Month: August 2024

Discontent

Ocean Bream musings Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

Where did you go? He asked her, in the ethereal twilight which she saw with sparkling eyes, but he saw as gloom. There were hills rising high and mighty in the distance, almost like mountains, so warped were they in the fast-fading glow of sunshine, and on them were the houses whose windows watched darkly and silently. But she was in love with this place, and he was not.

I went to see the stars, she replied, pink cheeked and hair tousled. Even as she looked at him her eyes were unseeing. She saw the stars roaring into flame, millions of miles above the earth and surrounding it. Loud and fearsome, yet still and silent in the emptiness of space.

Where did you go to see them? He wanted to pull the loaf of bread from the cupboard and make some toast, have it with some tea, curled up in front of the fire under that rough blanket she was always yammering on about.

Just over in the town of castles, was her nonchalant reply.

That must have taken a long time to walk.

About 2 hours. There and back.

So that’s why you were so late.

She sighed. Isn’t this place beautiful, H? Don’t you think it’s beautiful? It’s ensnared my heart and pierced my soul.

He pulled the loaf out and began to slice it. Didn’t reply. He could hear the wind whistling over the hills that rose like menaces in the distance, and the darkness outside the window began to turn into a reflection of him in the kitchen roughly slicing bread, his brows knitted together in the most fearsome growl of an expression.

She was nowhere to be seen in the reflection, for her head was out the door, her foot twirling beneath her, like a little contented hum. She was watching the last of the sunset, watching the mountains that were hills turn to black shrouds against the horizon. Watching the lights of the town twinkle themselves into existence, like little stars, beacons of life down in the valley of shadows.

I’ve been in the Isle of Man and it’s inspired me. I have fallen in love with it, but I have seen others who have not. Image Credit.

Poetry

Ocean Bream musings, travel, writing Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

You can write beautiful poetry if you open your window out to a view of a craggy set of grassy cliffs, foamy sea crashing against hard black rock, and the ocean spreading out before you.

Your garden is sprawled along a hilltop, and hills rise and fall all around your humble abode, with its whitewashed walls and thatched roof.

You could sit on your doorstep everyday, watching the view, not a single human sound to clang in your ears for hours on end.

Your mind could wander to far off places, and the scene would change hourly, as the clouds and sunlight chase each other over the plains and lend jewels and paintbrush strokes to the sea.

You could write beautiful poetry if you opened your front door to a busy highway, which is never the same from minute to minute, let alone hour to hour.

Bright in the day, backdrop of engines and shoes pattering on pavements, clamour of conversations, snippets of lives, all trundling down the highway as though on a conveyor belt. Shops brimming with people and then empty, the hum and bang of various playlists drifting out into the street and intertwining with a variety of smells. Earthy tobacco, warm and sweet cinnamon, sharp pungent car exhaust, a woman’s expensive perfume, the stink of a turd, fried fish roaming its way down the road. Then at night the beat increases in pace. Vibrant lights and dancing shadows, glamour replacing busy bustle, and the subtle undertone of danger, menacing and yet ever so slightly exciting.

Your poetry would be full, bursting, fleeting, less contemplative, less slow, a stark contrast to the gentle nostalgia of a mountain and sea that have remained through time immemorial.

View of the Calf of Man, a small isle just off the Isle of Man, from the cottage of Edward Faragher, a renowned poet and Manx culture preserver on the Isle of Man. He was known as Ned Beg Hom Ruy (Little Ned with the red beard), and this was the cottage he grew up in. He had a deep love for the Isle of Man and this was reflected in a lot of his work. My visit here today inspired this post. Photo by Peter Killey at Manx Scenes website. You can read some of his works here: Ned Beg’s Poetry.