Exhuming Lorca's Remains and Franco's Ghosts

Click on the link below for this article  from TIME magazine

Exhuming Lorca's Remains and Franco's Ghosts

I wrote these two poems in memory of the Spanish Civil war.

IN THE GARDENS OF SPAIN

Take my eyes,

these open wounds,

these schisms of desire.

They are not all they appear to be.

Take a scalpel to this mindset,

in this night and in this fog,

read my lips.

Climb inside

this common grave

into this open ditch,

into my gaping mouth.

Scream with me

in my nightmares.

The position of my hands

tells you whether I was alive or not,

when I was in the grave.

Everyone got the coup de grace of course;

a bullet in the back of the head.

I was young, the other old.

We were hugging each other

in the gardens of Spain
and our voices are not silenced yet.

copyrighted .This poem is taken from my second collection Siempre Siempre Siempre

Palores Publications March 2008 ISBN 978-0-9556682-5-8 £5.99

and also first appeared in Aesthetica Feb/March 2008 Issue 21

FRONTERA

I drive through olive groves

burning in grey dust coloured air,

the dust covered air of my own passing,

through border and frontier.                                                                                     

Limited and limitlessness,

down narrow mountain tracks,

I am surrounded by surreal silence,

but for the odd bird.

In the corner of my eye

a donkey is scratching its ears.

Strong and clear, above I see

saw toothed mountains rage;

in their bold rough hewn geometry

lies a legacy of half-forgotten dreams,

thirsting for everlasting space

in history carried to the extreme;

in stuka bombing runs diving out of hell,

one by one, killing every mother’s son

        I na   I navigate this land in a frenzied search

of buried memories, so hard to understand.

Then, in the burning sun, comes

the sound of the machine guns;

first hot, then cold punctuate my skin,

and take possession of my soul                                         

to reveal memories merging from

choreographed war films;

with precise surgical skill

they make their choice; to-day who shall I kill ?

Such depth of human feeling

empties over me; my passion comes undone;

in time with Lorca and Picasso;

geniuses of Life, Love and Death,

the red angels, combatants for peace

somehow to be always on the losing side,

their words and images mingle in Spanish soil

exaggerating whatever the world chooses to neglect

then afterwards comes the enforced silence of the past;

el pacto de olvido,

the unwritten pact of forgetting,

when crimes pile up they become invisible,

the forgotten cries,

become the amnesia of dementia;

                                                                                                         

just more soldiers in the execution squad,

stealing our innocence.

Now comes the end of silence;

and the present law of Historic Memory.

It whispers secrets,

licking my tongue, out of oblivion,

unlocking the history of my nation,

to show it how to speak my name.

I am speaking my name now loud and clear

but is there anyone there who can hear ?

I come here to-day to learn the lesson,

the enabling act of no recrimination.

There is to be no malice or judgement,

just the truth;

that what makes men

monsters or creatures of compassion,

has as much to do with how and what we read into them,

as with what acts they make,

Spain make sure in your freedom

your re-discovered memories are not false ones.

Siempre Siempre Siempre

copyright Palores Publications £5.99

And here is a video tribute to Lorca in song

from Leonard Cohen

SIGN OF THE TIMES

                   During the ninth month of the recession

                   closely cropped pictures of depression were taken

                   by almost everyone whose sole possession was a mobile phone.

                   It became a popular past time to paste the best on Facebook

                   where they lay as visceral wallpaper twittering behind heavily defended walls.

                   When the last fiscal stimulus of international crap had finally gone awry,

                   heads of state at first corrupt had then gone crazy

                   and whole populations voted to incarcerate them behind electronic gates

                   where they no longer were able to sap the spirit, intellect, character and will.

                   In the crisp cold air of the mall there was the making of a revolution.

                  On a worn velvet bible a presidential incantation

                  allowed the re-invention of a nation to slowly begin again.

                  The huddled masses made warmth beneath the statue

                  murmurs funnelled up  through  ascending pillars of incense

                  fulfilling promises that had been broken a million times before.

                 Copyright remains with me the author Philomena Ewing

                

THE OFFICES OF DEATH

I work in the offices of death and often wish I could leave.

If I slipped away then I could be insouciant;

that’s cool and is my favourite recent word.

In dreams, after I leave

I creep around outside the offices of death,

sifting through the wreckage

where platitude peddling hacks are the gurus of surveillance

With bunches of fuschias, my mother’s favourite flower, in my hand,

I impertinently plant seeds of olive trees

moistening them with tears I have collected

from fifty unusual places on whirlwind visits made before the age of sixty.

I ratify a peace treaty about feeling beauty and truth

There are plenty of desolate places where these are needed.

I tell everyone inside the offices of death

to come outside and stand still under the abandoned blue sky

to press the flesh of shaking monsters,

and then say “let’s see a show of clean hands”;

oh, and in your half-hour lunch break

don’t forget to eat your chargrilled vegetables

and other commodities pillaged from distant lands.

Towards dusk there will be chill out songs

and scarlet breasted birds will rest their bodies against the green

where everyone can recycle New Year promises,

There will be gecko-butter sandwiches,

goodnight kisses under a magic moon.

In the morning after no-one will return

to the grey offices of death.

Instead, red balloons and yellow kites will be caught in the swell of the fresh wind
as people race and swerve with laughter to chase after them.

These will be their new targets for the working day

from those like me, who have to-day resigned from the offices of death.

Copyright remains with me the author Philomena Ewing

Hubble Bubble, Toil, No Trouble

Images from NASA Space Telescope Science Institute (STScI).

Click on the image to see extra large view.

NASA's Hubble Space Telescope is back in business, ready to uncover new worlds, peer ever deeper into space, and even map the invisible backbone of the universe. The first snapshots from the refurbished Hubble showcase the 19-year-old telescope's new vision.

Topping the list of exciting new views are colorful multi-wavelength pictures of far-flung galaxies, a densely packed star cluster, an eerie "pillar of creation," and a "butterfly" nebula.

With its new imaging camera, Hubble can view galaxies, star clusters, and other objects across a wide swathe of the electromagnetic spectrum, from ultraviolet to near-infrared light. A new spectrograph slices across billions of light-years to map the filamentary structure of the universe and trace the distribution of elements that are fundamental to life.

NASA astronauts installed the new instruments during the space shuttle servicing mission in May 2009.

Amazing images that require a response in poetry 

Via positiva Via negativa

Upright primate

whatever you believe in,

take some time

to leave the confines of yourself.

Accept the invitation

to look up

through the skies,

up to the deepest view you have ever had

of this dense dark blanket of space.

Know the vista is not your invention.

Then cast your eyes to the ground below

and look carefully

at the myriad world teeming within,

where in one gram of soil

ten thousand million species grow.

Know now you are not the sole owner

of this floor to ceiling canvas.

Where the land slopes to the sea,

wind, water, light and darkness toil.

Not on your behalf does this spectacle unfold.

You can be ignored.

The dark alchemy of transformation

may allow you to see that

all you do these days is

cut and paste

from the scrapyards of your waste.

You don’t know what goes on inside the box

fall /redemption,

body/soul,

matter/spirit,

natural/supernatural:

you have no idea at all.

Know what you are

and look beyond your boastful self

to see and understand

the journey and its goal are intermingled.

Know that each one of the specks in your eye

twelve billion light years away,

is a galaxy of stars and planets,

feeble and incoherent reflections entwined.

Know that each one of the specks in your eye

contains a thousand billion universes

to which wandering magi you do not even know of

will travel to, bearing gifts

to something their minds cannot grasp,

but which they recognise

as so much more sublime and greater than themselves.

The future is out there.

Let go.

Be nurtured.

Be transformed.

Copyright remains with me the author, Philomena Ewing.

Published poem from my first collection "Floating in the Blue ", Palores Publications 21st Century Writers ISBN 978-0-9556682-0-3

AND A BIBLICAL REPONSE

Job 38

The Lord Speaks

Then the Lord answered Job out of the storm. He said:

“Who is this that darkens my counsel

with words without knowledge?

Brace yourself like a man;

I will question you,

and you shall answer me.

“Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?

Tell me, if you understand.

Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know!

Who stretched a measuring line across it?

On what were its footings set, or who laid its cornerstone—

while the morning stars sang together

and all the angels shouted for joy?

“Who shut up the sea behind doors

when it burst forth from the womb,

when I made the clouds its garment

and wrapped it in thick darkness,

when I fixed limits for it

and set its doors and bars in place,

when I said, ‘This far you may come and no farther;

here is where your proud waves halt’?

“Have you ever given orders to the morning,

or shown the dawn its place,

that it might take the earth by the edges

and shake the wicked out of it?

The earth takes shape like clay under a seal;

its features stand out like those of a garment.

The wicked are denied their light,

and their upraised arm is broken.

“Have you journeyed to the springs of the sea

or walked in the recesses of the deep?

Have the gates of death been shown to you?

Have you seen the gates of the shadow of death?

Have you comprehended the vast expanses of the earth?

Tell me, if you know all this.

“What is the way to the abode of light?

And where does darkness reside?

Can you take them to their places?

Do you know the paths to their dwellings?

Surely you know, for you were already born!

You have lived so many years!

“Have you entered the storehouses of the snow

or seen the storehouses of the hail,

which I reserve for times of trouble,

for days of war and battle?

What is the way to the place where the lightning is dispersed,

or the place where the east winds are scattered over the earth?

Who cuts a channel for the torrents of rain,

and a path for the thunderstorm,

to water a land where no man lives,

a desert with no one in it,

to satisfy a desolate wasteland

and make it sprout with grass?

Does the rain have a father?

Who fathers the drops of dew?

From whose womb comes the ice?

Who gives birth to the frost from the heavens

when the waters become hard as stone,

when the surface of the deep is frozen?

“Can you bind the beautiful Pleiades?

Can you loose the cords of Orion?

Can you bring forth the constellations in their seasons

or lead out the Bear with its cubs?

Do you know the laws of the heavens?

Can you set up God’s dominion over the earth?

“Can you raise your voice to the clouds

and cover yourself with a flood of water?

Do you send the lightning bolts on their way?

Do they report to you, ‘Here we are’?

Who endowed the heart with wisdom

or gave understanding to the mind?

Who has the wisdom to count the clouds?

Who can tip over the water jars of the heavens

when the dust becomes hard

and the clods of earth stick together?

“Do you hunt the prey for the lioness

and satisfy the hunger of the lions

when they crouch in their dens

or lie in wait in a thicket?

Who provides food for the raven

when its young cry out to God

and wander about for lack of food?

A bit about my poetry

Here is some of my own art work that is in my first published volume of poetry called Floating in the Blue.



It is part of a series called Palores Publications 21st Century Writers Series.



This promotes not only the award winning work of established writers but also nurtures the writing of new and unpublished authors, giving them the opportunities to find the audience they need.



When I first showed my poetry to people they said how much they like the art work too which came as a pleasant surprise as I have never thought I was that good at it, but I do think visually when I write.



       My second volume of published poetry called Siempre Siempre Siempre is illustrated with photos taken in Spain and builds on my love of Spain and its people.


It takes the reader on a journey through the outer and inner terrain of Spain in an immediate and visually sensual way.


The poems invoke memories and presences through the

explosive beauty and  rich diversity of Spanish life.

I placed myself in the presence of paradox of time and place to

celebrate the way that Spain offers insight into the self, through

its vivacity and passionate engagement with past and present  life.



One of the poems "In the Gardens of Spain " appeared in the magazine Aesthetica in Feb/March 2008 Issue 21 as part of a collection of some of the best new writing in the UK.



Other publications where my poetry has been published include

Coffee House Canada and Poetry Monthly,
Seventh Quarry Poetry Magazine ,
Decanto Poetry Anthology and
Poetry Cornwall.



If you do want copies you can get them from Palores Publications, 11a Penryn Street, Redruth, Cornwall. UK TR15 2SP or from Amazon, both priced at £5.99.

There is no money in writing poetry so I don't  make a living from it !!

Simply the Best

There’s nothing better than cracking pistachios on the patio
on a hot afternoon under the Spanish sun.

There’s nothing finer than watching fireworks in the sky
on a clear starry night under the Spanish moon.

No, I wouldn’t go to Carolina, not for all the tea in China.

I’m happy here, sipping sangria, on the hot Spanish sand, with you.



From my second poetry collection Siempre Siempre Published by Palores Publications

CELEBRATION

To celebrate
the rise and fall of a breath;
one experience
of in-ness and outness;
rising and falling:
there is no hurry;
just imagining
the flowing fascinating
floating air
drawn in and out
rising and sinking
more and less
amplified and damped
from deepness to surface.
What it was is now gone;
caught and lost;
this blessed air that
came and took me
siezed and shaped me
coaxed and called me
out of myself
gave me this breath of poetry
inside
that puts everything else
aside
I lie here
to celebrate in language
the rise and fall of a breath.

Copyright remains with me the author, Philomena Ewing 2009.

Those memories

How do you capture these memories, a face,
a place in time, those special smiles ?
The words so neatly recorded, collected in piles,
those precious minutes, hours, days and loving years.

Phil Ewing

Ultrastructural Study of Grief

An Ultrastructural Study of Grief

Unless a wheat grain falls on the ground and dies,it remains only a single grain; but if it dies, it yields a rich harvest. John 12 .

Variegated daylight opens

on the light and darker greens of

root shoot and leaf.

Life is pinpointed, opened up,

examined and left discarded.

Now all is compost on a hot heap of rot,

fermented hopes are tossed in

with molecular geniuses lying lost,

in lush valleys and summer dreams long gone.

Youthful trophisms and blossoms are fading,

Old forms now are degrading,

hydrogen-sulphiding through the earth.

Rotten egg smells pervade through layered piles.

The recycling of karyotypes

can be heard shuffling through the litter,

while the weevils intercrop

with subterranean termites and

Pseudomonas fluorescens growing all around.

Evening falls and closes on this salted ground.

Now sentence is being passed on this world

as we wait to be lifted and drawn to God again.

Unpublished : copyright remains with author Philomena Ewing.