Showing posts with label anniversaries. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anniversaries. Show all posts

Saturday, March 26, 2016

Now that April's (almost) there...

By Tracy

This northern spring marks twenty years since John & I first came to Cambridge together  (we'd been two years married at that point).

Photo by Tim Kinsella

In the grounds of Churchill College

Today, back here after Germany, we met the same beautiful spring weather as twenty years ago (though it's due to turn not-so-lovely from tomorrow).

Churchill daffodils, 2016

Daffodils are out everywhere, and in town the Easter crowds have been enjoying the sunshine.

Here's a section from a poem John wrote in Cambridge back in the early days here, in 1996, and published in Fenland Pastorals (Prest Root Press, 1998)... The poem is called "Triptych: Poems from Churchill College, Cambridge".


3. Seed Cases 
                        for Tracy

Dark clouds thicken overhead
but there's not enough moisture
in the air to prevent the cracking
of seed cases: that crackling

like fire in undergrowth,
or water exploding on hot metal.
A partial collusion of the elements—
only the fifth element missing,

as if the eponymous has no part
in the moment. You hear the seed cases
opening and searching your memory
for a name, a species, find nothing.

But it's a familiar sound—it brings back
Dryandra Forest in the South-West
of Australia. Even the hemisphere
is different. The brain struggles

with location. It's the moment
of aloneness that's captured you,
when nameless plants execute
their cycles. People are absent.

A robin glows nearby. You know
its name and it knows yours. It is wary
and you remain still. The seed falls
and covers friable earth like snow.


And here's one from my early Cambridge days, again an extract from a longer sequence called "Noli Me Tangere", written at Easter in 1996 and published in The Willing Eye (Fremantle Press & Bloodaxe, 1999 & 2000). (Back then I was still working my way out of the Christian faith in which I had grown up; I now have no belief in formal religion. Doubt was showing in the fuller version of this poem...) Note that the fickle Cambridge weather is in there already! The seasons no longer offering stable metaphors were a reference to the fact that climate change was already very noticeable, back when we had no Google yet and email was brand new to us.


5
Faith blows hot & cold
as Cambridge in spring
where late snow dissipates
before reaching any surface
where nothing penetrates

where those who drank in
yesterday's sun
are caught out now, ill-dressed
for this fickleness,

for this world whose seasons
no longer offer
stable metaphors for
spiritual states.

But then you were never
afraid of change
God of transitions
God of this Easter

constant & steadfast only
in your refusal
to be pinned there.


One of the things John likes about Churchill College is that its chapel is ecumenical (in fact his play "Ecumenical" was performed in that chapel in 2012, directed by Tim Cribb).

And here's a pic of the two of us in the early Cambridge days, in the same flats where we are now and have spent much time over those 20 years. (John used to get a lot more sun in those days, before skin cancers took their toll!)

Photo by Bettina Keil



Friday, February 5, 2016

Afterthought: a poem




Afterthought

A whole half-life has happened since you went.
Thirty-five years. Whose life was that? Mozart
had so much – it was more time than you got.
You stayed just long enough to reach “grown-up”
and that was it. It’s not about talent
wasted, or what you might have been: who gives
a shit about accomplishments? Not us,
not now. On the far side of the planet
from anything you saw or could have guessed,
looking up weather, I noticed the date
and thought of you. This is the way you ghost,
through numbers, intimations, other lives.
No Google search will ever turn you up
your relics are in hard copy, or lost.
Or in my poem. Thirty-five times round,
and I am sure I’m not alone to note
this, where you rise for an instant to cross
a scattered consciousness, then fall to rest.



Tracy Ryan 


Thursday, January 24, 2008

Anniversaries

By Tracy

I'm one of those people in whose minds particular dates seem to brand themselves, so that I can't help but note them passing each year -- yesterday ten years since the death of John Forbes, today two years since that of someone else I once knew, a strange pairing of two anniversaries that is peculiar to me, since the two people were unconnected in life. It sounds morbid, but it's not entirely -- birthdays and other dates engrave themselves into my psyche in a similar fashion. I cannot-not-notice them.

So today I am thinking of W. S. Merwin's poem "For the anniversary of my death" ("Every year without knowing it I have passed the day...") which is from The Second Four Books of Poems (Copper Canyon, 1993), and can also be read at

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171868

and just in general of the strangely private nature of calendars, that exists alongside their public function...

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Remembering John Forbes

By Tracy

[The dates are coming up slightly wrong on this blog, for where I am. It's actually the 23rd I mean... I will have to figure out how to fix it...]

It's ten years today since the poet John Forbes passed away & this blog entry will be short, just a little way of marking that date; I find it hard to believe so many years have already gone by. What a decade separates us now from him...

Therefore almost ten years too since the special John Forbes issue of John Tranter's Jacket:
http://jacketmagazine.com/03/index.shtml

Damaged Glamour, the book he had just completed when he died, came out not long after.

Since then, Forbes's Collected Poems 1970-1998 has appeared (Brandl & Schlesinger), as well as homage to john forbes (ed. Ken Bolton, also Brandl & Schlesinger, 2002).

I don't know if there are any commemorative readings, gatherings or whatever going on today, but I'm sure I'm not the only one thinking of him. There's a lot that could be said, but I don't really feel up to saying it.

My favourite Forbes poem, for what that's worth: Ode to Doubt.