Skip to main content

A Fresh Start.

So this is the time to make a fresh start. 


One or two of my friends have given up alcohol (for the month), I'm sure others have made resolutions (which seem not to be talked about), but for all of us, the numbers are rolled back and we can each of us set off again, perhaps in a new direction.  

You've got to admire the courage of anyone setting off in a flimsy home-made vessel, with no equipment on a dangerous voyage, believing they'll get there eventually and be able to do something useful - possibly even encourage someone else to do something similar...


This is the story of one such, as true as I can make it.

It's a circular voyage in several senses - the vessel is circular; the destination is only a beginning, for it ends where it began; the willows start in the ground, grow but are then pushed back in; and the speaker sees himself as but a small cog, transmitting something much bigger and more powerful than himself.
I hope - dare I say believe? - that poetry can gather all this up, and is good at doing this.

Well, it's the outset of the year, there's a journey ahead - let's go...


A Circular Voyage

St. Cyngar of Llangefni
(c. AD 488 – c. AD 550)


I made myself this circle – 
willows thrust into the earth
then bent them to my purpose
back into the ground.

In and out the gunwale runs
threading round the struts – 
longer wands that meet and part.
To hold it all together

there are lashings –  
forty-two, and overall
to float me on the sea
a tightly tethered hide.

Currents carry on their conversation
below my willow frame.
Kind winds and tides unquestioning
give answer to my prayers – 

so I arrive upon the waves
ready to give thanks.  This coracle
I made myself bears witness
to the perils of the deep – 

from safety unto safety 
such dangers in between
are like gaps across the willows
where bulging skin is seen – 

my feet tread firm now on the ground.
Once more I thrust a stick
into the earth – which may take root
to grow again so that

it might be bent to suit
another’s purpose – perhaps
to build a boat like mine
of willows with a stalwart frame

which may support a thwart – 
a seat for someone who has tied
his lashings – all those forty-two –  
carved a paddle and gone forth

to find a hide to fit his craft – 
secured it well so waters flow
beneath him as in faith he leaves
to make another circle.



Admittedly, there are some quaint phrases - sometimes self-conscious, a bit pompous and unoriginal - but perhaps this adventurer was a bit like that himself.  By giving his actual dates - well, as near as we can - I've tried to demonstrate his reality.  He would have built - grown? - his own coracle, and certainly set off across the Irish sea in it, like a jumbly.

I find this organic construction of a traditional coracle intriguing.  I've tried to reproduce the smallness, the little steps involved in the small compact stanzas which sometimes link up, as if lashed.

I've never made a coracle, but I have pushed willow wands into the damp earth and seen them grow, then bent them and tied them together.  Even that is pretty remarkable.

But Cyngar's achievement is hugely more so.  That was some setting-off.

Whether we get where we want to, let alone whether our journey brings us back to where we began, and whether we do whatever it was we meant to do when we do arrive, I hope we all travel as safe as Cyngar amazingly did, across our sea of 2018 and beyond.






Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Three Hares

  The Three Hares We continue on our way running, running, running around held together tip to tip so I can hear what she can hear as well as her. And the other follows me in front of her – we are joined up by our ears so we follow, lead and follow running, running, running around we continue on our way. Running, running, running around – no cause for worry – what's to come has already been. The future's past – watch us here – we're going nowhere – the last is first and first is last. Our present moment sees us still although we seem to race – running, running, running around we continue. On our way running, running, running around hearing your persistent questions – why do you keep on asking? We cannot tell you any more. May you share your senses and find soft silence at your centre which is so close, while you go on running, running, running around. The turning of the year, with the various thoughts about the past and the future that c

Happy Christmas!

Christmas – or if you prefer, Solstice, Hanukkah, or just This Special Time… Stop now.  For a moment, wait. And look.  From here you can see far. In this direction, where we’ve been – the climb, the ups and downs. Now turn around. There before you lies the future.  At the summit of the year there’s time to rest, and be refreshed – let’s gather here, so we may share each other’s company, look forward to the new arrivals, lives to come travelling into this misty landscape, and in our brightness bring to mind those no longer in our group. So drop your rucksack, get your breath back the old year lies behind – for now let’s all enjoy the present gift-wrapped here before us. I’m quite sure this little poem has no great literary, let alone poetic merit, but hey we don’t always have to be polished, clever, neat or profound. Or original. Or elegant. Especially not when you’ve just got to the top of a mountain. But there is a def

Aftermath

I love the word Aftermath, with its apparent Anglo-Saxon simplicity. I read that it means after the mowing, perhaps a second or later mowing; more specifically, it can refer to the crop of grass which springs up after the mowing earlier in the summer. Even if the quality of the grass be criticised as not having the fragrance or sweetness of the first crop, or worse, dismissed as 'the bloomless aftermath', it is after all new growth – a reminder of what has been, and of what is yet to come. Aftermath Yes, the grass will grow again. There will be another season here upon these same old fields where sheep shall safely graze again as if it were the first occasion.   Fresh growth of flimsy blades will spring to feed a new-born generation here once more, in time, expected along with others, all those others drawn forth to prosper in the sun.   And some who left will come again remembering this place. A pair of swallows from the past will score the sky above the