made, pre-determined identi-kit.

I admit, there may be resistance pockets dotted around… some rare cases of self expressionism who don’t want to be a clone. But I really wish the spark of human cockyness and the need for rebel excel would come back. Because in the conformity of lack of self expression, there’s a danger that the please and tease of coquetry may be lost, and with that, a little bit of original human expressionism.