Sometimes of an evening

Sometimes of an evening – usually rather late of an evening I sometimes have a rather other-worldly idea that I am not alone. I am of course and have been now for the more than six years since Magucha died in in January 2016. 

 

I know full well that this is my, possibly, over active imagination wishing that it was true. Because you see I really miss the companionship – just having someone to touch. Whenever I see couples holding hands I can “feel” Magucha’s pata (Portuguese for “paw”), what she called her little hand, creep into mine. 

 

But then close to 36 years of a, sometimes, tumultuous marriage leaves its mark. Magucha’s quick fire, Latin temperament, meant that there were moments of high drama but we seemed to get on well together. A bit like Yin and Yang – interconnected opposite forces I suppose. But I loved her dearly and sorely miss her mischievous sense of humour and her intelligence. I’ve now lost the sound of her voice and her infectious laugh – I can’t “hear’ them any more. She was never a “hugger” – accusing me, in her sometimes deliberately mangled English, of “strafogating” her if I hugged her too tightly. She never objected too strongly, though, to a kiss. And that I miss too. 

 

Grief is so strange – I know that everyone is different and “one size” certainly doesn’t fit all. With me grief seems to come in “waves” but it’s in the evenings that I miss her so keenly. Someone to share the day’s experiences with, a goodnight kiss and knowing that if I stretch out I can touch her. Now just a dream of course.  

 

That is one reason why I write things down – and I always have. High emotion is difficult to express and keeping it “in”, as it were, something I never agreed with. I used to keep hand-written journals – plenty of those – but now it seems to be digitalized! Not quite the same as holding a pen and putting my thoughts on paper. That has a more cathartic effect I think. But it’s what I do now. 

 

This may sound as if I’m sorry for myself! I’m not. You see we had a very rewarding life together.  But living in the past was never something I did. At least I don’t think so. So I’m going to end, as I often do, with a poem, a bit of a wish, I suppose, by John Masefield:-  

 

The Word 

 

My friend, my bonny friend, when we are old,

            And hand in hand go tottering down the hill,

May we be rich in love’s refined gold,

            May love’s gold coin be current with us still.

 

May love be sweeter for the vanished days,

            And your most perfect beauty still as dear

As when your troubled singer stood at gaze

            In the dear March of a most sacred year.

 

May what we are be all we might have been,

            And that potential, perfect, O my friend,

And may there still be many sheafs to glean

            In our love’s acre, comrade, till the end.

 

And may we find when ended is the page

Death but a tavern on our pilgrimage. 

Inspiration

I’ve used this before but I think it is worth another look.

 

In troubled times we all need some inspiration to lift us out of the hole we may find ourselves in and give us hope for the future. Words of inspiration shine a light in the dark corners of our mind and dissipate the fearsome shapes and shadows our imaginings may have created. 

 

The poem, “Ulysses” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, is such a one and has inspired many. 

 

The words of the poem are a paean of praise to the indomitable human spirit; of the beauty of love for one’s fellow beings and the knowledge that Man can always aspire to, and achieve, greater and grander things. They remind us we are all free to seek for and arrive at that moment in life when peace, harmony and contentment fill our hearts. That we are better than we could ever imagine. 

 

Now, for sure not everyone likes or appreciates poetry but poets often get it right, as in this case. The poem’s last six lines, I feel, are the important ones:

 

                                                                        “.....; and tho’

                        We are not now that strength which in old days

                        Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;

                        One equal temper of heroic hearts,

                        Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

                        To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

 

 “... but strong in will to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” – powerful words. 

 

In the context of the poem, Ulysses (as the Romans called him, his actual Greek name was Odysseus), was immortalised in Homer’s “Iliad” and “Odyssey”, which chronicle the siege of Troy and his epic journey home to his long suffering but faithful wife, Penelope, after a twenty year absence – is now an old man. But he is still fired by thoughts of greater things to do and greater feats of endurance. He is still seeking something, but unsure what. 

 

Ulysses (Odysseus) was not only a brave and fearless fighter, but also a brilliant tactician – it was he who devised the famous Trojan Horse that was used by the Greeks to finally overcome the defenders of Troy and break the siege, some thirty one centuries ago.  

Such is Life

Today, a Sunday, happens to be a celebration of two events – Mothers Day (in Australia) and it is also Magucha’s birthday. She would have been 68 today.

 

I’m pulled in two directions – to celebrate the fact that motherhood is celebrated partly because it is something that no man can fully understand and also that this is not only Magucha’s birthday but that she is no longer in this world to share it with us. 

 

Motherhood, in fact life generally wasn’t easy in Zimbabwe (still known as Rhodesia in those far off days) but I did try my best to support Magucha in what was a very difficult time for her. She was married to a non-Portuguese speaker (me), in a "foreign country" (Zimbabwe) without close family or her mother’s support. Her mother did eventually fly out from Portugal to lend support. That didn’t last long and after a few weeks she returned to Portugal – I’m not sure of the reasons now but I believe it was because of the (usual) arguments that erupted between the two and my dedicated support of Magucha wouldn’t have helped smooth over the daily "eruptions".

 

Magucha was a devoted mother. She was so proud of firstly (against all medical advice) falling pregnant and then producing a beautiful daughter. The fear expressed by her doctor was that her already compromised kidneys would fail thereby threatening the lives of both mother and child.

 

I’ve written about this before but when Magucha’s waters broke and I took her to what was then known as the Lady Chancellor Maternity Hospital, I was presented with a document to sign. If a "medical situation" arose that threatened the life of either mother or baby or both did I want the mother to live at the "expense" of the baby or did I want the baby to live at the "expense" of the mother!  

 

That was the most difficult decision I’ve ever been called upon to make! I knew that if Magucha lived at the "expense" of the baby, she would never have forgiven me. That I know for certain – it would have always been a dark shadow over our relationship, even if that could continue. 

 

On the other-hand what was I supposed to do, as a working single parent in Zimbabwe, with a new-born baby and a 7yr old son? My mother was too old to be of much assistance, and in any event she and my father were living in a retirement home some 60 km away.

 

Fortunately the stars must have been properly aligned because both survived. And the rest, as the saying goes, is history.

 

So I now celebrate the two – a birthday and Mothers Day –  but without the person directly involved. 

And by way of celebration I (as is my usual way) offer this poem – for mothers everywhere and especially for Magucha – that poor girl suffered ill health for as long as I knew her.

 

The Anvil

Stand like a beaten anvil, when thy dream

            Is laid upon thee, golden from the fire.

Flinch not, though heavily through that furnace-gleam

            The black forge-hammers fall on thy desire.

 

Demoniac giants round thee seem to loom.

‘Tis but the world-smiths heaving to and fro.

Stand like a beaten anvil. Take the doom 

            Their ponderous weapons deal thee, blow on blow.

 

Needful to truth as dew-fall to the flower

            Is this wild wrath and this implacable scorn.

For every pang, new beauty, and new power,

            Burning blood-red shall on thy heart be born.

 

Stand like a beaten anvil. Let earth’s wrong

Beat on that iron and ring back in song.

 

                                                            Alfred Noyes

It's a world of partings

It’s a very true saying – that this is “a world of partings”. There is no need to get maudlin about it. It just is what it is. Friends parting; young family members going their separate ways in the world; divorce; then the most confronting parting of all – death.

 

Nothing anyone can do about it. But, as I have written before, no one knows or has the least understanding of the “meaning” of Life (with a capital L) or what happens when some previously living organism is now dead. What happens to the “Life force” that enervated or activated that organism and which is now (apparently) absent? No one has the least idea.

 

Many, many years ago, when I and the world was much younger, I came across a poem that intrigued me without my fully understanding what it meant. Now, after both my marriages ended with the death of my wife and the death of my sibling, parents and many friends I think I, more or less, understand it now (maybe I’m just a slow learner!).

 

In neither situation, regarding my marriages, was I able to do anything. Obviously, one cannot “fight” death!

 

But I’m still intrigued by this poem!

 

The Shadow.

 

The Shadow leaned over me, whispering, in the darkness,

            Thoughts without sound; 

Sorrowful thoughts that filled me with helpless wonder

            And held me bound.

 

Sadder than memory, sharp as remorse, in the quiet

            Before I slept,

The whisper I heard of the one implacable Shadow,

            And my heart wept.

 

“Day by day, in your eyes, the light grows dimmer,

            With the joy you have sung.

You knew it would go; but, ah, when you knew it and 

      sang it,

            Your heart was young;

 

“And a year to you, then, was an age; but now” said

      The Shadow,

            Malignant and cold,

“The light and the colour are fading, the ecstasy dying,

            It is time to grow old.”

 

Oh, I could have borne the worst that he had to tell me,

            Lost youth, age, death;

But he turned to breathe on the quiet heart sleeping 

     beside me

            The same cold breath.

 

And there by the throat I grappled him. “Let me bear

     all of it.

            Let her dream on.”

Soundlessly, shadow with shadow, we wrestled together,

            Till the grey dawn.

 

                                                            Alfred Noyes.

Just memories.

There are so many memories. But they are mine and wouldn’t have the same resonance if I tried to share very many, I don’t believe. 

 

You see, tomorrow, January 21, will be five years since Magucha died. Now it never has been my intention to solemnize this day into a “mourning” day.  Magucha would never have wanted that. It is after all just another day – the sun will still rise in the East and set Westward over the Indian Ocean (viewed from Perth).

 

Tomorrow will, in a sense, be a day of celebration for a life well lived. Magucha refused to be cast down. Her whole approach to life seemed to be “Life is to be lived. Live it. To the full!” And so she did. She was never still, just like a sparrow – my pet name for her was “pardalito” – Portuguese for “little sparrow”  – always busy with something or someone. 

 

Rather than adopt an attitude, “What can I expect from Life?” Magucha approached it differently with a, “What does Life expect from me?” So she was always up to something – more often than not helping some wayfarer who has stumbled on their journey through life. 

 

And I was glad to be part of that. And I respected her, almost unconscious, desire to help others. And I hope I helped too. I loved her, you see! 

 

But in retrospect one always remembers the better times – the many rushed journeys to hospital and the many days spent in hospital, just became part of the background and tend to recede further as time goes on. Just as does the fist full of medications she had to take twice a day – I still have her hospital pharmacy list.

 

Magucha was  tough. Ever since her late teenage years she had suffered from kidney failure – she died just short of 63 years old – so nearly 50 years of illness. This she endured with stoic fortitude, never complaining, always ready for tomorrow! She was like spring steel – always bouncing back with a smile and a thank you.

 

In many respects I think that what the American rebel and “Gonzo” journalist, Hunter S Thompson, wrote gives a good insight into Magucha’s whole approach to life:-

 

“ Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, “Wow! What a Ride!”

 

And it was a ride – being her partner, lover and friend! I wouldn’t have missed any of it. But it is the memory of her gentle side that I remember so fondly. She loved children. Having been told not to have a child - that having a child of her own would overload her compromised kidneys, she was so proud to give birth to a healthy little girl. Her love for Caroline was palpable and wonderful to see. 

 

Being the person she was she gave equal loving attention to Rob whom she refused to call “step son” but always “MY son Rob”. And I loved her for that – her innate kindness and sense of justice.

Then when the grandchildren arrived she was always there to offer help. She was their beloved “Vovo” (Portuguese for grandmother).

 

So, as you can see there are so many memories.

 

As the anonymous poet Atticus wrote:-

 

“What a beautiful thought” she said,

“that even death does not conquer love and sometimes even makes it stronger.”

 

And:-

 

“She had an uncanny energy for life, 

thankful for every little miracle it bestowed –

and it made her entirely impossible to live without.”

 

I know I have used this poem before but it fits my mood so I’ll end with it:-

 

My Wife

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true,
With eyes of gold and bramble-dew,
Steel-true and blade-straight,
The Great Artificer
Made my mate.

Honour, anger, valour, fire;
A love that life could never tire,
Death quench or evil stir,
The Mighty Master
Gave to her.

Teacher, tender, comrade, wife,
A fellow-farer true through life,
Heart-whole and soul-free
The August Father
Gave to me. 

             

                            Robert Louis Stevenson

The Proper Place

There is a wonderful old Hans Christian Andersen story about a magic flute that produced a special tone with an accompanying wind that blew everything back to its proper place. 

That was a very dangerous flute but it burst after the first note was sounded – and I think that was very fortunate for all concerned. 

This old fairy tale has come to mind recently, for some reason, as the fourth anniversary of the death of my wife Magucha arrives – 21^st January. I certainly don’t want to make of this day anything other than another day. But it’s a very special day for me as it was 4 years ago that our relationship irretrievably ended, as all things must end. A relationship that was, looking back, I believe very special in many ways. 

I was very fortunate to have had her as a “mate” in every sense of that word. She would, I believe, have stood by me to “man the battlements” had she been called on to do so. And I can’t think of anything I would not have done for her. I am aware that distance lends enchantment – and she is now four years distant from me – but I still believe that. 

As I mentioned the old fairy tale about the flute that sent everything back to its “proper place” has come to mind. I like to imagine that forty-two years ago, when we first met, we each subconsciously heard the echo of that first note of the magic flute and were blown together by the accompanying wind. That we were now in our proper place. 

Then the end came, the inevitable end that bookends all life. We are born and we will die. 

But then maybe, just maybe, that too is our “proper place”?

I’m going to quote the poet Shelley, from his poem “Adonais” – an elegy written about Keats, after he heard of Keats’ death. I will quote some of this poem, admittedly out of context, remembering that it was written about a man, because I like the sentiments expressed – what follows is from parts of stanzas 38 (XXXVIII), 39 (XXXIX) and 53 (LIII):

“ ….. but the pure spirit shall flow

Back to the burning fountain whence it came,

A portion of the Eternal, which must glow

Through time and change, unquenchably the same, ….”

Also:-

“Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep –

He hath awakened from the dream of life –”

Also:-

“Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart?

Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here

They have departed; thou shouldst now depart!”

Does all this mean that this life is but a small part of the “real Life” and that that place, wherever it is, is the “Proper place”?

It pleases me to think so, that she is now in her “Proper place” – that Magucha has now “awakened from the dream of life”. That she is out of sight and has gone on ahead of me. But that one day I too will be in my "proper place" with her. 

Maybe!!!

A letter.

9^thMay, 2019.

My dearest Pardalito,

I write this message of love on what would have been your 66^thbirthday, on this level of existence. So I am not sure exactly how to proceed. 

That you are aware of my love and my grief, I am certain. That we are parted by what is called death, is self-evident. At times you seem close yet at the same time I know you are very far beyond my touch, beyond speech, beyond anything I can do except express my love.

Because love conquers all (that I truly believe) – because love transcends time, distance and death - this letter is for you, my little one.

Happy Birthday!

There are so many things I would love to tell you (but I hope and believe you are aware of them in any event); so many things I would have liked to do together with you on this day. You always loved the combination of trees and water – be it next to a stream, river or lake. And flowers. I would have liked to take you to those places we have been to, many times before.

Also it is only now that I can appreciate the amazing “green thumb” that you had. I have to work hard to get any plants or flowers to grow at all. Anything you planted and tended always thrived. I believe it was the love you expressed for all living things that the plants seem to understand and which they returned, with interest, with their beautiful flowers and scents.

And the sea. I have spent some time today, eating my lunch on the South Mole, in Fremantle. You loved that spot. Remember when we used to go there every Saturday for our lunch? We had the children with us then – Rob and Caroline. They were much younger of course, in those far off days, and used to spend much of their time clambering over the large blocks of concrete that made up the seaward side of the Mole. And chasing the seagulls! 

I miss all that, I really do.

I always loved the way the gulls soar in the currents of the euphemistically called “sea breeze”. The “Fremantle Doctor” often blows with almost gale force!! Today though, it’s quite calm – in fact a really beautiful day.

It’s always the little things that I remember – they linger - long after. Like in the mornings when I was up, always before you, preparing my breakfast and I would hear a plaintive little voice from the bedroom, “Is any one home?” or, occasionally, “Nobody loves me!” That would be the signal for me to prepare your breakfast.

I miss the sound of your voice, I really do. And, of course, your (hard earned and seldom given!) hugs and kisses too!! 

But always I return to a longing for the touch of your hand – your “pata” – in mine as we walked along, or resting on my knee when in the car and I was driving. Just that touch.

I miss that too, I really do.

I could go on, and on – but I know that you are, in that “special place”, fully aware of what is in my mind – at least that is what I fondly hope and believe.

So I will now end this letter with a poem - this is really for me, expressing, in a small way what I have to do, even though it will not easy – from a little book of poetry compiled by the late Field Marshall, Earl Wavell, called “Other Men’s Flowers”:-

Wisdom? 

“For this is Wisdom; to love, to live,

To take what Fate, or the Gods may give,

To ask no question, to make no prayer,

But to kiss the lips and caress the hair,

Speed passion’s ebb as you greet its flow, -

To have, - to hold, - and, - in time, - let go!”

            From “The Teak Forrest” by Laurence Hope.

So once again – Happy Birthday my Little One.  And thank you for all the wonderful memories.

I love and miss you. Lots.

Left or Right?

Years ago my father posed the question, “If one day something happened to make me turn left to go to work instead of my usual turning right – what would happen? Who would I meet? What new course would my life take?”

I’ve always remembered him saying this and have always wondered what events would unfold on the “Road less travelled”.

This is of course the ultimate hypothetical question. There can never be a definitive answer – anything could happen and there is no way of knowing if the same event would have taken place, regardless; that Fate has determined that whatever happens had to happen. 

Quatrain 51 (From the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam)

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

This notion of Fate or the Fates, the Moirai in Greek mythology, the three sister Goddesses, incarnations of destiny and life has always fascinated me. There is Clotho, the one who spins the thread of life; Lachesis, the one who draws lots to determine how long one lives, by measuring the thread of life; and Atropos, the inevitable, is the one who chooses the moment and method of death by cutting the thread of life with her shears. 

Now this, death, happens and will happen to us all however we might try and avoid the subject. So I ask the question – would it not be better to prepare ourselves for this inevitable end by living as best we can, by our lights? But it is so hard to accept death, particularly when it affects someone close, someone one loves. I know it is pointless to ask the question -Why? There is no answer. It just is – the Fates have made their determination.

But it is very hard.There is a poem, a tragic poem, which expresses this in words that I totally understand but with feelings almost beyond my comprehension. But, Oh the pathos!

Were You But Here!

Were you but here!

No more with tears the dreadful Night

Would in my soul her sorrows pour;

And through the curtained door

The groaning of the Earth

I’d hear no more;

Were you but here.

Were you but here!

O, high in Heaven the pulsing stars,

Your gracious way to greet,

Would scatter all their jewelled dust

In joyance at your feet,

And through the shadows, soft and low,

The happy laughter of the Wind would go;

Were you but here!

                                    Eugene Marais (9 January 1871 – 29 March 1936)

Probably written after the death (in South Africa) of his wife in 1895. She died from puerperal fever (eight days after the birth of their son) and after just one year of marriage.

Marais, trained in Law, was a well-known naturalist, poet and writer who was best known for his seminal works published as “The Soul of the white ant” and “The Soul of Ape”. Because he wrote initially in Afrikaans his works were not widely read outside South Africa and also because of this, unfortunately, were heavily plagiarised - stolen - by American and European naturalists in their own published research.

He never fully recovered from these hammer blows dealt him and finally committed suicide.

The Fates indeed – Left or Right – who knows!

I know that I nearly wept when I first read this poem, shortly after the death of my wife, Magucha.

Quiet times

It is during times like these – frenetic and somewhat unnerving times – that I recall my youth and the support I received from my parents and other family members.

I know that I was a “war baby” – born during the Second World War, but I never experienced any of that violence, being too far removed from any front line. I was thinking about my emotional state and support. In this I believe I was very fortunate, more fortunate than many.

My parents were loving parents. They were highly intelligent, well-educated and literate people. It is from them that I learned about great literature, poetry and classical music and established a pattern of reading and listening to music that is with me still. For that I am very grateful.

They were gentle people.

This is a poem that, to me, says it all.

TWILIGHT

Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks

            cry and call.

Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star

            over all,

There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an end,

Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend.

I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear long ago

            in the past,

Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that death

            cannot last;

Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled,

Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child.

                                                                                    John Masefield

Tyrants beware!

History is never kind to those who abuse their fellow men. History is never kind to those who attempt to immortalize their achievements. History is never kind to those who blow their own trumpets.

And Nature has a way of taking over and restoring order, Her order.

I offer my one loyal reader this poem (by Shelley) that tells the story, far better than any words I could ever write, of how Hubris and Pride will always lose to Nature and be brought down:

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

  Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

  Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

  ‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’

  Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

  The lone and level sands stretch far away.”