Dusk and Dawn –June 2012, “I hear those voices that will not be drowned”

 

Dusk

After the rains, the sun shone,

A jewel of an evening

where long shadows caressed the beach,

And touched the churning sea,

The mottled sand, built in tiny peaks,

Amongst the dunes, unsullied by feet,

I didn’t know you’d gone,

They were calling me, to tell me,

But I was oblivious,

I’m glad, because I saw beauty,

And now when I remember that day,

I face the sea, the sun at my back,

I see a glint of light on the scallop,

I listen to the timeless pulse,

Of the ocean, the cry of birds,

The wind driving at the hardy plants,

Who tremble, like my fragile heart.

© Mel Melis (all words and photos)

Dawn

I stayed up and watched the sun rise,

over the North Sea,

I saw her face in the clouds till

the sun melted it away,

Dusk and Dawn, those funny times

neither claimed by day or night,

A time where for an instant,

the imagination snares reality.

The Squirrel, the Magpie and William Blake

 

I looked out of the window this morning and rather than the usual gang of squirrels hanging around at the bottom of the bird feeder picking up scattered nuts, seeds and titbits there was only one.

(They can’t climb the bird feeder due to the ingenious “baffle” we’ve installed – otherwise they’d scoff everything and bully the birds away).

This one squirrel was busy burying items on the lawn, no doubt to eat and savour at a later date when the weather wouldn’t be so mild. He or she was totally oblivious to the Magpie, trotting along behind it, so when the squirrel moved on, the magpie would dig up whatever was buried and eat it.

Now squirrels are undoubtedly intelligent, their problem solving skills are second to none, but the magpie had street smarts. It was fascinating and had I not been ill and slow moving this morning, I might have been distracted and missed the little drama.

That, the sunset this evening and a walk on the moors the earlier this week where I got some beautiful photos of barren winter trees against the backdrop of the burning sunset reminded me of a quote by William Blake.

The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the Eyes of others only a Green thing that stands in the way. Some see Nature all Ridicule and Deformity, and by these I shall not regulate my proportions; and some scarce see Nature at all. But to the Eyes of the Man of Imagination, Nature is Imagination itself.

Which leads on to the “William Blake, Apprentice and Master” exhibition I visited with my friend Mike a couple of weekends ago at the Ashmolean in Oxford.

I’ve always been fascinated with Blake, I’m no expert by any means, but like many people and subjects I know enough to keep me captivated and wanting to read and witness more.

He was a strange, radical, revolutionary, spiritual figure, devoted and excelling in many mediums, the written word, art, craft. Paradoxically loved and admired by people of both left and right (the hymn Jerusalem being used as the anthem for the labour movement and owned by the Suffragette cause), and by those with faith and those without.

The exhibition concentrated, as you would expect from the title on Blake’s growth as an artist and poet, from childhood to death, his influences and loves and how he honed his craft. It also focuses on the techniques he used, and innovations he created especially in printmaking (the video in the link above gives an insight). It has many beautiful examples of his work as well as a narrative on his life. My favourite items are his work illustrating Dante’s Inferno, so effortless and beautiful. One example below.

Dante and Virgil Penetrating the Forest - Picture Credit (Tate)

And the recreation of his studio in Lambeth was revelatory too, his hand printing press was a brute of a thing. As well as his delicate touch, and exquisite eye for detail, Blake was strong and stocky, he himself was able to turn the wheel, time after time after the intense labour time of applying ink when it needed to be dabbed on with a leather hoof type thing, before the invention of a handy roller. It is a disastrous shame that many of his works were destroyed or toned down (defaced) after his death, e.g. to remove genitals, for fears of upsetting the sensibilities of society. Who knows what further wonders of Blake have been lost to history. Definitely a great exhibition to visit. It’s on till the 1st March 2015. Ashmolean, Oxford.

Winter Walk at Dusk

Flitton and Flitwick moor, today. (all photos © Mel Melis)

 

The peat bog caresses,

with sticky tarred fingers,

exploring the flesh,

and drinking the droplets,

of hot breath falling,

tasting,

understanding the strangers,

the night waking,

as the day sinks in fading red,

 

life stands still,

bar one last laugh,

from the woodpecker,

the birds are silent,

invisible, cold hardened,

watching the mottled clouds,

and listening

as the moor starts to converse,

quietly at first,

 

the river swelled, giggling,

creaking trees sway,

straight backed callow alders,

golden haired willows,

cowed and bashful,

squat crab apples,

and stern oaks,

dark and bold,

against the sunset.

 

Kota Kinabalu

Kota Kinabalu in Malaysian Borneo is a fascinating place, after a long journey and two flights I arrived, sleep deprived and bewildered at our fujitsu volunteer hotel. For those not in the know I will briefly summarise what I'm doing here -

Fujitsu sponsor and work closely with a local charity which regenerates the Borneo rainforest. 60 staff volunteers from around the world have self funded themselves to get here, representation of staff comes from Japan, Singapore, China, Malaysia, Australia, New Zealand and from further afield the UK and Germany.

So on that basis and with an early start the next day, I took a stroll in the early evening to find something to eat and then, by a strange quirk of global coincidence meet an old friend Tom, who happened to be staying in the block next door to my hotel. He'd seen my update on Facebook and announced that he too was in KK, but just for one night.

I took a walk along the wooden boarded promenade to the night market.

The smell is the first thing that hits you, fish and meat juices drain into the walkways between the tightly packed stalls. The chatter of sales and bargaining is incessant. I was fortunate to have trainers on, some people walked in flip flops and the slap slap slap in the entrails and liquids was rather unpleasant and residue kicked up onto clothes and legs.

However, the fish looked fresh, clear eyed not cloudy and bright in appearance.

Alongside the meat and fish were the other foods, uniformly shaped spuds were stacked in rows, indeterminable exotic fruit and vegetables and various packed herbs and spices.

Beyond that again, the food hawkers, stall upon stall, frying, steaming, grilling. Smells and smoke heavy in the air, cooked fish and meat ready to plate up, as well as the raw options for those who insist on choosing their option cooked from fresh.

polite young kids milled around, asking what you would like to eat. Unlike some other places in south East Asia a smile and a "maybe later" is met with a "no problem" and they enquire as to whether the next person would like a meal.

And beyond that again, stalls of various bric and brac and souvenirs or more prosaic things like lighters. In the midst of the market was a mosque, the doors flung wide open to send a sea breeze through the building and give relief to the worshippers from the humidity and heat.

The imam sang his prayers to god beautifully, it could easily have been part of Eastern Orthodox liturgy, the lilts and key changes so similar. 

I then walked back through the market, back along the promenade looking out to the dark sea where not long previously I had witnessed a beautiful red sunset behind the islands in the bay. 

The promenade ended abruptly, at a bar. I was tired, not just from the flight but from the sensory overload of the market. I didn't want to eat so I ordered a narkileh and smoked awhile. The water cooled fruit tobacco smoke soothing rather than harsh, even for a non smoker like me.

I then started to think, to think clearly. I started to relax. It's been a long year, long hours, this was my first proper break from the office. I smiled.

I thought of Lawrence Durrell and his book about Cyprus "bitter lemons", I wouldn't say it was a great book, his brother was a better writer, but something struck me, a memory from the book was plucked from a cobwebbed corner of my mind.

It's certainly not an accurate memory, more a memory of a feeling the book left me with, but he said something along the lines of how he enjoyed the company of Greek Cypriots but also the Turkish ones.

He wrote about restless industrious Greeks and serene Turks looking to the horizon, to take in the world before it passed us by.

All year I've let the world pass me by, so I stopped and watched. And listened. It made me think of who I am, what I am.

And I wrote, and the words came.

Kota Kinabalu ( mel melis (c) November 2014)

There's peace in the noise,

The construction workers drilling,

The chatter of families on their promenade,

The tinny music from waterside bars,

and the waves gently lapping,

A hawker's agitated tapping,

Of fingers against his purse,

And beyond,

The ethereal songs, 

of the faithful,

From the market mosque,

I have the blood of Greeks, 

of Sparta, of Turks, 

of frightened concubines, from the far north,

Stolen and cruelly forced,

into the pasha's servitude, 

I am a Jew, 

a Phoenician trader,

From the Ptolemies of Egypt,

To an Arab raider,

Venetian, Lusignan and Frank,

And a crusader.

I watch the world, through apple scented smoke,

And I am at peace.

Blackbirds and Dragonflies

All photos © Mel Melis

We moved house in May, we’ve got an old converted barn on the edge of the old moor. Beyond our hedge, a river runs behind the overgrown field. We’re very lucky. Summer took its time to arrive, but now it has we’ve had some amazingly beautiful days. We get the full glory of the setting sun from our back porch, the rays scattered by patchy cloud.

Somewhere in the river Kingfishers’ and Otters’ fish. I haven’t seen either yet, but I’m hopeful. I’m impressed with the birdlife in the garden though. Jays, finches of all sorts, swifts, tits and mammals too, most notably moles unfortunately causing mini subsidence patches where you tread and inadvertently collapse their tunnels. As well as that, in the dusk, bats, super manoeuvrable and quick, not much bigger than a bumblebee, chasing and catching moths in flight. Our most regular visitor though, is this bizarrely tailless and bold blackbird. We think she’s young. Skips right up to you.

Here she is gathering bugs from the lawn. I just happened to be lying down in the grass with my camera at the time. She posed several times.

Isn’t she pretty? Is she a blackbird?

And less than 100 yards away is a pond. On the day when it was over 30 degrees, I finished work about six and wandered down, dangled my legs over the wooden platform which overlooks the pond and watched the dragonflies duelling and mating. The pond was green with algae, partially evaporated in the heat, needing a top up in the dry spell. A pea soup.

The dragonfly behaviour was interesting. Some would position themselves on twigs or reeds and charge out to combat any intruders. Their flight seems to defy gravity, deftly forward, back and from side to side, occasional hovering, then with a speed that almost looks like a dematerialisation and teleport they appear hovering in another spot a split second later.

Needless to say I didn’t get any photos of them in flight, just when they stood sentry.

Not sure what species these are, there are several UK varieties. These were big (perhaps 3 inches long) but there were bigger blue / purple ones, who actually crackled when they accelerated, the power in their wing beat audible over the torpid silence of the murky green. Those big ones didn’t settle, they kept patrolling and harassing.

One thing I did notice is that this species mated in flight, after disengaging, the female (I assume) would then dip her abdomen into the water at various points, whilst still flying of course. Having researched it, she was actually laying her fertilised eggs. Should the larva hatch and survive, they’d turn into quite the pond predator. The larva can live for a few years under water, when they emerge, the dragonflies only live for a couple of months, their purpose seemingly to mate, lay their eggs and die.

Finally a picture of a bright little damselfly. The intensity of the blue is beautiful.

Sunset

The trauma, gasping, born,

pulse pounding, louder than the land,

behind the eyes,

the churning heartbeat, constant, a memory,

heard through liquid,

seen, felt in the womb, secure

in the dark, when the water baby

first opens her eyes,

red is safety, red is mother,

red is sky at the top of the hill,

red is love, the warmth of the sun.

 

June 1st 2012, Mel Melis ©

 

Running helps with inspiration. It’s a form of focus, the physical aspects, although sometimes painful, take care of themselves. The pain and burning of lungs and muscles touch something ancient which takes over. The sound of my own bursting heart a metronome, a discipline to follow, the plod of feet, the gasps of breath. It’s consuming. It allows the mind to contemplate, to calculate, to wander. I don’t know, maybe it’s some sort hunter gatherer thing which switches on, something missing in modern life which we all need to do. I crave that solitude and near exhaustion up on the hills.

There was a prize to my run, I was running to the top of Pegsdon Hills, I knew the sun was dipping below the horizon. I could sense the light was a beautiful orange/red as I ran in the shadow of the long hill, on the wooded path. The chalk steps were steep, I haven’t conquered them yet, I’m not fit enough, I stopped half way up and wheezed, my legs burned and wobbled, I could hear my pulse and heart raging, blocking out all other sound, but I stumbled on, upwards, to be bathed in the suns orange light.

In retrospect it’s a bit contrived, but at the time it felt powerful. As I weaved my way through the ankle breaking rabbit holes and scrapes, through the squat hawthorns, their white flowers covering the thorns, pressed and wind battered against the hillside, I thought of childbirth. The experience of the run talked of this to me. From darkness into light, the trauma, the pain, the blinding bewilderment at being thrown from your secure environment into this new world.

But what a view.