Turning tide

Gliding landwards, tongues
of sea, cream-edged, enfold each
silent, rounded rock.

La Vega, January 2012

CJM

Sweet sadness is upon me -- again

It's that time again. The hours of daylight, unnoticeably, are getting longer, but the human feeling is of entering the worst of winter, and spring seems far away. And with all that, we are approaching the anniversary of the "saddest day of the year."

This event need not be as miserable as it sounds. It's an opportunity, as my Herald Tribune article suggests (see link above), to bask in some of the most beautiful love poetry of the creative soul from cultures all around the world.

Sadness and the human spirit are perpetual companions. Some have proposed that this nostalgic resonance that we all feel has a legendary source in the banishment from the Garden of Eden. There was a glory that we once knew, and "all our journeying", as T.S. Eliot put it, is to recover the lost paradise that was our beginning.

We find the same nostalgia for "recollection" at the heart of Romantic poetry and painting in the nineteenth century, from Wordsworth's Intimations of  Immortality - "trailing clouds of glory do we come" - to the soulful mystery of Sehnsucht and Erinnerung pervading German art. That urge to recall, with a sense of "insatiable longing" that tells us we are not complete, are the very foundation of sadness.

But letting sadness go by without being drawn into it to the exclusion of all else, will keep us going till spring. Here, too, as my article points out, the Chinese still have the last word, with their sensible proverb, "You can't stop birds of sadness flying over you, but don't let them nest in your hair."

CJM

Captureland: a novel

The images in the holiday brochure are irresistible: sun and sand of tropical beaches bordered by palms, washed by translucent seas, where lovers amble hand in hand along the edge of the water. What could be more blissful? Where do I sign up?

 When you arrive, of course, you'll find that the deserted beach has serial hotels hogging the shoreline, while busloads of star-struck lovers arrive and leave daily as the great wheels of the tourist industry churn without end.

There will be a hidden world, too, mostly unseen by the visitor, in the the surrounding towns, villages and countryside. This wider local population remains out of sight, especially in the hotel formula known as “all-inclusive” (which should really be termed “all-exclusive”), the average visitor getting only a fleeting glimpse, on arrival and departure, from the windows of the airport bus. They may take note, briefly, of townships, ghettos, shanty-towns, the ramshackle effects of poverty, dust and dirt, run-down vehicles, and neglected infrastructure.

 Maybe, too, they’ll catch sight of areas of fine villas with enclosed gardens displaying high-profile security protection. Some of this extreme contrast may remind them of the troubling and chilling depiction of Rodrigo Plá’s excellent film La Zona (Mexico, 2007), where slum and rich condominium sit side by side.

            But the bus will soon pull in past the gate-keepers and into the walled paradise of the beach hotel. During the visitor’s stay, those “other people” of the parallel world of the slums and townships will remain visible only in the form of the myriad waiters, bartenders, cleaners, cooks, laundry servants, and so on, who silently keep the great ship of leisure steaming along.

Then, after the holiday in paradise, the visitor will return home via the same rapid bus journey to the airport, none the wiser about the greater landscape of the country they have blessed with their foreign currency.

            What of the impact of such tourism on all those workers, and on their lives? What of the impact on their families and communities, back in the ghetto homes where they live, and where they return at night? What of the impact on local agriculture and resources, traditionally based on providing for local needs, and unequipped to deal with the vast daily appetites of the thousands upon thousands of invading hotel guests?

            Captureland, my novel written for young people, but equally for any inquiring person, takes a look at this other unexplored world beyond the hotel gates, with its shanty-town communities built on land seized by squatters (hence “capture land”).

In the story, based on true events, a young white boy comes to work in a Caribbean beach hotel but soon finds himself allied with a group of black friends in their daily fight for survival amidst poverty, injustice and violence. We see the parallel world now through his eyes, as he shares the joys and hardships of his breddren, born and raised in the ghetto but with an irrepressible spirit and zest for life.

I wrote most of this book on site, in the Caribbean, where after a whole lifetime of travelling without incident, I was mugged within twenty-four hours of my arrival. The telling of the story, then, has a certain edge to it – which doesn’t take away from my exploration, and admiration, of the deeper customs and values of traditional communities faced with the ruthless and insatiable demands of the modern consumer world, otherwise known as "Babylon".

The book will in due course be available through Amazon, but there is an opening 25% discount until January 31, 2012, on all orders from Lulu (see link above and order using code LULUBOOKUK305). An e-book version is also available from the same site, and eventually Kindle, etc.

CJM

           

Sea-surge

High rearing seas leap,
curl, shatter on foaming rocks
with thunderous blows.

Punta 'l Pozu, January 2012

CJM

Breakers in the bay

Sunlit, radiant white
chargers, racing to shore, toss
silver manes of spray.

Santa Marina, January 2012

Rising tide on the river

Dulled mercury once
was ocean, now winter tide
nudging river's flow.

El Nervión, December 2011

CJM

A Christmas Story

As a child, I used to go carol singing in our neighbourhood, mainly to raise a little pocket money for Christmas. With a choir-trained voice, I had the advantage of being able to sing, and my efforts were usually rewarded.

            Now on this particularly bitter cold night, I was singing away when the house door opened and a very old man and lady peered out. “That was lovely,” they both said, and invited me in.

            Nowadays, of course, such an offer to a child would be impossible. A SWAT team would be surrounding the house and breaking the door down within minutes. Even then, as all children know from the Brothers Grimm tales, an old lady is most likely to be a witch who puts you in a cage to fatten you up.

            None of these fears was lost on me, but I was extremely cold and the old couple seemed harmless enough.

            They led me into a warm and cosy sitting-room, and offered  me a comfortable armchair close to an open fire. What a relief it was to feel the warmth in my limbs.

            “You must be very cold,” said the old couple. “How about a little glass of ginger wine to warm you up?”

Hey, I was twelve years old, and had never touched anything stronger than orangeade. Where was that SWAT team?

            Ginger wine? Ginger beer? What’s the difference, I innocently thought, and said yes, of course. In moments it was served on a tray with a plate of small cakes. Looking back, I now see it as bearing every resemblance to a glass of absinthe, the green devil. Little did I know what was waiting for me.

            ”A fig roll?”

Fig roll, figgy pudding, Christmas pudding. What could be nicer? “Thank you.”

            It was only then that I noticed the parrot, perched in an alcove on my right hand side. It was huge, bright green, and, more to the point, dangerously free to wander. Which it suddenly began to do, edging its way closer and closer to me with a rather nasty gleam in its unpleasantly close eyes.

            “Drink up your wine!”

I smiled nervously, lifted the glass to my lips and took a sip. A terrible searing sensation filled my mouth and my throat. I knew I was going to die. It was clear that the inventor of ginger wine for his own tortured reasons must have set out to design a drink that would kill off the human race, or at the very least destroy its taste buds.

            The parrot had now hopped on to the back of my chair, and was horribly close to the back of my head. It began probing around my neck with a beak that was enormous, grotesque and highly menacing.

            “Have a fig roll. They’re very nice.”

How could I trust these people now? But there was no way out. Into my mouth went a bite of the fig roll. It was dry, bitter and disgusting. I choked on it. Even the parrot wasn’t tempted. It was more interested in my ear lobe.

            I must have shown signs of panic. “Oh, don’t worry about him. He wouldn’t hurt a flea.” How often in life do we hear that just before the dog bites you! Then, “Oh, it’s the first time he’s done that,” as if it was somehow your fault.

            Now imagine the effect of all this on an impressionable child — a situation which would take the diplomatic skills of the Foreign Office to extract oneself from politely. It seemed I was doomed to die, either of ginger wine poisoning, fig roll inhalation or bleeding to death from a parrot bite.

 I don’t really remember how I got out of there. Presumably the ginger wine made me so daring that I stuffed the fig roll into the parrot’s maw, rendering it harmless, and fled to the door. I recall the echoing cry, “Do come again!” as I stumbled away to safety.

            Children nowadays will never have this kind of adventure. Maybe in my second childhood, though, there’ll be nothing to stop me from keeping up the old customs and go carol singing. But, if I come knocking on your door, no ginger wine, no fig roll. And above all, please, please, lock up your parrot!

CJM