Bridal Red

 

Dear Reader,

Traditionally the Kikuyu were skilled agriculturalists cultivating millet, sorghun, yams, beans and sweet potatoes, later shifting to cash crops like coffee,  tea and maize.

Society was decentralized and organized around extended family units, age sets, and councils of elders rather than centralized kingdoms.  They practiced monotheistic worship of Ngai - believed to reside on Mount Kirinyaga (Kenya) and held in deep reverence for ancestral spirits and sacred fig trees.

With the arrival of British colonial rule in the late 19th and early 20th century, European settlers appropriated large swaithes of fertile Kikuyu land in the central highlands.

Today while many Kikuyu have embraced Christianity and urban modern life, traditional customs - such as marriage negotiations remain culturally vital.

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I wrote this poem after seeing a documentary film of this story.   I found it all very upsetting and have never forgotten this young girl.  After being with her new family for a fortnight or so she commit ed suicide.

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From Francis Kilvert    November 3rd   1874  in Wiltshire

'....the strange hoarse belling of the buck, the fluttering of the coot as she skimmed the water with her melancholy note, the cry of the swans across the lake, the clicking of the reels as the fishermen wound up or let out their lines, the soft murmur of the woods, the quiet rustle of the red and golden drifts of beech leaves, the rush of the waterfall, the light tread of the dappled herd of deer dark and dim glancing across the green glades from shadow into sunlight and rustling under the beeches, and the merry voices of the Marquis's children at play.'

From James Woodforde   November 6th in Norfolk

'There was a most violent gale of wind this morning early about 3 o'clock, continued more than an hour.  It waked me.  It also shook the house.  It greatly frighted our maids in the garrett.  Some limbs of trees blown down in my garden.   Many windmills blown down.'

 

 

 

 

Bridal Red

 

 

I saw

a young girl smiling,

laughing, threading beads, minding goats

holding hands with sisters, friends,

chattering, gossiping, rough and tumbling

in bright sunlight.

 

I saw

scrub-plains,

blue mountains,  straw huts,

men on haunches, and thin dogs, fat babies,

loving families, happiness.

 

I saw

men, suddenly, appear from a distant village,

offering cows and sheep as an exchange

for a shepherd in need of a wife.

The girl was chosen,

a bargain was struck

 

I saw

her stand silently, acquiescent,

red ochre paste and mud

plastered on her shaven head,

necklaces of golden wire

wound tightly round her neck,

ankle bracelets in profusion.

 

I saw

her sisters, her friends, not laughing now,

offering presents,

a carved stick,  a beaded purse.

At dawn she would leave as the sun rose,

to walk over the mountain pass

to an unknown bridegroom,

an unknown life.

 

I saw

as she left 

her tears trickling,

then flooding through the paste and mud.

I saw her sorrow as the colour red,

and a crown of thorns her maidenhead.

 

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The House

 Dear Reader,

 

The Easter lily takes its roots back to the Ryukyu islands in Southern Japan.   It was first introduced in England in 1819 and America in 1880.

The Easter lily primarily symbolizes purity, hope, rebirth, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.  The flower grows from a scaly bulb that stays dormant underground before emerging into a bright bloom, mirroring Jesus lying in the tomb for three days and rising to new life.

The pure white colour of the petals represents the sinless purity of Christ and the restored innocence of the soul.  The distinctive trumpet shape of the flowers acts a symbolic trumpet, announcing the message that Jesus has risen and conquered death.

Tradition has it that white lilies sprang up where drops of Christ's sweat or blood fell in the Garden of Gethsemane or from the remorseful tears of Eve as she left Eden. 

 

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I have always loved Easter Lilies but unfortunately their scent catches my breathe and hurts my chest so I can no longer have them in the house which is very sad.

 

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From John Clare   October 31st 1824  in Northants 

'Took a walk, got some branches of the spindle tree with its pink-color'd berries that shine beautifully in the pale sun.'

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth   October 31st  1800 in Grasmere, Westmorland

'A very fine moonlight night - The moon shone like herrings in the water.'

 

From S.T. Coleridge  October 31st  1803 in Cumberland

'The full moon glided on behind a black cloud. And what then?  And who cared?'

 

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The House

Was it the sound of Chopin
filling the street air,
escaping from a large keyhole
in the weathered front door,
or the first glimpse of pale
stone flooring ad a rocking horse
in the hall corner, or was it the
Easter lilies rising tall out of
white enamel jugs and books
everywhere, everywhere?

Was it the ancient dog
in front of a small log fire,
protected by a staunch Victorian fireguard,
or the scrubbed table and gentian-blue 
hyacinths peeking out of a copper bowl,
Rockingham pottery plates
each one different,
or the sculpture of an unknown woman
young, rounded smooth,
placed lovingly on a window shelf
catching a flicker of the January sun?

Or was it the smell of beef stew,
a nursery smell dredged from childhood,
or the sight of home-grown pears
floating in sugared juice?
Or was the feeling of safety,
warmth and love
everywhere, everywhere,
that overwhelmed me?
 

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 With very best wishes, Patricia

 

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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