Sunday, 12 January 2020

Plumage






                                                                                       Birds of Paradise



Dear Reader,

I was watching a documentary on the Birds of Paradise last week and it struck me that the antics  of this species were not unlike the antics of the human male.  So I wrote the following poem and hope you enjoy it, it is supposed to be a bit of fun.

                                                                           *

Everyone I think will have their ideas on the Meghan and Harry saga.  Here is my two penny worth.
Obviously Meghan found it difficult to adapt to the royal regime, as I think anyone would, and I don't blame her for wanting to quit.  But sadly for Harry it is not so easy, trying to be half royal and half not royal simply wouldn't work.  If they don't want to be part of the Royal Family and all that it entails they must give up their royal titles, be financially independent and lead, as much as they could, a normal life.  They are either in or out.

What do you think?  Do let me know.

                                                                             *

Plumage

Deep in the humid forest
smelling strongly of rich earth,
the Bird of Paradise trips
backwards and forwards on a tree branch,
utters loud cries, jumps small jumps,
dances the pas de deux,
fans out his tail feathers
pink, aquamarine, blue and red,
yellow and green,
to entice female birds
to fall in love with him.

And sometimes they do.

The human male
getting ready for a date
might slick back his hair,
smile at himself in the mirror,
put on a bright-coloured shirt
red silk tie, and yellow waistcoat,
pat on scented after-shave,
hum a tune, dance a step or two,
and sally forth,
hoping some female will
fall in love with him.

And sometimes they do.


                                                                            *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Sunday, 5 January 2020

January weather



                                                                                         Snowdrops


Dear Reader,

I know it is still a bit early for snowdrops but because they are so entrancing, bringing the hope of spring, I long to see one peeping up in the garden.

Although we don't know whose hand it was that carried the first snowdrop bulb to Britain from Europe we do know that they were being cultivated in British gardens in 1597, the same year that Shakespeare bought his largest house in Stratford-upon-Avon.  Snowdrops were once called Candlemass Bells.  As a symbol of purity and light they were brought into churches on 2nd February - Candlemass Day - a Christian feast that commemorates the ritual purification of Mary forty days after the birth of Jesus.  It also marks a more ancient festival celebrating the middle of winter, halfway between the shortest day and the spring equinox.

                                                                           *

I went to the panto this week to see Puss in Boots.  But I must say I was very disappointed.  I suppose I wanted to see a traditional panto with Cinderella, or somesuch,  falling in love with the prince and singing a sweet duet at the finale.   And not too much noise.  But this rendering I saw was noisy and I couldn't really follow the story as it was so convoluted, and difficult to hear.  But the audience seemed to love it so it must just be an age thing, and I will probably give it a miss next year.

                                                                             *

January Weather

We know from recorded history,
that in St. Merryn
a hundred years ago,
there blew great winds
and the sea was smoking white.

We know it was warm in Kent,
where the thrushes thought spring
had come, and piped away.
And primroses were a yellow carpet
in North Norfolk,
or so the parson wrote.

We know of cutting winds in Hampshire,
of icicles and frost, and
in Skiddaw on a mild day
a brown spotted butterfly was seen.
We know that hungry church
mice ate bible markers,
hungry people died of cold.

And we know that this dark winter month
had days of snow, that wild clouds
gathered in the sky, unleashing icy rain,
churning up the plough.

And yet, again, we also know
the sun shone in that distant year,
it was warm enough to push through
early snowdrops, and Holy Thorn.
Life was glimpsed, here and there,
all life struggled for its moments.

                                                                           *

With very best wishes, Patricia