Mgħawġin - Ġurnal Għawdxi

 

Mgħawġin

Ġurnal Għawdxi - L-Ewwel Ħarġa

Corrine Zahra and Ħaley Xuereb

Codex Melitensis by Alex Vella Gregory

 

Codex Melitensis

by Alex Vella Gregory

Għera

 

“Leħen il-Malti” is a yearly publication by Għaqda tal-Malti – Università. This literary society and its annual journal were founded in 1931 by Rużar Briffa and Ġużé Bonnici, two medical undergrads with a love for the Maltese language who would eventually become leading figures in the history of Maltese literature. Leħen il-Malti is still going strong, publishing prose, poetry and academic articles by young and/or emerging writers, alongside pieces by more established authors. 

Alas, last week I was informed that neither of the two poems I submitted for this year’s edition was accepted for publication.  Rejection naturally brings disappointment, but I’m still thankful that pieces of mine were included in the past three years, and happy to learn that works by authors I admire (some of whom are also friends) will be featured in the forthcoming edition.

In my view, there’s little point to writing if it is not shared, so here’s Għera (“Nakedness”), one of the two poems, finding a home on this blog.   The illustration I chose is a painting by English artist Joshua Goodfellow.  It’s called “Room” and is taken from the painter’s series “The Uncanny”. I think it fits the mood of the poem - a bit weird, surreal but also strangely hopeful. 

____________________________________________________

Preludju u Koral

 

Preludju u Koral

(Mattew 17:1-13)

The Promise - Nine Haiku for Advent

 

The Promise

Nine Haiku for Advent

Girl from Ipanema – A Poem

 

Girl from Ipanema – A Poem

Birthday Blues - A Poem

Birthday Blues

A Reluctant Love Song

A Reluctant Love Song

Reading: A Poem

Reading

A poem

Theseus

Henry Fuseli: Ariadne Watching the Struggle of Theseus with the Minotaur (1815-1820)

Theseus

A dusk filled nether-land I roam,

torch brandished high against the gloom,

a length of cord to lead me back

outside the Earth's infernal womb.

I dread the moment when I'll meet

the creature that I've come to seek.

Half-man, half-beast

A hideous sight -

ruler of this realm of night.

I lift lead-heavy limbs.

When will it end, this constant downward trudge?

Have I been here for hours or days?

Time itself loses its way

in the shadows of this maze.

My guiding flame is smothered by the fetid air,

puts up a valiant fight

then flickers weakly,

starts to die

in fits of

choking

smoke.

In the feeble light

of embers still aglow,

a dark mysterious lake no man has seen before

appears. 
Throat scorched, lips parched, 

I drag myself towards its edge

to slake my thirst.

I face the water's surface, 

still as glass.

There,

staring back at me,

smiling heinously 

the Minotaur I see.

Master of the Campana: Theseus in the Labyrinth (1515-1520)

Rebels: A Poem

Victor Agius: "Amarantine" (2009)

Rebels

We were rebels once,

fists raised to heaven

feet trampling the earth

hearts like forest fires,

builders of a brave new world.

Until the world recast us in its image,

kissed us with its scented breath

and when its work was done

we, newly conflicted,

fell silent one by one.

We were prophets once,

preachers of a living God;

Long-bearded mystics,

trembling at ecstatic visions;

the anointed few.

Until, with voice grown hoarse,

we became purveyors

of facile absolutes

and traded our sheepskins

for designer suits.

We were poets once,

bards of beauty

lips cleansed by flaming coals;

Painters with our brushes dipped

in soil and sea and stars.

Until our sight grew dim

and we were lost for words;

our palettes ran dry, 

the willows took our lyres,

And no one heard us cry.

I avoid your eyes

burning with reproach,

lest embers long since cooled

rekindle once-familiar flames.

Don’t look at me,

for we were lovers once

but can no longer be.

Abstract Art

Abstract Art

A painting on display at a local museum in the English town of *** sparks musings about love and life.

Christmas Carol

With Christmas around the corner, here’s a post which will hopefully put you in good cheer – a “Christmas special”, if you will. 

It has been a tradition of mine to write a yearly poem or carol to send to friends far and near.  Unfortunately, all inspiration seems to have dried up this year,  and so I am sharing one of my older poems.  It is inspired by medieval carols, and particularly their curious mix of the sacred and profane.    There follows a review of a work of non-fiction published earlier this year on Vintage, in which Alison Weir and Siobhan Clarke reveal interesting and, sometimes obscure, details about Christmas in Tudor times.  It’s a lovely book which would make for a great stocking filler.

***

Christmas Carol

It is that time of year

when thinning calendars

shed their leaves,

like trees coyly undressing

in the snowlit glare.

These are the days which taste

of hot mince pies and wine,

which bear

the scent of incense,

of cinnamon and pine.

Come, hold my hand,

your touch as warm as winter fires.

Let us make haste

to see the Holy Child

swaddled in a blaze of light,

whilst angel choirs,

voices bright

as solstice bells

announce in all the land...

Make we joy now in this fest

In quo Christus natus est.

***

"A Tudor Christmas" by Alison Weir and Siobhan Clarke  

A book review

Up to some years ago, I used to keep to an annual Christmas ritual. Come end September, or at the latest, early October, as soon as the first rains announced the end of a gloriously long Mediterranean summer, I would uncover my collection of festive CDs and start giving them an airing. Growing older, I’ve lost some of my enthusiasm, but I still love Christmas. And so it didn’t seem strange at all for me to be reading “A Tudor Christmas” three months before December.

 
I read this book electronically, but even without its physical feel, it looked beautifully presented, with vintage-style line drawings to set the mood. It is divided into chapters based on each of the “Twelve days of Christmas”, each of which serves as the departure point for an article addressing some particular aspect of the Christmas in Tudor times – whether it be festive recipes, carol-singing, present-giving as well as the changes brought about by the various religious upheavals of the time – be it the Reformation with its banning of “popish” traditions or the more extreme Puritanical banning of Christmas. In actual fact, in order to give context to the central theme of the book (celebrations at the time of the Tudors, chiefly Henry VIII and Elizabeth I), Alison Weir and Siobhan Clarke also include information about earlier periods (such as Medieval traditions which were retained by the Tudors) and later ones (particularly Christmas under the Stuarts). The text is complemented by festive poetry by the likes of Robert Herrick (he of "What Sweeter Music Fame", memorably set to music by John Rutter).

I read the book in a couple of sittings, but its style invites dipping into, perhaps in front of a crackling fire (though there’s little chance of that in my place of the world).

***

My poem “Christmas Carol” is partly inspired by early ‘macaronic’ carols: festive songs which combined Latin text with lyrics in the vernacular.  The most famous example is probably In Dulci Jubilo.   Legend states that it was composed by the mystic Heinrich Seuse in 1328, after he heard angels singing the words and joined them in a celebratory cosmic dance.   The carol now exists in different guises, including full choral arrangements by Michael Praetorius and organ versions by J.S. Bach.  It later became popular in England, especially following its translation by Robert Pearsall.  It is here sung by the King's Singers, in suitably festive attire.

There are, however, other examples of ‘macaronic’ carols, including the medieval English Make we joy now in this fest, which I quote in the very last verse.   Here’s the original medieval version performed by The Sixteen followed by a contemporary setting by composer Steve Martland (1954-2013)

As a soundtrack to “A Tudor Christmas”, the listener is spoilt for choice, as there are several cds – especially of choral music – which explore festive music by Tudor composers.  I suggest two albums.  The first one features the Choir of Christ Church, Oxford.  Christ Church College was founded in 1546 by Henry VIII, one of the protagonists of Weir’s and Clarke’s book.   The other cd was issued in 2010 by one of Britain’s foremost early music choral ensembles – Stile Antico.  Puer Natus Est, Tudor Music for Advent and Christmas, includes music by Tudor greats such as Byrd and Tallis. 

And since we’re speaking of Henry VIII – it’s often stated that he is the composer of Greensleeves, later adapted into a Christmas carol known by the name What Child is This.  He’s (probably) not, but it’s a good excuse to end with the best-known work (not) written by the portly monarch.

 

Wedding Blues - A Poem

Amedeo Modigliani - Portrait of Lunia Czechowska

Wedding Blues

I must admit that,

after all those years,

spotting you beside the canapés

gave me quite a start.

I mumbled an excuse,

retreated to the bar

and now stand hidden in the crowd

nursing an indifferent Jack and Coke

and a scar

I’ve just discovered,

right below my heart.

How long has it been?

I flip the curl-edged pages of my life

and find us.  Early college days.

Future yet unmapped.

Shared mates, shared classes,

breaks in the canteen.

Bumpy bus-rides all around the town

on evenings when the sun refused to set.

One night, a coy techno-haloed fumble,

and back to our daily selves.

Then, as in a sepia print,

that morning when you stopped seeking me out,

and a mutual friend, whose name I can’t recall

ventured an unsubtle hint

that some guys are heartless, play too hard to get,

or are just too dumb

to know they have struck gold.

It was then it dawned on me

that our manoeuvres in the dark

which I considered a good-natured lark,

might actually have been

that strange, elusive thing called Love.

All told,

I have since then compiled

a trove of such goodbyes -   

an album to dip into on rainy afternoons.

It should have been so easy, then, 

to walk right up to you,

pluck useless, well-worn phrases

out of the fan-cooled air.

“What a surprise!

You getting along?”

“You haven’t changed at all!”

“Looking great, my dear...”

(All true, this, by the by)

Instead, I plan a quick escape,

greet the bride and groom

and head back to my car.

I hold your silhouette and a budding song.

It will, I guess, suffice.

I Love Chopin

“La signora in rosso” Giovanni Boldini (1842-1931)

"I love Chopin,” she says.

Like a stolen kiss,

her fingertips caress

the string of pearl-white keys,

drawing forth a stream of honeyed melody.

“This is no mortal work of art,”

she murmurs, eyes half-closed,

“this is a piece a demigod composed,

as though

its notes were

dancing specks of light

in song-bejewelled air,

summoned down from heaven by his quill.”

“Oh, how I love Chopin,” she sighs.

And suddenly I hate this man

who walked a different land so long ago

yet whispers in her ear still,

quickening her heart.

***

I’m posting this on the anniversary of Chopin’s death on October 17, 1849.  And how best to mark this, if not with some of his music.  Here’s a young Martha Argerich, setting fire to the score.

And now Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli, elegant even in the mopping of his brow.

Finally, Alice Sara Ott and Olafur Arnalds give the old master and contemporary electronic twist.