TonyA..........

Every Writer old or young should read this…

Para ser escritor— By Abelardo Castillo

Conversations with Mentor

Chapter 2:

Impressed as I was after meeting and talking with Joe, taking into consideration the views he expressed about human nature and the root relationship it has with digital technology and AI, I took a keener interest in my pupil’s characters and found in most instances their modus operandi to evaluate and understand applications was determined and governed intuitively, almost you might say without reason. And then it came as no surprise interest in fantasy, science fiction, and a range of psychic interests. Just one or two admitted to belief in the supernatural, or super-normal, as one put it.

Every now and then I would drop into the café where I had met Joe, even tried other cafés in the same area, but not once did I find him. as the weeks went by, I gave up hope of meeting him again. With school half term approaching a day trip to the continent was proposed by my wife and two sons and daughter. Accordingly, I went to the ferry port to book passage. Nearby was a picturesque pub steeped in maritime history, and I took the opportunity to stop for a late lunch. Entering the bar who should I see sitting in an alcove but Joe himself reading a paper.

“It’s Joe, isn’t it?” I said, approaching him. he looked searchingly at me, and then broke into smiles.

“John! Why what brings you here?”

I explained and further spoke about the understanding I had achieved following our previous conversation with my pupils. To which he nodded approval.

“And I must ask”, I added, “What brings you here?”

He turned round and pointed out of the window. “See that ship out there, the one to the right of that ferry. White upperworks and gantries forward and aft? That’s my current ship.”

I was stunned. Since meeting him, despite the informality of his dress, I had assumed he was a teacher or maybe a university don. But no, he’s a sailor!

“I see”, I said quietly, “What exactly do you do?”

“I’m the Bosun.” Adjudging my expression as one of surprise and bewilderment, he chuckled.

“I gather I’m not the person you thought I was.”

“My apologies”, I stammered. “Actually, I don’t know what a Bosun is.”

“I’m inclined to describe myself as a general factotum, but specifically as Bosun I’m in charge of the deck crew, loading, unloading, and mooring, but it goes further than that. I care for their welfare, listen to their troubles. Health and safety etcetera, etcetera.”

“Wow! I must say you do surprise me. Given our previous conversation I got the impression you were an academically educated person.”

Joe looked at me thoughtfully, pulled out a pipe from his jacket and began filling it with tobacco. “Get yourself something from the bar and meet me outside.”

Suitably armed with a pint and sandwich I joined him outside where we sat at a bench table. I waited while he lit the pipe and began smoking. My mind full of questions.

“Not educated as you imagine, though born to a middle-class family had every opportunity, but the pull of the sea had me on a sail training ship at 14. Oh, how I wish such ships as merchant carriers were still plying their trades! No, my formal education was quite limited. I’ve largely been educated by people and places, and being a curious fella and the world being what it is, able to educate myself from asking questions, books and the internet.”

“Are you married?”

“No. Given I’m something of a wayfarer, it wouldn’t be a fair thing to do, besides I’m at my happiest when at sea.”

“Even when it’s rough and dangerous?”

“It has a timeless quality and constantly reminds how small and insignificant you are. The seascape always keeps the ego in check and engenders humility when you truly respect it.”

“I remember you quoting T.S. Eliot concerning time. Does your experience bear out that meaning.”

“In every way. And more so, as present awareness unencumbered by needs of the past or hopes for the future expands consciousness and encourages tolerant practices. And life at sea does have the advantage of minimising the dysfunctional nature of the world we live in.”

“Does that mean turning a blind eye and ignoring events and actions you don’t wish to know about?”

“That’s a tolerance question, isn’t it? For me tolerance is a positive embracing attitude of mind, not only applicable to day-to-day experience of life, also at the highest possible level our consciousness can express itself. it doesn’t mean tolerating opinion or behaviour you agree or disagree with, whatever view is taken it expresses a moral bias. As related to measurement it defines itself as allowable. True tolerance positively develops open-mindedness, a liberality of expression which seeks to understand causal conditions and is averse to judgement. The geopolitical world we live in is divisively promoted by people of power and is tolerant only in the narrow-minded allowable sense when it suits their purposes. For example, the current conflict in the Middle East where in defence of its peoples and in response to attack from Gaza, Israel is killing and maiming thousands of women and children, not to mention innocent men who have never held a gun in anger, is an insoluble problem in the context of how it is promoted and how efforts are made to end it. If you look carefully at the causes, you can see self-interest is at the root of the conflict, not only the refusal of Israelites and Palestinians to understand the respective fundamental human rights of each other’s communities, but also the bias of other Arabic nations and power blocs in the Western World who for their self-interests back one side against the other. And the more you understand the apparent causes, the more aware you become of the history which stretches back in time, to the time of Abraham. Both Jews and Muslims revere Abraham as a messenger of God. Muslims believe Abraham’s first son Ismail, whose Egyptian mother Hagar was Sarah’s (Abraham’s wife’s) servant, gave birth to the community of those faithful to God. For Jews, Abraham’s is the founding patriarch of the children of Israel through Issac his second son born of Abraham and Sarah when he was old.

Both Islam and Judaism are monotheistic religions who have dogmatised differently the key tenets of their beliefs. Had true tolerance guided their founding fathers the conflict we see between Gaza and Israel would not have taken place. The resulting opposition between Jews and Muslims became even more difficult to reconcile with the rise of Christianity, as both Jews and Muslims regard Christianity as a polytheistic religion on account of its three in one Godhead: the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. And if you further add the schism of Shiite and Sunni Moslems and the Catholic and Protestant divisions in Christianity, who variously express different views, you can see why I’ve called this an insoluble problem.”

I was silent for a while considering Joe’s words, pondering over the insoluble nature of the problem.

“You would think, wouldn’t you that the causal nature of the Israel Gaza conflict would have been understood years ago?”

Joe looked at me with smiling eyes.

“Of course, and it has. There is nothing new in what I’ve said. Understanding the causal nature of a problem doesn’t automatically produce an acceptable solution. If give and take are not of equal measure and harmoniously agreed, resolution is not possible. The difficulty I’ve given example of arises from dysfunctionality, which in today’s world is even more of a problem because our societies are ethnically diverse.

Peoples who don’t appreciate the extreme dysfunctionality of their civilised societies behave like someone in an abusive marriage who hasn’t recognised there’s a problem, or of someone who has a violent and chaotic childhood but still thinks their home life is basically normal. Not only does like attract like to cause greater dysfunctional concentration, but it also directly affects their attitude toward others.

We are living in a profoundly sick dystopia that is built on a foundation of unnecessary conflict. Our news media are propaganda services, entertainment is brainwashing, political establishments are self-serving, and mainstream cultures are socially engineered, all built in the name of freedom and liberality, but the reality is entirely different, people’s BodyMind’s are shaped by mass-scale psychological manipulation, which restricts the ability to be positively tolerant.

Sure, there are people who’ve slipped outside the matrix of thought control and have gained the ability to positively harmonise, but their numbers are too small to have any political consequence, and if those numbers were to start getting too big for comfort, we would immediately see influences aimed at sowing division and confusion. It was ever thus as the saying goes.

The single biggest obstacle to our freedom is the widespread belief that we are individually able to manage our own space. Until the individual realises their BodyMind nature has been educated to conform within the society they inhabit they are unable to break free and realise the uniqueness of their creation.

Real freedom is outside the matrix of thought management. If you are aware of what I speak of, that is the first step toward freedom.”

Joe looked at his watch and rose from the sea, putting his pipe in his pocket. My mind was in a whirl. What is he proposing? Another type of world? And is he saying we’ve all got it wrong -not living as we should be to our own benefit and to others? Where did he learn all this stuff?

Concerned to think he was leaving because of my silence, I looked up and said, “I am interested in what you are saying, can I email you?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Phone number?”

He plunged his hands inside the pockets of his coat and then pulled them out to display open palms “Don’t have one”, He said with a laugh.

“That can’t be”, I said, “Everyone at least has a phone. Did you leave it aboard ship?”

“No. I don’t have a personal phone or an email, but for work I do -have to.”

“I’d like to talk with you again. How and when is that possible?”

“I’m here most afternoons around this time.” And with that he shook my hand, clapped me on the back. “You have an interesting mind.”

“Oh, how?”

“You ask the right questions.”

And whilst I was considering what he meant by that he sauntered off.

A Remarkable Man

I was as you proverbially say at a loose end, walking the high street, gazing absent mindedly into shop windows and people passing. Thinking, or rather over thinking my place in the world, questioning my purpose. The smell of coffee paused my stride and banished my thoughts. I entered the café. It was busy all tables occupied. Turning to go out I noticed one table only occupied by a big, bearded man who sat motionless with his eyes closed. The plate before him was empty.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” I asked, smiling to myself.

“Be my guest”, came the immediate reply.

Somewhat disconcerted, as he didn’t open his eyes to look at me, I sat down to await service expecting him to leave. He didn’t move or speak again. Eyes stayed closed. For all intents and purpose, I wasn’t there. He wore a fur lined jacket over a mottled coloured tea shirt and jeans. Hair and beard were well trimmed, suggesting a recent visit to a barber. Appearing not to breathe he sat motionless. As I began to be concerned some kind of health issue was in progress, the waitress tapped me on the shoulder.

“What would you like?”

“Latte please, and…. Would you like a drink?” I said loudly. The man opened his eyes and inclined his head and smiled. “Very kind of you -yes please I’ll have a Mocha”.

Surprisingly for a big man his voice was higher toned than expected. Feeling a bit sheepish, I placed the order. She smiled laughingly at me. “You’re the third one this afternoon.”

I wrinkled my brow, “What?”

She shrugged her shoulders and smiling walked away.

In askance I looked at him. “She’s referring to the man and woman who have shared their company with me.” He said.

“Oh… so you’ve been here a while then?”

“A couple of hours maybe… not in any hurry. And thank you again for the coffee, much appreciated.”

I looked at him with interest. Unlike many I know he clearly enunciated his words, and the deliberate way he spoke conveyed the impression of an intelligent educated person. I’d say he was in his sixties. His dark hair and beard were lined with grey, yet his face was strong, and he looked fit.

“Do you come here often?”

He chuckled. “First time for a long time. And yourself?”

“No. The other side of town is my usual stamping ground.

“So, what made you change your habits?”.

“Oh, I don’t know, change is as good as a rest.”

“At a loose end, are you?”

“Not exactly”, I lied

“Do you work?”

“I teach. Don’t have any classes this afternoon.”

“And what may I ask do you teach?”

“Digital and Social media courses.”

“Very much a modern man then… do you find that rewarding?”

I looked at him curiously, his question touched a soft spot. “Yes and no. I come from a computing background, so this is something like a second career. The digital world of today is outpacing me. I often find my pupils have an intuitive grasp of applications and with aspirations to engage with AI, which is not something I feel particularly comfortable about.”

“A subject of much debate from what I read, which I find amusing.”

“Amusing, how so?”

“It’s championed as new age invention, but in essence it’s as old as the hills”

“How do you make that out? Digital technology and AI is a modern invention.”

“In machine terms -yes, but what in essence does digital technology enable? It simulates human intelligence for the purposes of doing tasks and giving directions. Do you agree?”

“Simplistically speaking, yes, I can’t argue with that”.

“A task which say takes me one hour to complete, involving decision from a host of variables can be digitally programmed to achieve the same result in a matter of seconds. Even more AI can predict outcomes from inputs that would take you or me many exhausting hours to assess and produce the most advantageous results in real time. Would you say?

“Yes I would, and that gives rise to ethical outcomes as well, which is one reason why I think such development is problematical.”

“I guess concern or care depends on which side your bread is buttered on”, he said with a laugh. “For example, as no doubt you know, many investors who earn in the stock markets do so on trading platforms which use AI to determine the intrinsic value of stocks and currency and advise accordingly. If I were to use such earned money charitably, would you agree the use of AI is for the betterment of others?”

“I guess so.”

“And if only to line my own pockets?”

His line of questioning was making me think. Was he trying to catch me out?

At length I replied. “Obviously some people make money to personally advance themselves, but if the money earned was from ethically sourced shares, surely that is a more acceptable way of earning?”

He sighed and shook his head. “Money is an outcome which gets dressed up to suit the purpose of its use. When I said digital technology and AI is not new, I was referring to its function. The ways in which man’s mind works to increase fortune, care for and better themselves in today’s world is essentially no different to the man of the past. Now we program machines to think for us. Some do it to benefit others, and some do it to benefit themselves. Whether the purpose is laudable or not, someone loses what another gains.”

“True. But I don’t see how you contend that AI is not new. Surely you are not saying our ancestors exhibited a similar form of intelligence to AI?”

“Oh, but I am!”

At this point our coffee’s arrived and for a moment or two the conversation gave way to tasting our drinks. I took this opportunity to introduce myself and ask his name.

“When you must just call me Joe. Allow me to explain John. Digital technology and AI is all about making something happen quickly and by the same token being able to do many things at the same time. Ancient man’s psyche is no different from ours, he also wanted to do things quickly and get the best results. And strange as it may seem his method to get intelligence to direct and advise solutions advantageous to himself is a practise still prevalent today.

Having no idea what he could be referring to, I just stared.

He continued. “Do you know what a Jinn is?”

“Some kind of devil?”

“You can be forgiven for thinking that. There are views in the Islamic world which agree, however in pre-Islamic times the Arabians believed they were intelligent, morally responsible beings in the afterlife they were able to commune with. Throughout history in all parts of our world there have been beliefs and communication practises with the afterlife. In our present world where migrations of peoples have occurred on a large scale, you only need to look at this country to see the practise of many beliefs, and in respect of what I’m talking about those who accept an afterlife as a reality.

I can see by your expression you are wondering why on earth I am talking about spirits and people who commune with them. Let me continue before you make judgement. Man has often found himself in situations where he is at loss to understand what the outcome should be. That could be the need for a practical solution, or a requirement to solve a mental problem, and yet again it might be, more high-mindedly, the need to be guided on a moral or ethical issue.

The oracles in the Hellenic world were not only providers of spiritual guidance. People wanted to know outcomes which would support their ambitions, or cures for illness. The Shaman of Eurasia and those of South America, Medicine Men in the North and in Canada were not simply spiritual guides to their communities, they provided practical help on request. People of power often consulted such people. Saladin who is mostly remembered for his conquests to unite Muslim territories in the Middle East and the capture of Jerusalem in the 12^th century was first and foremost a religious man who took advice and guidance from Sufi exponents. And of course, not all guidance and predictions were heeded. A case in question is Saul, the first king of Israel. Despite his own edict to banish sorcerers from his kingdom, he consulted a woman of Endor on the eve of an important battle against the Philistines (disguised of course) and asked her to make contact with Samuel who informed him if he went into battle not only himself, but his three sons would die.

Whether Saul thought he was invincible, or didn’t believe what the woman had told him, we will never know. The outcome of course was as the woman predicted.”

I listened with interest. He spoke quietly with authority, but nonetheless I was not entirely convinced of the view he was projecting.”

“If I understand you right, you are saying some people, who I would call psychics, have the ability to forecast the future?”

“That depends on what you mean by future. I think the poet T.S. Eliot should be remembered for best saying this about that. “Time present and time past are both perhaps present in time future, and time future contained in time past.”

“So, are you saying psychics, or by whatever name they go by, don’t predict!”

“I waited while Joe savoured another draft of Mocha. Carefully replacing the cup back in its saucer, he looked me straight in they eye, and said. “Of course they do, though bear in mind some do by reading body language and the mental character of their clients. And Astrologers interpret the signs in the heavens. A few and only a few will hear from their jinn, their familiars, their afterlife inspirers.”

“I’m confused. If I’ve got this right you are, as you quote from Eliot, not believing in a future, yet you say psychics can predict it. I thought you were arguing the practise of consulting psychics is essentially no different to the functions of AI and digital technology in general.

“That’s right. Eliot goes on to say, ‘if all time is eternally present, all time is unredeemable. What might have been is an abstraction, remaining a perpetual possibility only in a world of speculation.’ If you look very carefully at what digital technology and its AI offspring is doing all outcomes are based on present knowledge. When it predicts a solution, which for arguments sake, is forward in time, it is conducting specific actions based entirely upon present knowledge. When you use that intelligence to action a need in time hence, you are doing so in present time.

A psychic able to channel higher frequency communications advising events does so in present time and the source of such communications are also present. Futures, as we conceive them, and as AI determines, are present minded speculations. When a program is written to perform certain functions accurately 100% of the time, as for example for computer hardware and their applications it can be said to function predictably, and that as I’m sure you can agree is a present process.”

Joe looked at his watch. “I have to be off John. It’s been a pleasure talking with you. I’ve no doubt we could have gone on talking for much longer. I can only hope something of what I’ve said has meaning to you. When you next order something on the internet, like me and everyone else, you’ll make decisions from the first page of suppliers shown you. And we are aided in making our decisions by the algorithmic functions which propose best buys -and it even accounts for where you live!

And before I could respond he stood up, shook my hand, and swiftly left the café.

What a remarkable man!

Angel Wings

The coat is old and evergreen
the lapels long and wide,
he wears trouser hugging gaiters;
his boots are made from hide.

Head bare and shaven at the crown
upright and still, he stands;
feeding the pigeons on town square
taking grain from his hands.

To see what makes the pigeons dance
Passers-by, old and young
are stopping to watch this strange man
crooning in a foreign tongue.

From his pockets he hands out seed
uttering strange, weird words
which cause a clamour far and wide
to flock the square with birds.

Then lifting up his arms to sky
the pigeons take to wing
and in the sunless firmament
about him form a ring.

White doves appear and rest on him
their feathers hide his face;
away he walks and disappears
beneath the birds embrace.

Empty faces looking, eyes stare
arching up to heaven
the clouds parting reveals the sun
then someone says, amen

Amen, He is born again.

Tony Ashenden copyrright 2023

Great Gaia Breathes

The shortest day has breathed its last
and now the leaf gowned evergreen
silhouettes the moon cream night
and an eerie coldness starts to bite.

Snails have long since curled in shells
unforgiving winter reigns supreme;
now the ruffled Robin sleeps
and nocturnal foxes roam the streets.

Migrating birds have long since flown
the bare branched trees bend voiceless
to the ice gloved wind; their boles
and root claws shelter scavengers.

Warm-blooded folk close their doors
and shell-like dream of foreign sun
church and chapel toll their bells
the great and good go volunteer.

And all the while great Gaia breathes
incarnate; giving, taking, birthing
trees and birds, moles, and men
power greater than our human ken.

Four Seasons for New England

The Reassuring Voice

Ah, winsome love, what aches your heart, breaks
the rhythm of your mentor’s rhyme, stuns you into silence?
Does the world debase and sully your native innocence
trade on your gentleness, draw on the giving Self?
Do you fear the well has gone dry and life’s effort
a hoist of cold rocks, the brain tired of strictures,
Of duty -duty denying the Self?

Let your fears flee to the winds
Let go memories that haunt you
Have them find oblivion in the shifting sands of time.
The healer’s hands cup your face
The power of love turns back the clock
Years vanish and youth smiles
The mystery deepens
wordless expressive
timeless love

Published to MasticadoresIndia

In Memory of Sarah King

Had you known your granite headstone
would be flanked by two unknowns
you might have thought it significant;
as yours stands tall like one chosen
compared to their drunken faces.

The tree that shadows where you lay
its sloughed bark being last to view
the moonlights felicitations;
In your day sinewy green with youth
has suffered change like you have.

The proud and leafy head is burnt
broken and lifeless; its blackened
antler branches gouging the sky.
The knuckled roots naked of earth
reshape the form you left behind.

The unknown blistered facing flags
askew upon the biers they mark
wedged between the tree’s webbed feet
is living proof that men must fear.
Names mean nothing to nature here.

Though Earth has held your name upright
slow moving time has wrought its change;
skeletal remains seeking rebirth
remarry to achieve what you could not.
Path to Mecca: world without end.

Published to MasticadoresIndia

https://masticadoresindia.wordpress.com/

The Parachutist

I am dropping out of the skies huge head

Recently published on

https://masticadoresusa.wordpress.com/

I am dropping
out of the skies huge head
whirling like the flower above me
singing in the wind. My last home
The silver – metal bee
drones forward
into the sun
and I
her human seed
am reaching
for my
roots
in
the
glazed
earth
feet first.

Last Testament of an AK-74

The final words of an assault rifle couldn’t be more honest and chilling. How many more will die knowing only the feeling of murderous metal in their hands?

Comment from Turveen Gill, editor MasticadoresIndia

Tony’s poem speaks volumes about the pitiful truth of war and bloodshed. Weapons handed to youngsters in the name of duty, their lives sacrificed for the supposed good of their nations. But behind the lies and deceit, larger forces are at play, and they climb upon the dead to reach for more power. The final words of an assault rifle couldn’t be more honest and chilling. How many more will die knowing only the feeling of murderous metal in their hands?
Congratulations Tony!

Lay me down, half boy half man,
lay me down, I’m hot.
Burning your hands, I am,
lay me down, I’m shot.
The next round won’t fire.

Warning you, my fresh-faced keeper
you am wanted by the Reaper.

Would have liked to be a plough,
would have made good,
turning earth, here and now.
Would have, and should;

instead, they made me a driller
of bullets, and you my son, a killer.

You praise me, when you’re sleeping,
you call me your lover
but when I’m spitting lead
you call me a fucker.

Crusader, this round’s a bad one,
and I’m overheating. I’m done.
It’ll blow you to kingdom come.

Melting down, I can’t speak now.
Melting down, death trap.
Burning your heart, I am.
Melting down, worthless scrap.

Pray, pity, maker of guns.
Pity the death, of your sons.

Author’s note…

He is a short haired, well-built, who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, just old enough to buy a round of drinks but old enough to die for his country. He recently left comprehensive school where he was probably, an average student, played some form of sport, drove a ten-year-old rust bucket, and knew a girl that either broke up with him when he left, or swore to be waiting when he returns home. He moves easily to mood music and hip‐hop, and to the rattle of an AK-74 assault rifle.

Ghosts in Breakers Creek

Comment from Turveen Gill of MasticadoresIndia

Tony’s eloquent poetry infuses life and soul into rusted shells of steel and iron, once meant to keep others afloat, now drowned in the tides of time and indifference. Mere objects to some, these ships were once the domain of the living, and carry the emotions and memories from times gone, embedded within their mighty hulls. Haunted or taunted, they rest with countless stories alive inside them.

In muddy mouthed Portsea Creek unwatched
forgotten ships lay beached
dashed and smashed
breathless, cut and bled
weather beaten
picked and broken

by the dockside stooping crane’s bill collecting scrap.

Their final passages over shallows
barnacle crusted bottoms
scraping over shingle
pulled and pushed
by impatient tugs

who know falling tides suckling mud claim tows.

Robbed by landsman
written out of registers
deserted bridges balefully glare
untold memories of purposed lives
men who swore repeatedly

like lovers on heat trumpeting union of engine and steel.

Now their ghosts can be heard
reliving purpose in the night
blowing base horns
heaving anchors
turning their screws seaward

blending rusted hulls to the sea and the never-ending sky.

Portsea creek and its cutting divides the city of Portsmouth from the Hampshire mainland.

Venus Rising

The planets conjunct, portending his birth bade us search on…….

We found him there in Bethlehem
as the charts foretold but not with ease.
Not one well to do house of Arab or Jew
Roman or Greek had birth between them,
no infants male or female could be found
born that auspicious day; or women
nigh to deliver under the star bright sky.

The planets conjunct, portending his birth
bade us search on; visit caravan, tent,
Inn and stable. Divers places all to no avail
until on tavern steps, feet begging to rest
we overheard a shepherd speak,
of how his shelter was occupied by two
well dressed Jews. Man, woman and a child just born.

Yes! –and here he hurried to tell his kin
such peace as lulled his sheep to sleep
and such Light about despite the moonless night
that quite amazed him. A wine skin for his guest
he took, and his sister with a knowing look
on being told, insisted she also would journey back.
He talked of voices of unseen guests.

At once we realised the town full – where else?
Our profession advised; the tavern temptation dismissed,
we had the shepherd guide, our bodies begging for rest.
The pathway hard, our camels bad tempered,
the cold wind swept hills unforgiving.
We talked of turning back, yet could not agree,
urged on by power greater than the body’s sap.

Wearily we arrived, not a moment to soon
and knew at first sight, our year long journey
cross sea, mountain, desert, river and plain
was justified. Our faith upheld, the purpose
before us in the bedding straw, a child
born Venus; the power on Earth to Love.
His eyes; the majesty of the Monarch of Time,

Our strength returned quite unexpectedly, as if
we ourselves had the child’s unlimited power.
In his grasp we placed our gifts, Myrrh, Gold
and Frankincense. We gave news of Herod,
Spoke highly of the child. Held our tongues
in check on futures and bar that journey soon to be
would say this and only this –

“His word and deed would long be sung in praise
ere Jupiter and Saturn swung the sky
and Man in darkness has the voice to cry
Hosanna, Herald of the peace to come!”

The Price of Fish

Fear is the shake of riveted plate and love is a church locked up on the land

https://masticadoresindia.wordpress.com/2022/12/20/the-price-of-fish-by-tony-ashenden/

Comment from Terveen Gill Tony’s poetic ode to fishermen and their bravery is beautiful and tragic. Those of us who have never ventured beyond land cannot fathom the dangers the waters conceal. I like how the sea has been portrayed as a mistress, mysterious and moody, unsure and chaotic. The men and woman who place themselves at her mercy are definitely heroes deserving of such lyrical beauty. May harmony prevail and the spirit of coexistence emerge supreme.

Pray hard for men who hunt the deep sea
in their cockleshell boats out of Clyde
scour the swims of Poseidon’s green head
filling iced holds with dead alive eyes
where the buffeting wind screeching
is God’s angered ethereal Hand
fear is the shake of riveted plate
and love is a church locked up on the land.

Elemental wind, do not keep them from shore
they who dare open the water blue door.

Pray soft for souls who haunt the seal lanes
hymned only by December bright sea
and snatched calls of seagull’s scorning
the squint-eyed sons of water borne men
striding the foam whiskered aboriginal depths
bed to the bones of lost kinsman
who went roaring to death protesting
peace swallowed in the fish fat ocean’s mouth.

Elemental wind, do not rage for their soul
their fathers have paid the fish stealing toll.

Pray love for the sons of water and blood
patient for the calm, eager to net
ever ready to chase white fish
over mountainous crests, under
the pale dark bruising wet sky
casting to web Gods’ octopus’ head
claw the fish from his shivering throat
endanger their lives with the weight of the prize.

Elemental wind, do not anger the sea
Man and his Mistress must ever be free.

Slaughter

this poem brings to light the order of existence, the rules of supremacy. The qualities and characteristics of a living being sets their place in the pattern of life. Do intellect and emotions make humans superior to other species? Is it the strong against the weak, the voluble against the mute?

Terveen Gill of Masticadoresindia writes…. this poem brings to light the order of existence, the rules of supremacy. The qualities and characteristics of a living being sets their place in the pattern of life. Do intellect and emotions make humans superior to other species? Is it the strong against the weak, the voluble against the mute? Let’s not forget that humans are beasts that change their natures according to convenience. Beware!

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And their vacant eyes;

to me dull, relative

brother-like, unto my blood.

Lesser and labelled more the beast

for being servant,

yet I fear

I fit my moulding them

too perfectly.

To moo

and peer moronically alive

cross thicket hedge, un-decides

the place of puppet and the master,

their voices turn

the thicket’s harsh of prickles

and point their spears to Man.

I cannot divide the poet

from the brain

let reason coldly justify,

will not take the pound of flesh;

less my Alice

lose the Elohim of Seeing.

Galactically

my one-eyed prism of awareness

in their field

sees acceptance as

instrument of Right Order

in the temporal world.

It takes the fence of our divide

and blends the prickles too

the slavered green of changing grass

and into focus

brings us less our lying tongue

to the point of light.

No Emperor’s Head

Comment from Terveen Gill of **MASTICADORESINDIA**

Tony’s poetry lays bare the faceless and nameless who claim to fight in the support of their beliefs and rigidities. First, pawns played by the superpowers, then threats targeting those who birthed them, violating the world as they deem fit. This radicalism and political warfare are terminal illnesses in themselves. Who bows to whom and where is that sane voice of reason? Greed, hatred, and power never can have their fill.

Who wore the hat of Roman kind
led armies of the blind in Laos
Vietnam and Cambodia?

Then who challenged the just
anointed crown in Britannica
Planted bomb to burn the people

left their blood in burnt ash sites
public places, shops, and schools
messaging by video their sacrifice?

Uniformed of working clothes
black gowned and turbaned white
they respect no Emperor’s head.

Nameless, they speak explosively
by smart phone, gun, and Semtex
radicalising, inciting, recruiting

armies of face hidden eunuchs
chanting plainsong as God warriors
denying democracy, demanding power.

Some inoffensive men of peace
who in their techno clean rooms
for the greater good did feast

did cause nameless germs grow
to combat Sino-German eagles
and their poppy seeded mint

which reigned under Roosevelt,
grew under Eisenhower
flowered for Kennedy and

then

re-birthed with Bush and Blair
in Israel, Lebanon and Iraq
Afghanistan and Pakistan

was

the harvest of butterfat years
when Knox was an ever open
welcome door to inward goods.

The Ribbon of a Madman’s’ Weave

The condemned man is making a statement of purpose, giving birth to his soul (the ribbon of wise) record, which cannot be extinguished by death. The term pigmy bowman is used figurately speaking to describe his captors as hunters of little importance. This symbolic poem poses the question is condemned man mad – or is he a voice of truth? What the poem seeks to do is highlight that small minority of people whose understanding of life and purpose is radically different from others and represents a threat to the powers that be. Except in rare instances the death of such individuals are not recorded to our history -yet their presence whether recorded as madness or divinely inspired has and will continue to change the development of mankind. T.S. Eliot understood that when he said humankind cannot bear too much reality.
Note: the number 8 is the symbol of regeneration.

Granite Sliver
Arrowhead I see you spurned
by Pigmy Bowman
yet you suffice and scathe
the greening mortar…
Mind that delibly records
attempt
my show and outward personality.
This ribbon of a madman’s weave
is the tape of all my saying
small
border thin and compass hand
the clutch and stay
Fingers….
Placing granite slabs to face
their palms of tungsten flesh
toward the shortened eye.
Yet soon
the tongue of this my wise and scrawl
became as fever pitch
and heavy as the hammer held
halfway in arc
deliberating
as the mother would pressing
down urging fingers
in the lock of Isis eye
to the agony that is mother
And now is mine.
Is birth!
The warder
had me carry seven days in labour
waiting…
before the fertilising seed became
and his eye perceived
the ribbon of wise inflicted
with my word and writing.
He stared
examined even to the letter head
lost in mergence to the polished stone
turning, smiled….
Father dimly smiling through the stain of glass
in the
you can never tell
about face….
He left and straight informed the governor.
The hammer struck
the child full born umbilical cut
began to cry….
My eyes were full of faces
demanding
outstretching palms of tungsten flesh.
Their right they screamed
is feeding first
why was I no askance waiting?
They spread upon my word
the slime
and their cement that matched the slab
and then..
Fingers turned upon themselves
they commanded-
called my clutching hand to lease
my living Scribe
this chipping sliver of their granite.
They took.
…. that morning after
before the ashen face
nether time of wanting day whilst less the night
there stood eight mourners
neath the sky bowl blooding red
in their caps of prison grey
and the circle turning tribute
was the Sower spreading quicklime.
And in my cell
There stood another
waiting for the shining mortar’s greening mould.

A Day in the Night of the Walking Sleeper

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Ah! The pain
the wanting all over dilemma
sober reach out
sweet grape of confusion;
a duchess spread out on her savage’s bed
willing her blood
red to the lips of her lackeying male,
neither caring the speech or the stain of his whip.
Taking the seventh
of her seconding breaths at the weep of secretion.

Comes now the concentration;
the apex of arc,
the long-drawn laugh of the physical man.
The peak,
then the plummet of an up thrown stone;
extinguishing fire.
Then the cold
Darkness of Earth
and then the winter of a why gloom face
frosting the smile of devil cares not
into peaceful beginning;
a child in the low of the arc,
weak murmur of problem.

And yet in end it begins;
in the no start never finish real of the spark,
in the still heard gasp
mute echo of Psi fleeing the white.
In the good die young
the crude soldier damning
as with the devils and the un-vowed nun;
the same design.
All blind fisherman in the day-night
casting pearls
from the corporeal banks of unsettled sublimity.

It manifests
as harpoon with a white heat line;
the strongest plus and minus seed.
All charge of the instrument cannon,
Time traveller
to the state of perpetual climax; there
as the spear of the deepest descent.
The finder receiving
the arranged and irrevocable choice
the twin of sex;
Satan-Father coalesced.

A Shepherd’s Tale

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Consider, discuss, decide as you must. A boy
of nine I was, given to play? Yes-
but impatient to grow. A minder of sheep
and goat, not quite a shepherd, you understand.
Arab Jewish Samaritans, lowborn we were
under Roman rule in the land of Moses.

Tent dwellers; nomadic in the Way of the Sea
we moved our flocks from pasture to fold
over plain, hill slope, through mountain pass.
Self-sufficient, our mixed blood had no ties
in towns and we were shunned in cities.
At that time there was much disquiet,

camel borne travellers would hail us
seeking safe passage to Damascus
anxious for news, telling of homes destroyed
of livestock lost. Herod by the sea of salt
in hope of cure, still covetous of power.
Riots and Roman soldiers everywhere.

It was the hottest time of year -too hot.
My father the elder shepherd of our band
decreed we leave the plain of Armageddon
skirt the Galilean hills and drive
to Mount Carmel and fold there in cool caves
the pasture good, the Kishon river close.

Unusual for time of year it rained unexpectedly.
Wet and freshened I explored cave and gully
gaping at rock paintings, sling shooting
hawk foolish enough to target our flock.
When night fell there was talk about events
on the highway, riots in Sepphoris.

Mahmud was our Rabbi, a Samaritan
Who taught us boys by rote from a scroll.
He would disappear for days on end,
reappear warning of wolves, thieves in hiding,
bringing herbs, fruits, figs, salt preserved fish,
feet, hands, and body bruised and bleeding.

But not this time -from the tomb of Rachel
he had seen columns of soldiers, pillars of smoke,
people fleeing carnage, a forest of crosses.
He arrived much distressed. Nearby, he said,
there is a camel camp of Persian men,
star diviners, here for some special event.

So deep the dreamless sleep I slept, when roused
I complained of being woken. My father’s
command to dress was brusque and impatient.
Mother soothingly said be quick no time to rest.
Sheep and goat were want to break the folds
and strange lights had appeared in the heavens.

Girding mantle, grasping staff, sling, and pipe
I joined the men grouped around a fireside
where Mahmud, repeated yet again
to disbelieving ears, of a vision given
in prayer, how an angel of the lord appeared
announcing birth of a messiah to all men.

How he had run to the Kishon River
to impart this news to the Persian men,
and they, exclaiming in response said this
was the proof, the final proof they sought.
And without delay broke camp and headed east.
The river shining phosphorus in the night.

Did I hear a voice as we knelt in prayer?
For when Mahmud said follow me, I knew
the angel would want us shepherds go!
Find the birthplace, give tribute to the child.
More in fear I think, of unearthly things,
Claiming protection of the women folk,

some herders stayed with the folded flock.
For me this was adventure, side by side
my father leading with Mahmud we trod
the Magi’s tracks. An uphill beaten track
Nazorean’s often trod beyond Bethlehem
to Elijah’s tomb. In silent awe we came

to where the light was strongest; there halted
by a well-dressed Jew, then let pass. Mahmud
having yet again spoken of his vision.
We entered a cave, two donkeys tethered
looked at us curiously –and there
in a lamp lit area no bigger than a tent

a babe in swaddling clothes lay in the arms
of a woman and before them, three Magi.
Also, an Arab woman, an older sage-like
Jew and a fearsome looking man whose smile
belied his looks. The air perfumed –a scent
so strong my head whirled with feelings.

We knelt on the hard stone in a presence
of many persons unseen; God’s angels
I know them now to be. We presented
lamb and kid –the best of the litters
we had, and in turn were given sweet wine.
Yet I was not allowed, and she, seeing this

beckoned me to drink from a leather gourd
that hung from the cradle bed, a sweet
warming juice. I drank gazing as I did upon
the new-born baby’s face. Then not asked
but sure of rightness I began to play my
shepherd’s pipe. With eyes closed he smiled,

as if somehow, he had heard me play before.
The tune was new to me and full of majesty,
my fingers moving my brain asleep
I lost all sense of time, only just aware
of his mother’s happy face; the attention
of all that were in that holy place.

As dawn began to show we took our leave.
My father with pride made much of my tune.
There was curious talk about the older man,
was he her husband? Why birth in a cave?
They were not poor, and the Magi had
given gold! There had been talk of Herod,

more so the riots and of Rome’s steel hand.
Yet for all this talk as we returned, the paths
aglow, I sensed my nomadic life would never
be the same again. We had gained in status
been received as equals –us lowborn
shepherds; and feted at a godlike event!
Yet despite this, seeds of doubt took root.

The holy book lost its magic -I questioned
why Jews and Gentiles warred, sacrificial lambs,
the militancy of God. Instead, I dreamed of union
in remembrance of the child, believing
he would one day share our daily bread
forever hopeful that our souls might wed.

Consider, discuss, decide as you must
the burden of proof is a human need.
My shepherd’s tale, straightforwardly said
is to you a plea -that in the body’s Keep
your soul should no longer groan and weep
but celebrate the Love that is Heavens Bread.

Religious Ego

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Gritty shell
Church within an egg
I watch the moulder of your stone
In envy
Of the subtle grain that clings together
Unperturbed
Disdainful of my changing face.
I even see
Your smoke washed splints of mortar
Laughing into faces.
Stilton memories I achieved
And could not
Stop the wooden green from going rot.
Words I spoke
Whilst sitting buttocks down upon the egg
Fragile shell
Withholding my perceptive children
Like I did
I crushed it thinking
It were the Godly given bolster chair
Comfort of my conceit.

Hoopla play your arches
Round my helpless thoughts of demolition
Law enforcing
Dung to give it’s place to cleansing water.
Spit with glee
They the dying grain to blood my eye
As cold
My thought it turns the hand
Round the chisel’s grasp.
Oh monument
I built you in the lesser times
Subservient was the stone
To my design of
Of the paper and the oh so easy
Pen of righteousness.
Why you hideous now?

And the gargoyle
Split unto the four points
Have not lost an eye or tongue
Whilst the silver
Of my altar laid with blessing
Has passed
And changed between the Bread and Wine
To mint within the careful hand
Of Mammon’s vestal virgins.

A Day in the Night of the Walking Sleeper

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Chapter 2:

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