Sunday 30 December 2018

Questions





Dear Reader,

My poem this week mentions butterflies so I thought I would do a little research on them for both you and myself.

Apparently some butterflies have inhabited the planet for at least 130 million years.  They showed up about the same time as did flowering plants.  This is known because of fossil records that butterflies left behind.   Many butterflies migrate for long distances and these migrations take place over thousands of generations and no single individual completes the trip.

Culturally, butterflies are a popular motif in the visual and literary arts.  In ancient Egypt 3500 years ago,  butterflies appeared in art form.  In the city of Teotihuacan the brilliant coloured image of the butterfly was carved into many temples, buildings, jewellery and emblazoned on incense burners.  The butterfly was sometimes depicted with the jaw of a jaguar and some species were considered to be the reincarnations of the souls of dead warriors. One Japanese superstition says that if a butterfly enters your guest room and perches behind the bamboo screen, the person whom you most love is coming to see you.  In the English county of Devon people hurried to kill the first butterfly of the year to avoid a year of bad luck.

                                                                        *


 Questions

Was the summer different then,
did the sun shine more, when
wet and cloudy days were few, when
butterflies took wing, and warm winds blew?

Did the bees collect more honey,
did we laugh more, were more things funny,
was the sea less rough, more azure,
did finer shells bewitch us on the shore?

Did roses fade so soon, wind or rain blown,
or were hedgerows so rich and pretty, grown
when all the summer days were bright,
not awash with rain, but drenched in light?

Were the days so cold and dreary,
and did we ever feel so weary
of days of heat and sun and sea,
picnics, sandcastles, flasks of tea?

Did dreams then, sometimes, come true
when love would find us, hold us too,
and make our whole world seem completely new,
when butterflies took wing, and warm winds blew?

                                                                           *


A very happy New Year to you all.

With best wishes, Patricia




Sunday 23 December 2018

Inheritance

Dear Reader,


                                                                       An 1834 painting of a Gloucester Old Spot Pig


The Gloucestershire Old Spot is an English breed of pigs which is predominately white with black spots.  It is named after the county of Gloucestershire.  The Gloucestershire Old Spot pig is known for its docility, intelligence and fertility.  The pigs are white with clearly defined black spots.  There must be at least one spot on the body to be accepted in the registry.  The breed maternal skills enable it to raise large litters of piglets on pasture.  Its disposition and self-sufficiency should make it attractive for farmers raising pasture pigs.

The first pedigree records of these pigs began in 1885, much later than it does for cattle, sheep and horses because the pig was a peasant's animal, a scavenger and never highly regarded.  No other pedigree spotted breed was recorded before 1913, so today's Gloucestershire Old Spot is recognised as the oldest such breed in the world.  The British Pig association says: "Although if old paintings are to be trusted, there have been spotted pigs around for two or three centuries......".

                                                                           *


Inheritance

What was it that made me
think of you, who
are bone-dust now,
with no statue or monument
to bear your witness?
Was it the apple-bruised spots
on the Gloucester Old Spot pigs,
their legacy from apple orchards, long ago,
to mark them out?

In the afternoon sunlight
as I bent to touch their skin
I saw that my hands, brown spotted,
were your hands, identical.
Was this your legacy to me,
something to say that you were here?

More precious than possessions,
you passed to me our inheritance
from some ancient eastern shore.
Your brownness, your hands, brown spotted,
which marked you.

                                                                       *

With very best wishes and a very happy Christmas,  Patricia

Sunday 16 December 2018

Bird Of My Loving

Dear Reader,






A very dear friend of mine, Mary Sheepshanks, poet and author, wrote the poem I am sending to you this week.  We met on the Island of Iona many years ago during a week's retreat from the world. And we have been friends ever since although it is difficult for us to meet because she lives in Scotland, a long way from Oxford.  The theme of the poem is one that has always interested me.  


I think we want to belong to someone without being overprotected by them.  We want to feel free to go wherever we want to with their blessing and so to return to them, refreshed, with a happy and loving heart.  There is a moving poem by Richard Lovelace (1618-58)  writing from prison which says in the first line of the poem:  Stone walls do not a prison make/nor iron bars a cage.  He says if he has freedom in his love, then his soul is free.  In this very technical and practical age we tend to forget about our souls - what are they after all?  But my soul plays a large part in my life and I take heed to what it tells me.

                                                                        *

The Bird of my Loving

To all the air I vainly cried:
"This octopus possession strangles me.
Can't I be loved and love
And still be free?"
But no one heard or listened
None replied.
Until upon the green horizon of my view
You came to stand.
The bird of all my loving flew to you.
You held it for a moment
In your hand,
Then opening up our fingers
To the sky you said:
"Our love is liberty.
feel free to fly
But know that I am true."
Because you never tried
To pinion it
The bird of  all my loving
Stays with you.

                                                                        *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Sunday 9 December 2018

Overheard

                                                                              Happy Christmas to you all

Dear Reader,

After our lovely summer and glorious autumn, the weather has decided to step in with rain and storms
to remind us that this is a sceptred island and that means fog, damp, rain and snow, as well as  exceptional beauty when the sun shines.

This is a piece I read from Francis Kilvert's journal, 1872.

" ...... at about half past four began the Great Storm of 1872.  Suddenly the wind rose up and began to roar at the tower window and shake the panes and lash the glass with torrents of rain.  It grew very dark and we struggled home in torrents of rain and tempests of wind so fearful that we could hardly force our way across the Common to the Rectory.  All the evening the roaring S.W. wind raged more and more furious.  It seemed as if the windows on the west side of the house must be blown in. The glass cracked and strained and bent ...... Now and then the moon looked out for a moment wild and terrified through a savage rent in the Storm.

Glad I didn't live then.
                                                                         *

Overheard

The woman sat
on a number 3 bus.
She settled comfortably,
the seat next to her vacant.
Another woman got on
not known to her.
She squeezed over and the
two sat cosily together.
'I'm off to the doctor', said one,
I need new tablets.'.

'Yes,' said the other:
'tablets keep me going too.'.
The two women talked animatedly
about their ailments, until one
of them reached her destination.

'I'm off now', she said, 'but lovely
meeting you.  Such an interesting talk.'.

Both women were happy.
Exchanging tablet talk
had invigorated them,
their shared experience
made them feel content.

                                                                    *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Sunday 2 December 2018

A Curse





Dear reader,

The emancipation of women is generally considered a relatively modern phenomenon but a new burial site in Lincolnshire has shown that females were already enjoying high social status, wealth and power in their own right.  Obviously these sites were only used by the rich and in Scremby, women buried at the 5th century cemetery were extensively dressed and surrounded by riches including amber necklaces, hundreds of glass beads, silver buckles and ivory clasps.

Dr. Hugh Williams, senior lecturer in European historical archaeology, from the University of Sheffield said:"What is particularly interesting is the significant proportion of very lavish burials which belonged to women. In what is seen as a masculine warrior society, the women were clearly held in high regard"

I suppose it should be of some comfort for us females to know that at least one time in history, albeit the 5th century, women were held in high regard.

                                                                             *

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 mosaic 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.


                                                                         *


With very best wishes,  Patricia