Blog of Mark

Tangerine candlelight

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Macdonald) — Sat, 07 Jan 2006 08:35:00 +0000

Think of a situation, any situation.
Sit by, lie by, to watch it unfurl
Behind your eyes, as a movie winds on,
Taking you places you wish it didn’t.

Have you ever turned off a light,
And 10 minutes later noticed,
In the corner of your eye,
The remnants of its shine?
But to look at the bulb –
It is black and cold.

Grace someone with deference,
And lie to him.
Because fate didn’t put us in their
Paths to flatter when we dislike;
Laugh when we cringe;
Like when we are indifferent –
At that moment.

In all of this, as in a movie,
As in a charade,
We seek truth.
It is a filthy, sad, sickening thing,
It is.

See light, though,
And wander to its source. Tread slowly,
Hands slightly ahead,
The body slanted to one side, knees bent,
Weight on knees. Wince through darkness,
But there is nothing to fear.

The trees around you are warm;
The air is soft; the path is wide.
There is great comfort,
And this is no lie.

Yet it is a funny thing,
This light,
Because it stays equally away.
You tread this way, reveling, admiring,
Laughing, loving, discovering,
While treading softly, courteously, mindfully.
This is pleasure,
Yet light is ubiquitous, mocking, goading.

Suddenly, you come upon the source;
It is closer now.
A warm, yellow glow of a lantern
Hanging over the entrance to a pub.
The lantern is thrashing in the wind,
Which brings invisible cold.

On a cold night, the pub should be full, no?
But no light in pub.
Only a tangerine candlelight,
With windows of ease,
Come look at me please.
And have it for now or later indeed.
For it is a ripe thing for such a plausible need.
In fact, the windows are black.

Gaze upon them,
And see the wild, yellow, ball of light,
Tossing around furiously till,
With a gust, not strong but very cold,
It goes out.

There are only stars for light now.
Ahh . . . look how far away they are!
Too far for me – too far for anyone –
But I will go anyway.

State

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Macdonald) — Mon, 02 Jan 2006 03:13:00 +0000

Every mistake was little, and how blind was I to them all.
Like blunders were always there but never before me – with me –
as they are now. Never too hard, never blink.

Or it will go away. Mustn’t scare it away; mustn’t make it
something it isn’t; mustn’t force anything.
Let what will happen, happen. Because it will, one form or another,
try or not.

Lest it be, lest it be, for it be. Inferno is black. Inferno becomes
Infer. Infer becomes red. Inferno disappears. Infer is red.

What will happen, lest everything go? I come here and everything
be, with wonderful triumph of spirit so callous before, and soft,
soft now. What be beauty if this isn’t?

Others think much, probably more. Yet their thought is confined,
limited, willingly so, and mine – oh mine! – goes with the breeze –
sometimes with them, where stagnate waters lie. And I cry for that,
for I can’t escape, because I return again, again, again.

You go there, and laugh. Laugh for eternal nights and youth;
those things away in night when young – when it’s cold and
something else is wanted, yet unknown in the blaze of youth.

The all-encompassing, red-hot, destructive, fire, that’s fed with
an incompetence sprung from reckless, wanton, youth.

What little things – a second, even – can wreck great potential, employed
with carelessness that must always be, for a whim cannot be suppressed
in this state.

But what could it have been, if not for the cadence of her voice?

The American

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Macdonald) — Fri, 09 Dec 2005 12:57:00 +0000

When I wish to find out how wise, or how stupid, or how good, or
how wicked is any one, or what are his thoughts at the moment,
I fashion the expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in
accordance with the expression of his, and then wait to see
what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or heart,
as if to match or correspond with the expression.
- Edgar Allan Poe

The American sipped his beer. I was curious about him because I'd never met and American my age. He's from California and studies acoustics. That's all I knew.

I sat there looking at him, thinking, does he know most of the world hates Americans? I had to ask him. I reasoned he wouldn't be offended by the question since he was from liberal California. He also seemed like a decent guy, like he would take the question objectively.

I leaned across the table and said, "You're lucky you're not in politics."

He smiled. "I studied it for four years," he yelled over the music, "Physics is in my blood!"

I shook my head, leaned forward more and said again, "No, no, you're lucky you're not in politics!"

This time, he leaned back, nodded and smiled.

I gave up, slouched back and looked at the bar. The Swede was at the back of the line, tying to wedge his way closer. The band finished their set and the DJ put a techno record on. I heard laughter and conversations all around me. I took a long, slow draught of beer.

The American was leaning on his elbows looking like he wanted to say something. I was still curious about him, so I leaned forward.

"The people here are very different. So different," I said, looking into my beer and smiling, remembering my roommates are convinced I ride a moose to school.

The American didn't respond. I looked at him. His expression changed. I don't remember exactly what it looked like but I remember what it conveyed - he looked mean.

I wanted to know what he thought of Britons. He wanted to tell me, but I knew he wouldn't if I kept smiling. What he was going to say, I suspected, wasn't anything to smile at. Instinctively, I arranged my face like his. I felt mean.

Satisfied we were on the level, he responded.

"They just don't get it. They don't have a clue," he said, shaking his head and looking incredulous.

I felt like a sycophant. I had manipulated myself to con him; to learn his truth. I lied to him and he knew it. I couldn't hold the expression. After he said those words he saw disgust and pity on my face. The Swede came back grasping two ice-cold beers. He sat down, smiled and slid one over to me. I quickly finished the beer and left.

It was a cold, clear night. As I walked though Salford, passing boarded-up hotels and empty lots,

hearing the odd fire cracker, I couldn't help but think maybe too many Americans think of no one but themselves.

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Macdonald) — Wed, 07 Dec 2005 13:45:00 +0000

Me eating a curry muchie box

A Canadian in Baghdad

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Macdonald) — Wed, 07 Dec 2005 11:58:00 +0000

Bomb blasts have been sounding sporadically all night, near and far. I keep thinking that out of all this misery some good must come. And it has. Never before has the world so united against a war before it even began. No one buys it this time; the game is up. Or it could be, and that would help to assuage all this suffering.

In the eyes of Iraqis I have often observed an ancient light, a world-weary wisdom that speaks more to the spirit than the mind. Baghdad has done it all, been there, done that. Of what can it now dream but ruin? The impossible grandeurs of the past can never be repeated, and if they could be, why?

Most Iraqis understand when someone talks about riches of the spirit, of the soul -- the kind of riches that moth and rust corrupt not. In this, they are perhaps once more the first people of a new world, a world in which material possessions would not be placed before the peace and happiness of one single human being. They seem somehow more fully human than the rest of us, which is why life here will go on, malnutrition or not, bombs or not -- for they value those things in life worth valuing.

I look around me at buildings held together by hope and nails that have been bombed nightly for more than a week yet still somehow hold; at the gaunt, grimy children with frightened eyes, who jump at the slightest unexpected sound, whose skin is yellowed by mild jaundice brought on by unsanitary conditions and stress; at the old people with resignation stamped across their foreheads, who can't go on yet will go on; at the young married couples who still hope for a better life yet don't hope too hard lest it break their hearts, and I see the countless unremembered acts of kindness and of love that fill their desolate days, and I realize I would far prefer to be here than in any house where this war is justified.

For it cannot be justified. But this region has always led to somewhere worth going. Baghdad is just as glorious in its ruin as it was in its glory, for something noble crawls from the rubble to spread golden wings in the light of dawn. The Gate of God opens wider.

- Paul William Roberts. Rocking the Cradle: Iraq’s glorious past. Article in Globe and Mail, March 29, 2003.

The Chief

noreply@blogger.com (Mark Macdonald) — Sun, 04 Dec 2005 15:32:00 +0000

I was cooking Red River this morning when I decided to have a gander at the River Irwell. As I looked I noticed something different about it. A piece of driftwood was caught up in the flow and some of it was sticking out of the river. And standing upon that piece was a rather large bird.

I was originally drawn to the window because a gang of birds had made a racket last night, which woke me up. I heard at least 10 different squawks from what sounded like a meeting of some sort. I went to see what all the fuss was about. But by morning, all who was left was the bird on the driftwood.

The bird stood there, beak in the air, white breast puffed out, looking proud, the feet clinging to the little piece of wood that stuck maybe half-a-foot out of the water. It was quite a perilous perch.

What the bird was doing there was beyond me. He or she wasn't hunting or pruning but just standing there as the river rushed passed. He or she was also unaware how ridiculous it looked.

It looked as strange as if you or I decided to stand there - and look proud of it.

Sometime during breakfast the bird flew or swam away. Maybe he or she was board. Birds always look board. They always stand around doing nothing or fly around capriciously, with no purpose but to taunt humans with their ability.

That would explain the haughty look, I suppose.

Then something struck me: The bird's majestic air must be because he or she is a chief or mayor or something. I realized this bird must be responsible for the loud meetings that wake me up every morning at 3 a.m.

I finished breakfast and looked up to see most of the driftwood had submerged, except for a tiny piece.

This is no ordinary bird, I thought. He or she will prove a formidable enemy.