Pull up high the drawbridge
Batten down the hatch
Seal up all the windows
Put the door on latch
The wind moans in the chimney
Rain rattles on the glass
The surface of the water white
Fir tree thrumming like a mast
But you and me we’re grateful
For this house built on a rock
And for this wet wild Sunday
That somehow slows the clock
So let’s watch the world from distance
As it blows and bustles by
Throw another log onto the fire
And on the sofa lie
19.10.08
I saw a face in the crowd
It shouted out loud
With a message profound
I tried not to stare
At the wild red hair
Going white at the roots
But my attention was drawn
To a dress that was torn
Above bright red rubber boots
I breathe in the air
That shares the despair
Of a man in black
Who knows what disease
Is pushed out by the sneeze
Of his passing anorak
I see you but our eyes don’t meet
On the bus I wouldn’t share your seat
If you fell down I’d help you to your feet
Then return to my side of the street.
A little while ago, I met someone for the first time, and took a dislike to him.
It did not really matter- we are not likely to have a lot to do with one another. But it troubled me as it was quite a strong reaction.
I bolstered myself with an examination of his faults. He liked to talk- all the stuff he had done, how good he was at things. I followed standard meet-new-person procedure, and asked him lots of open leading questions about himself and his stuff, but after a while I stopped as he did not really need the encouragement. He asked nothing about me at all.
After an hour or so of this- I was annoyed, and… strangely depressed.
Of course things are never one dimensional where human interaction is concerned. This man had been through a tough time and was rebuilding his life. He was also someone who had gifts in similar areas to my own, and the talent comparisons were inevitable- given the fragile self-esteem issues we artistic types tend to suffer beneath.
There was a whiff testosterone-competition in the air, and I did not like it, or what it did to me. It had no place in my idealised understanding of the elevation that art brings to the soul.
Not to mention the Jesus way of being that I set myself stumblingly towards…
But there is was.
In dysfunctional style I chewed on it all. And wrote the poem below.
We meet and move about one another
Probing, exploring borders
Negotiating
Presenting our petition
And revealing this badge of office-
Sewn on sleeves whilst our hearts stay hidden
Revealing carefully edited glimpses
Of whom we want to be
But are not yet.Then begins the measuring
Of the size of armies
The bore of canon
And the reach of your rockets
As we carefully deploy our camouflaged troops
To occupy the high ground
To hide uncertainty behind
A cloak of accomplishment
And capability.Sometimes it seems that who I am is only revealed
In understanding what you are not
In seeing you
And finding you wanting
In mapping out your strongholds
And avoiding them
And raising up my tattered flag
Above this uncomfortable alliance.
Bare branches showing
Cold winds come blowing
Stealing this year away
Curlews are calling
The light now is falling
Dark nights are drawing inThere’s a crack in the church bell
There’s ice in the stairwell
Take care my love
Take care.
Close tight the windows
The day is only shadows
Come sit by the fire
With meThe far distant hillside
Is laced up in moonshine
No thoughts of the valley
Below
And maybe tomorrow
We can beg steal or borrow
Some time for just me
And just youThis house is now sleeping
Old floorboards creaking
The warmth’s all but gone
From the fire
So lets climb these stairs love
Dreams waiting a-bove
Let me lie in your arms
AgainBare branches showing
Cold winds come blowing
Stealing this year away
Chris Goan, September 2007
Blogged with the Flock Browser
The M6 unrolls it magic carpet in the early evening light
And the hills of Lancashire draw me close in welcome.
Though my life is blessed now in a land of milk and heather honey
Still I look across this scarred land
Softened by green growth
Seeded with my memories
And feel close to home
Rivington
Alan, Peter and me
Pounding and panting up the steep tracks
To rest and recuperate at the heady height of the Pike.
Above us only the TV masts poking the whispy cloud,
As in front the lights of Chorley flicker on.
Horwich is hidden by the curve of the land
And in the far distance, the flat lands meet the sea at Blackpool.
Closer, held in the folds of the fields
Along the old roads
Stand stone houses, built out of the quarries at our feet
Falling into the creases of the earth like lost coins
Hidden treasures.
Here was my world.
My place of communion.
My Eden
Or so it seems with hindsight.
Now I pass through, driving south
And a little rain makes the road ahead darker
In the warm car, surrounded by a sleepy family
I grip the wheel gratefully
But with a sadness
Move on.
© Chris Goan 24.5.05.
Today is Saturday.
And we have nothing planned.
No visitors are coming to stay (although I love having visitors.)
We have no major tasks at hand (although there is great fulfillment in a job well done.)
I am not on duty (and work can just go hang for a while…)
I do not have to worry about planning church stuff for tomorrow- after years and years of weekend church business, I now can enjoy the occasional sabbath…
Sure there are many things that I could/should be doing- gardening, cleaning, decorating, sorting out, planning for the upcoming Aoradh event. But I feel no pressure to do any of these things.
I may just so nothing…
And days like this, they are like sonnets. And they turn me all poetic.
Slow Saturday
Saturday morning
You and me
Stacked like school chairs
Racked together like delicious dishes in the dishwasher
Quilted by the wonderful possibility
Of an empty dayMe holding you
You wearing me
Like a film star in a fur coatYou told me that I had fallen back to sleep
And that you liked the sound of my snoring
And I curled closerAnd the chatter of a blackbird outside our bedroom window
And the sound of slow diesel engines out on the estuary
The creak of boards as Will heads for an appointment with a pokemon
All these sounds of the approaching day
Are beautifulLike you
So open up day
Like an Alpine picture windowI’ll put on the coffee
13.09.08
59133505.24thPad.jpg (JPEG Image, 800×530 pixels)
This morning I drove over to Colintraive and took the wee ferry onto the Isle of Bute, as I had a couple of meetings in Rothesay.
Bute is a lovely Island, and I have become quite familiar with it over the last few years, as I am responsible for some of the Mental Health services there. Today the son shone on the swans in the castle moat, and I shared a nice lunch with some colleagues in the Green Tree Cafe in the moat centre- highly recommended by the way, and recently visited by Prince Charles and Camilla (the local talk is of how the council painted only the sides of the building that could be seen by them as they arrived- but this being Bute, it may well just be a story…)
But I will always be a kind of visitor- a partial outsider to these communities that I live and work amongst. In Bute, this seems to be made worse by my arrival as a manager, with all the power and control issues that are associated with this. There is, however, a process of growing together- grafting…
It seems to come with shared stories, insider knowledge that sometimes tips over into gossip- particularly, it seems, in small Island communities, like Rothesay. Much of this seems negative at times- although only insiders can really be openly critical.
I hope that my role is to look for good things, and encourage them further…
Rothesay Castle
Rothesay Castle
Stormed at last by scaffolding
By men of mortar in yellow vests
Encircled by the advancing town
The old lady lies broken toothed
But well pointed.Whilst within
In the shadow
Behind the big black bolts
The castle kitchens lie cold
Hygienic
And where once was roasted suckling pig
There is a man in tartan uniform
Eating his sandwiches
But with due reverence
He leaves no crumbs.Meanwhile, out in the sunlight
A brilliant white swan circles in the moat
Beneath ornamental trees
Like me, both are aliens
Imports.So I start to let this place become familiar
To finger into foreign soil
To paddle across defensive ditches
To borrow history and make it mine
And take my place in this
Permanent impermance© Chris Goan
2.3.05Blogged with the Flock Browser
Given the events in Switzerland today, (see here) I reckon that another poem is called for…
In the universe
Who decides
Which way is up
And which is down
Or is it just
Perspective?
And who lit the fuse
For the big bang
Or was all happenchance
Unconnected?And who holds the stars
As they spin on strings
And turns the worlds
On poles?
Who fired the comets
Out of view
And opened up
Black holes?You might see these
As loaded questions
Meant to mould you in my image
But I have no simple certainties
Just a pilgrim’s search
For knowledgeChris Goan 26.3.06
Today Michaela and I have been married 18 years.
18 years! Where did the time go?
But I am blessed.
Michaela- you formed the best part of me, and I love you more now, than ever…
Michaela avoids cameras- but here are a few recent photo’s…
And here is a poem- old romantic that I am.
Evolution
There’s a billion years of history
That starts in oozing slime
But it makes no sense to me
It has no human rhymeThe vastness of the universe
The emptiness of space
This has no part of me
It has no human faceIf I knew the time when
All time will meet its end
All would still be meaningless
Without you my friendFor as you wake
The morning mists your eyes
And in the afternoon
The sunshine shows your smile
And as the evening slips into the night
Your hair is dancing in starlightFor Michaela 2002.
African sky
Brilliant blue
With clouds improbable
Puff balls from a child’s painting
And bright green hills
With warm grass
Worming in the wind
The garments of fertility
Fecund, but fragile.
But there a man scrapes back the bright colours
Exposes the hungry rust-red soil
And in the heat, moisture escapes
Giving the air the smell of blood
Then the pick arcs and thuds deep
Turning and piling high the spoil heap
The wastage.
And at the edge of Mbana’s mothers grave
A few people gather.
Here for the food and the warm weak beer
Sadness tempered by familiarity
Grief is now a thing for children
Tears can never turn back time.
AIDS
All Innocence Dies
It breaks the Earth
It breaks the Earth.
27.2.05. Children in need, South Africa.
this fragile tent 
