David Selzer

BEFORE

By David SelzerJune 26, 20251 Comment1 min read1.7K views

Remember – before the Catastrophe, the

Ruin, the Shoah – that there were millions

in the shtetls in what is now Belarus,

Hungary, Latvia, Lithuania,

Moldova, Poland, Romania,

Russia and Ukraine; small market towns, part

of the lost continent of Yiddishland;

with its piety, and its superstition;

its wit, graft, poverty, and frequent terrors;

its klezmer bands, and its dancing circles;

winter’s whirling snowdrifts, summer’s gnats,

across the goyim’s steppes and in their forests,

before the Ruin, the Catastrophe;

juddering images, still, flickering.

There is an old Yiddisher aphorism:

‘Di ganste velt iz eyn shtetl’ – ‘The

whole world is a small town’.

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IN THE LONG AGO

By David SelzerJune 26, 20252 Comments1 min read1.7K views

A week to the day before 9/11

we were sitting on the open top deck

of a Lower Manhattan tour bus.

We passed many places to conjure with,

like the New York Criminal Court with its

classical portico supported by

nine Corinthian columns. On its steps

the last scene of TWELVE ANGRY MEN was filmed,

Sidney Lumet’s unmatched movie about

bigotry, justice, and being human.

But, because of the so-called War on Terror,

the most vivid memory of that tour

is the bronze globe turning in the fountain

in the World Trade Centre’s busy plaza.

We were staying with a friend on Long Island –

in Jamaica Estates, Queens. In those days

we got our news from The Guardian, which

was not available in the local

Key Food Store! – so we missed news about

the first World Conference Against Racism

then being held in Durban, South Africa.

Inevitably the Global North

and the Global South fell out about

agenda items regarding reparations

for Atlantic Slavery and whether

Zionism is a racist concept.

9/11 sidelined the outrage, that

act of terror which was used to fortify

the dominion of the North. To be human,

it seems, is to choose: be selfish or just.

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AND THE STARS

By David SelzerJune 26, 20251 Comment1 min read1.9K views

One of the few survivors of the attack

on a Gaza City refuge – that had once

been a school – is a five-year-old girl,

who walks alone through the burning building.

Her name is Waad. Most of her family

have perished, including her mother.

Traumatised she speaks softly: ‘I love Mama

as big as the sky and the earth – and the stars.’

She is surrounded by concrete rubble,

domestic detritus, and the unfound dead.

An hour or so’s drive away, a horde of

well-fed men is striding through the narrow streets

of old Jerusalem chanting ‘Death

to the Arabs!’ Though the Arabic

and Hebrew for ‘death’ and ‘love’ have the same

Semitic roots, the child and the chanting mob

seem galaxies apart.

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OTHER PEOPLE'S FLOWERS

OTHER PEOPLE’S FLOWERS: DIANA SANDERS – POET & MUSICIAN

By David SelzerJune 12, 20252 Comments6 min read2.3K views

David shows so much generosity in sharing other people’s work on his website. It’s an honour to join this community and be included in ‘Other People’s Flowers’. In this age of the individual, this is a breath of fresh air. The themes of my recent poems are aligned with this way of thinking – how the self is intrinsically connected to other people, the creatures who live on this planet and the landscape in general. The moods and colours of the landscape are reflected in me and sometimes I wonder if the colour of a dress I may be wearing finds its way into the landscape.

I live on a hill overlooking the Alwen valley with my husband Pete. The music of the land is all around – the streams, waterfalls, the river, the sound of trees in the wind. Bird song is never far away, even in winter and the donkeys from the farm opposite are unrestrained in their braying. Chaffinches, goldfinches, siskins, blue tits, nuthatches, greater spotted woodpeckers, robins turn up at our door for breakfast, lunch, dinner and tea. I think they eat better than we do. As well as the song birds there are the more subtle sounds of bats chattering in the roof, leaves unfurling, the sound of bees and hover flies.

The love I feel for this wild place, on this earth, is unconditional. The kind of love you feel for a partner, a parent or a child. It is precious. When we harm the earth, we harm ourselves. It is self-harm. I quote Just by Radiohead (1995). ‘You do it to yourself, you do and that’s what really hurts, is that you do it to yourself, just you. You and no one else’.

The poems and music that I have included here are words that comment on how humans are harming this world but also how people are finding innovative ways to heal landscapes. There is also a celebration of the beauty of this incredible world. All the poems and the song are also on a specially created video – which is available on my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/100063451100133/videos/4070467436574443

My first poem, 235 decibels is from ‘I Am Nature’, a recently released book of eco poetry written by Leaf Pettit, me, Patricia Sumner and Andrew Sumner. This is available from https://www.veneficiapublications.com/product-page/i-am-nature 235 decibels was first published, though, by Abergavenny Small Press in June 2021 and looks at how submarine sonar effects the creatures in the ocean.

235 decibels*

hard to remember how it was
when they improvised and tossed
a tune for days on end
when small one set his voice free
when they all played catch bubbles O
O

O
O

when a chorus of bass notes
overtones tail-slaps clicks rumbles
filled the sea
when wind sang the lighthouse

there was a time when they could answer
songs from beyond the krill place
a time when their voices
were loudest

but now dark ones ____________________
won’t stop ___________________screaming
and lurk ___________________in the deep places
stealing music and sleep _________________________

sometimes muscles _______________remember old patterns_________________
but they ______________can no longer tell _____________what they sing

moon still licks it tongue ________________over their backs
but there is no meaning in this water_________________

* A Submarine sonar is 235 decibels. The loudest rock concert is 130 decibels.

The following lyrics were written for a song called The Seal recorded by The Amazing Clouds in 2019. The Amazing Clouds were Pete Regan, me, and Dom Oakes. It was written after visiting Ramsey Island just off the coast of Pembrokeshire. It was Autumn and the seals and their pups were in full voice.

Seal

I sit on polished rock
and listen to the seals.
Their song coils into my mind.
I dive into water.
I swim with the cormorant.
I swim with the gannet.
Bubbles are jewels on my skin.
I am born for water.
I am a shape-shifter.
The setting sun blinds me,
I’m lost on the stormy sea.
Seal pushes me to shore,
it’s there I leave my human skin.
I am born for water,
I am a shape-shifter.

I am continuing the theme of water with The man who called back the fishes. This poem is also from I am Nature and is based on the work of Dr Tim Lamont and Dr Stephen Simon who are trying to regenerate coral reefs by planting new corals and then playing sounds of a healthy reef through underwater sound projectors. This process has been found to encourage sea creatures back to the reef.

The man who called back the fishes

He began at dawn, playing reef music
whilst planting coral polyps in rock
cervices under the rippled, sunlit surface.

He purred for shoals of angel fish,
grunted for male frill fin gobies —
played the güiro for the spiny lobster.

The volume rose in a steady crescendo
through the day until it peaked at dusk.
In his dreams he painted outlines of eels,

filled in the colours of damsel fish
and the others who lived here before
the cyclones, before the bleaching.

The music rode ocean currents,
skirted islands, entered caves,
followed rafts of driftwood.

Ray by ray, fish by fish, urchins,
triggerfish, shrimp, parrotfish,
whitetip sharks, reef octopus,

manta ray, barracuda, trumpetfish,
yellowtail snappers, glassy sweepers
and starfish came back for his music.

They joined in with an eruption
of pops, howls, chirps and grunts,
whistles, snaps, bumps,

buzzes, squeals, heart beats,
teeth-gnashing, tail-slapping,
gill-flapping and staccato clicks.

He floated in this new oasis,
turned off the music
and listened.

The next poem, Blossom Symphony is about the natural music in an orchard and how the cycles of the seasons spiral into the future. I’ve used the pantoum form to enhance the feeling of repetition.

Blossom Symphony

Blossoms unfurl —
a single phrase repeated
over and over —
orchards heartbeat.

A single phrase repeated,
embellished by bumble bees —
orchards heart beat —
leaf veins breathe.

Embellished by bumble bees
and nightjar churr —
leaf veins breathe —
voles chomp on June-drop litter.

Nightjars churr —
counter melodies from wasps.
voles chomp on June-drop litter —
hawk-moths purr.

There are counter melody from wasps
and woodpecker drumrolls,
whilst hawk-moths purr
along with mineral-water arpeggios.

Woodpecker drumrolls
whilst sky rests in roots.
Mineral-water arpeggios
swell embryo fruits.

Sky rests in roots
liquid sun rushes through branches —
swells embryo fruits.
Under trees they clink glasses.

Liquid sun gushes through branches
they listen to the bubble fizz
under trees they clink glasses —
share a cider kiss.

They listen to the bubble fizz
over and over —
share a cider kiss
as blossoms unfurl.

My next poem was written in the North of Sweden just after midsummer. There is nothing quite like walking up a mountain with no one else there, reaching the peak at midnight and it still being light.

Midnight Circle

Sleep is vacuum packed as we walk
above sun-lit clouds into midnight.
You haven’t shaved for five days;
your face as raw and uncomplicated
as glacial scoured rock.

Our shadows                     stretch out
behind us                          touching
the lemming                      that sped
between                            birch trees,
the golden plover              who stood sentinel
over her chicks                  and tracing our boots
as we trod softly                on elk and Sami trails
and finding you                 watching me
swim naked                       in a mountain stream.

Our shadows pause           trembling
on the glittering river         where I found
a rounded stone                which I roll

like a precious egg in my hands.

Lastly, I return to the Pembrokeshire Coast with a poem about the Smalls Lighthouse which is about 20 miles West of the Pembrokeshire coast in the Irish Sea. It is a wild and remote place. It is hard to imagine how the lighthouse keepers kept their sanity on these windswept and lonely rocks. This also appears in I am Nature.

Guardian

The Smalls Lighthouse

Gannets skim the boat
borrowing updrafts.

He watches until birds disappear
until the boat is a dot

until engine noise is lost

under the voice of waves
under the creak of barnacles.

He works alone

repairing horn and light
until sunset.

Stretched out on rock –
hair thick with sea salt

he listens to night spirits –

to ones who worked the light before
to the wreck-chatter of the deep.

Ripples of phosphorescence
flame from his watery toes

pulsing out to dark places.

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MERELY PLAYERS

By David SelzerMay 29, 20252 Comments1 min read1.8K views

John Clare – the celebrity bard, the ‘peasant

poet’;’drunkard’; ‘madman’; as famous

in his time as Keats – acquired many loyal

and enthusiastic patrons, among them

Bishop Marsh of Peterborough and his wife.

He sometimes stayed in the medieval palace.

On one occasion, Mrs Marsh took Clare

to see a performance by a touring

theatre company, whose repertoire

comprised French melodramas and Shakespeare’s plays.

The production that night was THE MERCHANT

OF VENICE. Clare sat through the first three acts –

in the box reserved for the Lord Bishop’s wife –

totally engrossed in the words and the actions,

oblivious of Mrs Marsh’s asking him

if he were enjoying the play. At the start

of the fourth act – set in a Venetian court –

he became agitated, and, at the point

where Shylock does not give the ‘gentle answer’

hoped for, Clare stood, shouting, “You villain,

you murderous villain!” – and leaped from the box

onto the stage. A couple of the more burly

actors prevented his reaching Shylock,

and strong armed him, with difficulty,

back into the box. As Mrs Marsh

tried to soothe the distracted poet,

the play was abandoned.

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NOTORIETY

By David SelzerMay 29, 20252 Comments1 min read1.8K views

In 1963 the final footage

of CLEOPATRA – then the most expensive

movie ever made with its casts, locations,

and special effects – was completed

at the Cinecittà studios, Rome.

The two stars of what would become the then

most profitable blockbuster ever screened,

Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton –

daughter of an American art dealer

and son of a Welsh miner, creations,

creatures of Hollywood – flew to Sicily,

to continue their affaire. They stayed

at the San Domenico Palace,

a luxury hotel in Taormina.

Two of the highest paid movie actors,

and both married with children, they were grist

to gossip columnists and public

moralists alike. Much was made of their roles

as Cleopatra and Mark Antony.

The San Domenico Palace Hotel

was originally a monastery.

Built on the top of a cliff high above

the Roman Sea it has had many

notorious celebrity guests,

among them emperors from the New World –

George W. Bush and Donald J. Trump.

In 1967 the movies stars

returned to the hotel. Showbiz legend

has Elizabeth Taylor, on the terrace

of the bridal suite, break either an

acoustic guitar or a mandolin

over Richard Burton’s head or back.

As Martha said in Edward Albee’s

WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF?

‘Truth or illusion, George, you don’t know

the difference.’ To which George replied,

‘No, but we must carry on as though we did’.

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