This Man’s Words Will Make You Appreciate the Beauty of Life | Short Film Showcase

[Music] How amazing is this stay, the spiders webcast? Its shadow play lies, sing in sprays. Redwoods and broad oaks hold sway, rip berries for beaks and lips. Patches of white lace all set on this delicate plate. We at your table, but [Music].

Guess I've been writing poetry for the last 13 years. Shortly after my wife's death from cancer, I knew there were things that wanted to come out of me. Within a year, poetry started happening. It was very rudimentary, and it took time to learn. The poem is a little bit like a child; you want it to stand on its own two feet, and you can't rush it. You want it to sail on its way into the world so that it can live out its own destiny and hopefully touch people in some way.

Growing up in Israel in its beginning years, the majesty of life was in front of me at all times. The hills then were full of poppy and sheep, snakes, beautiful wild flowers. Moving to England when I was 9 years old, I—I didn't know how to read or write English, so I was forced to listen very carefully, and I developed an ear for sound.

Dappling, flaking, silvery brown cracked, pecked, holy cleft trunk, limbs hanging by a thread of an old unpruned apple tree. Rich leafy mold stewing in your mossy base, home to thousands. 100 years of hollowing to bear everything sweet fruit. 100 years of hollowing to bear everything sweet fruit.

When my poetry comes from my mind, it falls flat. It has to come from somewhere deeper; it has to carry an emotional truth. Some come to me in dreams, some come in silence, many many come when I'm on a walk. The natural world gives to me so much; just the air on my face changes the mood. And then, as I look closely, every day there's something else happening.

It's easy to forget that, in fact, life is a very fluid affair. Very recently, I was due to give a house concert, and two days before, I found myself walking into emergency in hospital and being told I had cancer. So facing death and loss are kind of preliminary qualifications for writing poetry in my case. The suffering I've been given—I haven't sought it, but it certainly played its role in house cleaning, creating a space so other things could come in. Despite the raging and protestations of my ego, grace can pierce through the apparent dullness of daily life.

Now, in what I believe is my last stage of life, I'm able to say I'm happy that, you know, this is what I've been given. Because every day counts. I may be grumpy, I may be tired, and so on, but I'm alive, you know? And there's a lot to appreciate on a daily basis. A sea of sunny faces greets me; they gently wave. Familiar friends rise once again for the pleasure of murmuring winged creatures. Each petal arrayed like you or me; each golden pollen center, a heart like mine or yours. Arrayed in unpretentious glory, unafraid, open to breeze, rain, the moa's blade. They'll spring again to heap their blessings on another timeless day. [Applause] [Music] [Music] [Music]