AN UPDATE

In February 2024 I went into hospital for a cardiothoracic operation which is on the main thoracic artery. I should have been home in about two weeks but whilst I was on the operating table I suffered three strokes which left me comatose for about two weeks, during which time I was living entirely in a deep and very realistic morphine dream. When I say the dreams were realistic I should also say they were pretty fantastical but totally believable. To me they were the only reality. I could not tell that I was dreaming. I am still not sure if some parts really happened.

The strokes left me incapable of reading, writing or drawing which are my three main interests. My degree has also been delayed again.

A year later I can write and use my smartphone, which had become a complete mystery to me, and I have listened to Audible quite a lot but I’m able to read books again. I still cannot draw. My keyboard skills are a struggle. I used to like walking in solitude and it often inspired poetry but although I can walk I can’t go out alone.

April is poetry month, and I have not written a poem since my stroke last year. I’m not actually sure whether I can still write poetry but poetry month seems to be a good opportunity to test myself out and so I do intend to try and participate this year and I will post the results onto Dreaming Path regardless of their merits. We shall see. It’s an experiment.

Poetry Book

I have published a poetry book (over 200 poems) on Amazon ~

”Walking in Between” by A.Gouedard

Available internationally on Kindle

Also available in a paperback edition

You can find it on my Authors Page at

https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=a+gouedard

 

cover WALKING

The Moonlight Lamp – a book

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=a.gouedard

This is a collection of poems – some have appeared in my posts here and some have not

A Welsh Voice

 

The mists, the mountains, cloud topped giants,
houses hung beneath the roads,
the mysteries of Cader Idris,
the bearded lake, Arthur’s stone,
a throne beside the glassy water
hollowed rock o’er grown with moss,
the leap of silvered salmon in the river,
the sheep, the lanes, the wayside markers
in the wall of wild flowers blooming,
by granite seat of ancient Bards,
where people gathered
hearing story roll from lips and memory.
All these things we saw together,
wandering in the wilderness of Wales
with my father, as a child.

The village streets where women gossiped,
the cobblestones and chimney pots
enchanted drifts of wood-smoked air
the clanging chime of book shop bell
as my father lead me to a gloomy room
walled with shelves.
Reaching up above my head
he handed me Dylan Thomas
a poet he had never read.

In bed that night a door swung open
with all the chimes of stream and meadow
louder than the bookshop bell
ringing out in word and image
words delicious in my mouth
the sounds, the shapes, the sensual pleasures
wrapped in beauty, thoughts profound,
laughter, love, the lowing cattle
driven home at eventide.
The orchards and the apple trees,
the night above that shines with stars.
The chapel choirs sang out across the valleys
voices raised in harmony and hymn,
the moaning echoes of the wind in grass
the sighing singing of the sea,
short lives lived
parading slowly to the grave.

The Hidden Ones

Our people were warriors, they journeyed far.
They followed the sun, the moon, the stars.
They honoured their dead who dwell with the living.
They left their mark on hilltop and moor.

They farmed the land to suit the seasons,
Skilled in crafts and rejoicing in song.
They sailed the seas and carved the stones.
They run in the blood, remembered in bone.

In spoken words, with no need of books,
Their stories passed from heart to heart.
Power and land they may have lost
But their thoughts and truths were not overcome

They have no followers yet are followed still,
With origins lost but stories repeated,
In the great glories of poetry that still lives on,
They are amongst us here, the hidden ones.

a worm

blackbird below in the garden
after the fallen rain
turns his ear to the ground
listens,
poised, focused
strikes

me, up here in the window,
watching, looking, searching,  
seeing, focused
writes