A Curse

Dear Reader,

 

Over the years I have put this poem on my blog and it seems that it has touched a chord with some of you. It was William Shakespeare who dared anyone to remove or disturb his bones as can be seen in the church in Stratford -upon- Avon where he is buried. 

 Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear
To dig the dust enclosed here
Blessed be the man that spares these stones
And cursed be he who moves my bones 

Your burial ground should be sacred and it is disgraceful to dig it up and put any contents on show in a public place.  You should be allowed to rest in peace.  A curse on you who plunder the earth, and violate sacred places ......

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From John Everett Millais  October 16th  1851 in Surrey

'Worked on my picture; painted nasturtiums; saw a stoat run into a hole in the garden wall; went up to it and endevoured to lure the little beast out by mimicking a rat's or mouse's squeak...Succeeded, to my astonishment.  He came half out of the hole and looked in my face, within easy reach. 

 

From William Allingham   October 17th   1863 in the New Forest, Hampshire

'Two woodpeckers, green as parroquets.  The setting sun, the fiery ferns, the golden-russet beechen leaves. 

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A Curse

 

 

on those who plunder the earth,

and violate sacred places......

 

A curse on those who disturb

and steal gently-bandaged skulls,

legs, arms, and finger-bones,

jewels: perhaps a pearl bracelet,

a coral ring, hair pins, or a mosiac plate,

set out lovingly with food

for the long journey home.

Who have lain there, at peace,

for many thousand years,

the sand, the desert winds, the rains,

nature’s bed.

 

 

A curse on those whose

laughter and excitement

fills the air, stealing these remains,

transporting them to people

in white coats,

who dissect their dignity,

stick labels on them,

give them to museums

to enlighten an ice-cream licking public.

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Invocation to Iona (repeat)

 Dear Reader,

 

Obviously the 'Invocation to Iona' poem is very popular with you so I decided to put it on again this week.

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Puffins are iconic seabirds known for their colourful bills and clumsy walk on the land.  They use rough their tongues to pin slippery fish against the roof of their mouths, allowing them to carry a record-breaking number of fish at once, often around 10/12 or up to a dozen in a single trip.

Their vibrant orange and red bills are actually a seasonal decoration.  In winter they shed the colourful outer sheaf of their bill and become a dull grey, blooming bright orange again in spring to attract a mate

Puffins are largely monogamous and mate for life, sometimes staying with the same partner for up to 20 years.   When couples re-unite at the colony after spending months apart at sea, they greet each other with a ritual called 'billing' where they gently tap and rub their beaks together.  Instead of open nests puffins dig 1- 3 meters deep into grassy cliffs or take over an abandoned rabbit tunnel to lay their single egg. 

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I have still got a vicious cough.  How long, I wonder, will I have it and when will it go away.?  AI tells me that I can have it for 6-8 weeks. Lots to look forward to then.

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From Dorothy Wordsworth  October 11th  1802 in Westmorland 

' A beautiful day.  We walked to the Easedale hills to hunt waterfalls.  William and Mary left me sitting on a stone in the solitary mountains, and went to Easedale tarn.  I grew chilly and followed them.' 

 Just a note here.  Poor Mary Wordsworth (William's wife) never got a moment with her husband without Dorothy appearing to accompany them, wanted or not.

 

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Invocation to Iona

 

“Iona, sacred island, mother,

I honour you,

who cradle the bones

of Scottish kings,

Who birthed coloured gemstones

to enchant bleached beaches,

who shelter puffins on your rocks.

 

I wrap myself in your history,

and knot the garment with

machair rope-grass.

In the Port of Coracle

your southern bay,

I hear the wind-blown cormorants’s cry

and draw a breath.

I see Columba’s footsteps

in the sand, and weep.

Tears overflow,

I am spirit-engulfed.

 

“I ask you, Iona,

is this then, or now,

what is, or what has been?

Does the rolling salt sea-mist

cover the uncounted time between?”

 

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With  very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

Invocation to Iona

 Dear Reader,

The island of Iona, off the west coast of Scotland is widely celebrated as the cradle of Scottish Christianity, famous for its historic abbey and royal burial grounds.

The Irish monk, St. Columba, arrived at Iona is 563 AD with 12 companions.  He built a small monastery and used the remote island as a base to spread Celtic Christianity across Scotland and northern Britain.  

 

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 I think Iona is the most spiritual, and magical too, of all the places I have visited in my life. I went down to the beach where St.Columba arrived thousands of years ago and literally burst into tears. The beach was deserted, I was alone, and felt at one with St. Columba on this beautiful island with its history.  I would like to call Iona home, but in fact I live many miles from Scotland and Iona, so I have just got my vivid memories to think about, and lots of photographs of course.

 

 

 

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From Dorothy Wordsworth    October 1st  1800 in Westmorland

'A very rainy morning.   We walked after dinner to observe the torrents....the lichens are now coming out afresh, I carried home a collection in the afternoon.  We had a pleasant conversation about the manners of the rich- avarice, inordinate desires, and the effeminacy, unnaturalness, and the unworthy objects of education.....a showery evening.  The moonlight lay upon the hills like snow.' 

 

  From Francis Kilvert   October 4th    1871 in Radnorshire

' A mournful splendour in the brilliant gold of the sloes and the crimson leaves of the pear trees.    

 

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Invocation to Iona

 

“Iona, sacred island, mother,

I honour you,

who cradle the bones

of Scottish kings,

Who birthed coloured gemstones

to enchant bleached beaches,

who shelter puffins on your rocks.

 

I wrap myself in your history,

and knot the garment with

machair rope-grass.

In the Port of Coracle

your southern bay,

I hear the wind-blown cormorants’s cry

and draw a breath.

I see Columba’s footsteps

in the sand, and weep.

Tears overflow,

I am spirit-engulfed.

 

“I ask you, Iona,

is this then, or now,

what is, or what has been?

Does the rolling salt sea-mist

cover the uncounted time between?”

 

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia

 

Acknowledgement

 Dear Reader,

 

I have a chest infection so no blog today just this poem and a quote from Francis Kilvert.

 

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From Francis Kilvert    September 21st   1870 in Radnorshire

'Another dense fog which cleared off to cloudless blue and brilliant sunshine at 11....   Went to the Bronith. People at work in the orchard gathering up the windfall apples for early cider.  The smell of the apples very strong.  Beyond the orchards the lone aspen was rustling loud and mournfully a lament for the departure of summer .  Called on the old soldier. He was with his wife in the garden digging and gathering potatoes which turned up very large and sound....'

 

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Acknowledgement

 

We walked along the woodland path
my grandchild and I
noting nature things,
pointing out early primroses, aconites, wild violets.

We crossed the stream, and headed up the hill,
"Look a rabbit", my grandchild said,
Together we saw one magpie, the two.
We shared a chocolate bar, drank from the stream
cupping our hands.

Kneeling in the rich earth I said,
"we are part of this 
you and I, dear granddaughter,
part of this earth is us."

She nodded.

"D you know Grandpa, Granny?" she said.
He said nature is part of us, or ought to be.
She chattered on and
God forgive me, I didn't hear.  

Do I know Grandpa?  Yes. A bit.
We lived together for twenty years.
I do know of his love for wild things,
for nature, and of his quick eye,
and how he loved me once
and how I loved him.

 Yes, dear granddaughter,
I do know Grandpa. 

 

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With best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

Rooks

 Dear reader,

The rook is a clever, social bird of the crow family, (Corvidae) that has shared the European and Asian landscape with humans for centuries.

Medieval folklore claimed larger gatherings of rooks were a "parliament" where the birds judged and executed peers who stole twigs from neighbouring nests.

Depending on the region, rooks were viewed as good luck and protection or as a bad omen tied to weather and death.  British weather have linked their soaring flight to dry days and their cawing to coming rain.

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Had a lovely week this week with the weather just right. Gosh it makes such a difference.  I absolutely hated the heat we had in the summer this year.  I don't think English people are designed for the heat, I am certainly not.  70 degrees and a little drizzle is just the ticket.

 

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From William Cooper   September 18th  1784 in Buckinghamshire

'I sit with all the windows and the door (of the greenhouse) wide open, and am regaled with the scent of every flower in a garden as full of flowers as I have known how to make it.   We keep no bees, but if I lived in a hive I should hardly her more of their music.  All the bees in the neighbourhood resort to a bed of mignonette, opposite to the window; and pay me for the honey they get out of it by a hum, which, though rather monotonous, is as agreeable to my ear as the whistling of my linnets.' 

From Jane Austen   September 18th  1796 in Kent

'What dreadful hot weather we have! - It keeps one in a continual state of inelegance.'

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Rooks

 I was fourteen,

when I first heard

the call of the rooks

caw-cawing

their eerie cries.

 

From a Cornish cottage garden

I walked down through

dark woods to the beach,

a remote place,

just dunes, sand, the sea

and me, a confused, angry teenager,

with the rooks caw-cawing in my ears

disturbing my thoughts.

 

Even now, in later years,

whenever I hear whispers from the wind,

or sea lapping over large grey stones

ever forward, ever backward,

glimpse a faraway horizon

and see twilight descending

darkening the sky,

the rooks in large black groups

flying high towards

their evening bed,

cawing, cawing, cawing,

my heart misses a beat

and an unexplained sadness

overcomes me.

 

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With very best wishes,

Patricia 

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Rib-cages Virus

 Dear Reader,

 

It has occurred to me in the last few months that my blog is not only dull, but boring too.  And this was verified by a close friend this week.  So I can't understand why so many people read it, especially in  far away places where English is not even spoken.   Or perhaps they don't, in fact read it, and have simply got used to ticking the like button every Sunday, as a habit perhaps.  Anyway what should I do about the question of how dull it is?  I haven't found a solution to the that question yet but probably will have in the near future.

About the poem this week.  My daughter Tiffany has got a bad dose of bronchitis and coughs and coughs. I told her of a poem I had written when I had the same problem and sent her a copy.  She thought it was 'brilliant" but I have been  reluctant to publish it because it is so gloomy (and dull!!) although it is exactly how I felt when coughing myself and staying up all night because lying flat is out of the question. Thomas Hardy has written a poem about being ill called 'A Wasted Illness' which is worth looking up if you are interested in this subject.

 

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From Dorothy Wordsworth  September 14th 1800 in Westmorland

'A lovely day.  Read Boswell in the house in the morning, and after dinner under the bright yellow leaves of the orchard.  The pear trees a bright yellow.  The apple trees still green.  A sweet lovely afternoon. '

 

From Francis Kilvert   September 14th 1873 in North Devon

'I got up at 6 o'clock as the sun was rising behind the Tors at Lynton.  The house was silent and no one seemed to be about.  I unlocked the door and let myself out into the garden.  It was one of the loveliest mornings that ever dawned upon this world.  A heavy dew had fallen in the night and as I wandered down the beautiful winding terraced walks every touch sent a shower from the great blue globes of the hydrangeas, and on every crimson fuchsia pendant flashed a diamond dew drop.  The clear pure crisp air of the early morning blew fresh and exhilarating as the breeze came sweet from the sea. 

 

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The Rib-Caged Virus

The obscene creature
crouches in its corner.
All at once it leaps
striking out
hurling itself against the rib-boned cage.
Spitting venom-virus
it grasps the throat
twisting, punching, pulling
with fierce, unrelenting strength.
Its slate-black tentacles encircle
its victim's airways,
and squeeze their breath,
as it rattles the bones.
It attacks, attacks again, then
all at once it stills,

slouches, crouches, grins and waits,
tongue lolling.

The woman gasps
at the onslaught,

coughs, croup's, sweats, retches,
spits the debris,
feels faint-weary
sleep deprived, dirty
exhausted, fearful.

The clock ticks.
The woman waits.

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The Mind Cupboard

 

 

 My mind cupboard overflows

with unwanted debris.

It needs a spring clean.

 

I will brush away the cobwebs

of cheerless thoughts.

Scrub out the stains of childhood.

 

I will replace the brass hooks

corroded with salt tears,

empty all the screams

hoarded through the years.

 

I will replace the accumulated ashes

from the worn shelf-paper,

with virgin tissue.

 

I will chase and catch the wasps,

relieve them of their stings.

I will refill this cupboard

with love, and learnt, brighter things.

 

 

 

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Dear Reader,

 

I am sorry this all seems so gloomy and dull?  But you can't please everyone all the time, as they say. And 'The Mind Cupboard' is your favourite poem of mine.

 

With very best wishes,

Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Small moments of warmth

Dear Reader, 

 

William Macdonald founded Macdonald Biscuits in Glasgow in 1828.  After seeing some biscuits from Antwerp, Belgium, he was inspired to create a chocolate covered biscuit with a chocolate cream sandwich in the centre.

They were first produced in 1932 and became a McVities product a few years after Macdonald was taken over by United biscuits in 1965.   Each wrapper has a joke or 'funny fact' printed on it and imaginative, often humorous designs featuring penguins that often pastiche famous works of art.

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I think the biscuits are delicious and perfect on a picnic. 

 

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From Francis Kilvert   September 6th   1875 in Wiltshire

'The morning suddenly became glorious and we saw what had happened in the night. All night long millions of samarium spiders had been spinning and the whole country was covered .....The gossamer webs gleamed and twinkled into crimson and gold and green, like the most exquisite shot-silk dress in the finest texture of gauzy silver wire. I never saw anything like it or anything so exquisite as 'the Virgin's webs' glowed with changing opal lights and glanced with all the colours of the rainbow.  At 4 o'clock Miss Meredith Brown and her beautiful sister Etty came over to afternoon tea with us and a game of croquet. 

 

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Small moments of warmth

 

 

 

 

I remember a little warmth,

Joey trotting the family through Norfolk lanes,

the small yellow trap swaying in the sunshine.

 

I remember picnics on Yarmouth beach

with enough blue sky ‘to make a sailor’s trouser’.

We ate cucumber sandwiches, Penguin biscuits.

 

I remember dark evenings,

the small warm flame from a Tilly lamp

lighting the kitchen, and sometimes for supper

we had chicken, chocolate mousse.

 

I remember a warm holiday in France

squeezed into the back of a car,

singing old thirties love songs.

 

But will these small moments of warmth,

at the end, be enough to heat and split

the heavy stones that circle the human heart,

allow salt tears to trickle through the cracks?

 

 

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With very best wishes,  Patricia