Sunday 26 December 2021

Quickening

563



                                                                                          Song Thrush
 
 


 Dear Reader,

Unfortunately I wasn't able to go to church this Christmas, at least not in the way I would have liked.  Watching services on television doesn't make me feel sublime.  For me it is important each year to remember that Christ died for us, for me, and a traditional service with carols reminds us of this fact. As I come to the end of my life, Christianity plays a very important role.  As some of you readers know I went to Iona island years ago and had a sort of epiphany on the beach where St. Columba arrived in 563.  There is more out there than we know as Shakespeare said,  and I had a mystical experience on that beach, no doubt. 

I thought I would share with you this Celtic prayer:

 

May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields
and until we meet again
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

This is an old Celtic Irish Blessing.

                                                                                       *

From Francis Kilvert, 1871 December 31st, 1871 in Wiltshire

'At five minutes to midnight the bells of Chippenham church pealed out loud and clear in the frosty air.   We opened a shutter and stood around listening.  It was a glorious moonlit night.'


                                                                                  *

Quickening

I want the pulse of life that has been asleep
to wake, embrace me, put on the light.
To hear the thrush, song-repeat, to keep
my trust in God to hurry icy winter's flight.
I want to glimpse, under sodden leaves, green shoots
to announce life's circle, its beginnings, have begun.
I want to run barefoot, abandon boots,
to walk through primrose paths, savour the sun.
I want to take off winter's dress, change the season,
to see the coloured petticoats of spring, bloom
and show us mortals nature's reason
to start afresh, admire the peacock's plume.
Cellar the coal, brush ashes from the fire,
I want to  intertwine, my love, quicken, feel desire.

                                                                                   *


A happy New Year and very best wishes, Patricia


Sunday 19 December 2021

Bus Stop Princess






 Dear Reader,

There aren't many things to laugh about at the moment but I did find this small story funny.  At one university, I can't remember which one, a university don suggested that students find hand writing so tiring it would be better for them if they could take a typewriter into exams.  Can you believe it?

I have always written my poems by hand.  I think that the flow of ideas for a poem comes down through my head into my  hand.  This is not the case when I use the computer.  Many famous poets and artists do believe that something spiritual, or even divine, happens when the muse taps and a painting or poem or piece of music is born.  I notice that you, the readers, like my poems that have been sent to me by a Higher Being of some sort, the best.  In my case I think it is the Lord Jesus Christ who enters my soul, and without Him I can't really write.

This day next week will be Boxing Day.  As of today we don't know if there will be a lockdown on Christmas Day, but whatever happens have a lovely time.  If we are on our own Francis and I will sing carol, play scrabble, lift a glass or two and be enormously grateful for all our blessings.  

Happy Christmas to you all.

 

                                                                                     *

 From Gilbert White, December 25th, 1799 in Hampshire

'Vast rime, strong frost, bright, and still, fog.  The hanging woods when covered with a copious rime appear most beautiful and grotesque.' 

From Dorothy Wordsworth, December 25th, 1802 in Westmorland

'It is today Christmas Day, Saturday, 25th December, 1802.  I am thirty-one years of age.  It is a dull, frosty day.'

                                                                                    *


Bus Stop Princess

She waited, unnoticed, invisible.
Her fluffy green jersey egg-stained,
uninteresting trousers and sensible shoes
inviting no attention.
She was a brown paper parcel,
loosely string-tied.

But she smiled at me
with such sweetness,
such a smile of goodness,
I saw her sensible shoes
become sparkling slippers,
her shabby clothes
turn into a ball dress
fashioned from sunlight
stitched up with love.

Not then a story-book princess,
but a real princess
glimpsed at a bus stop.


                                                                                   *

Very best wishes, Patricia



 

 



Sunday 12 December 2021

Presents






 Dear Reader,

 

On Wednesday this week we decided to go shopping in Marks and Spencer,  Chipping Norton.Then when we had finished shopping it was a bit late for lunch at home, and Francis thought it would be a good idea to have lunch at The Blue Boar Inn in the town.  

What is the point of this story you might be thinking, well here it is.  We were sat opposite an Office Christmas Party of ten people.  And they were not having a good time.   They all looked so miserable, they looked as if they would liked to have been somewhere else.  Anywhere else.  Quite some of the time they were silent, no jokes or even any conversation.  It is not particularly expensive at The Blue Boar but the lunch must have cost someone at least £300 if not more.  

And my question is this:  what is the point of the expense of any office party when the people concerned are not friends or maybe don't even like each other  They just work in the same building. It occurred to me that if the company gave each person a sum of say, £25, to spend as they wished, this would be a much better arrangement.  Just a thought.

                                                                                  *

From Dorothy Wordsworth, 1801, in Westmorland, December 12th


'A fine frosty morning - snow upon the ground.  I made bread and pies....All the mountains looked like solid stone....The snow hid all the grass and all signs of vegetation, and the rocks showed themselves boldly everywhere, and seemed more stony than rock or stone.  The birches on the crags beautiful, red brown and glittering.  We played at cards - sate up late.  the moon shone upon the water of Grasmere below Silver-How, and above it hung, combining with Silver-How, on one side, a bowl-shaped moon, the curve downwards; the white fields, glittering roof of Thomas Ashburner's house, the dark yew tree. the white fields gay and beautiful.  William lay with his curtains open that he might see it.'


                                                                                   *


Presents

I don't want presents
tied and ribboned.
Encouragement doesn't wrap
well in green tissue,
praise in paisley boxes
or love in thick gold paper.
I don't want guilt
compressed into an envelope,
with cheque.

A parcel of thoughtfulness,
a parcel of interest,
a parcel of embracing,
a parcel of safety, were
the presents I hoped for
under the festive tree.
the presents I hoped for
which were not to be.

 

                                                                                      *

With very best wishes, Patricia





                                                                         



Sunday 5 December 2021

Equality

 

 

 
 

 
 








 

Dear Reader,

 

 

The years seem to go by very quickly these days and it is difficult to believe that it is Christmas time again.  Of course we all had a strange Christmas last year due to the pandemic. My family joined us here at the house and we had mulled wine in the garden and then sang some carols.  Emma, who has a lovely voice, sang some songs from musicals and we all joined in. It was a very jolly occasion but not Christmas as we know it and look forward to each year.  Still with luck we will be able to enjoy a traditional day this Christmas.

                                                                                *

The photographs this week are to do with the poem.

                                                                                *

 

Taken from Francis Kilvert's Diary, Christmas Eve, 1872

'The churchwarden Jacob Knight was sitting by his sister in front of the roaring fire.  We were talking of the death of Major Torrens on the ice at Corsham pond yesterday.  Speaking of people slipping and falling on ice the good churchwarden sagely remarked, 'Some do fall on their faces and some do fall on their rumps.  And they as do hold their selves uncommon stiff do most in generally fall on their rumps.'

I took old John Bryant a Christmas packet of tea and sugar and raisins from my Mother.  The old man had covered himself almost entirely over in his bed to keep himself warm, like a marmot in its nest.  He said, 'If I live till New Year's Day I shall have seen ninety-six New Years.'  He also said, 'I do often see things flying about me, thousands and thousands of them about half the size of a large pea, and they are red, white, blue and yellow and all colours.  I asked Mr.Morgan what they were and he said they were spirits of just men made perfect.'

                                                                                 *

I often think I see spirits in the garden.  I decided they were spirits of friends who had died, just checking up on me.  Sending me love.

                                                                                  *

                                                                                    *

Equality

Christmas Day.
The house fills with laughter, music,
the tree sparkles, aglow with stars,
angels and white roses.
Under ribboned branches, a present pile,
exciting, enticing, the children
jump, squeal, and dance, eyes bright.
The turkey is succulent, the pudding sweet,
there are chocolates, crackers, jokes.
But a thought buzzes, wasp-like in my head:
while families reunite, reaffirm love, smile, chat
I think of those who have none of that.


                                                                                       *

With best wishes, Patricia


Sunday 28 November 2021

Small Pleasures in Old Age







 

 

Peanut butter sandwiches

 

Dear Reader,

Since I have gone rather deaf I haven't been listening to the radio very much lately.  If I haven't listened to the start of the programme I can't seem to understand what is being talked about, I can't hear the words well enough.   But all this changed this week.  I was ironing and decided to give it another try.  It was just as good as it always has been, Radio 4, an excellent outpouring of so many disparate subjects from Woman's Hour, to the hourly up date on the news, to music and much more. This time I was lucky enough to catch Sir Keith Starmer talking about his own life, and very interesting it was too.  What an excellent man he seems to be and I will seriously think of giving him my vote next time round. It is such a relief to know that if I tune in at a given time I will, once again, be able to enjoy the marvelous Radio 4.

                                                                                   *

From Francis Kilvert's Wiltshire Diary,  24th November, 1872

'My mother writes from Monnington that William had just been at a clerical meeting at Mr. Phillott's, the Rector of Stanton-on-wye, and came back not very deeply impressed by the brilliancy of some of the Herefordshire Clergy.

She mentions too a story which seems almost incredible but which she states is well known to be true. Mr. Ormerod, the Rector of Presteign, who has a living of £1,000 a year who is nevertheless always over head and ears in debt, has every Sunday two Celebrations of Holy Communion at which he always puts upon the plate his pocket knife by way of alms, saying that he has no change.  After service he returns the knife to his pocket, but (it is stated) invariably forgets to redeem it.'


                                                                                      *

Small Pleasures in Old Age

Listening to Mozart's Andante
in front of a log fire

hearing the robin's call
in early spring
spotting the first violets, first primroses

walking in the woods
sitting under the trees
whilst the bagpipes utter

their unique spiritual sounds
watching the deer hurrying
through the undergrowth

following the antics
of the Archer family
eating peanut butter sandwiches

watching the goldfinch spitting
out seeds, and laughing
at the absurdity of life itself

exchanging family news
proudly loving the grandchildren
and their stories

small away holidays
with Francis, by the sea
in Dorset

And, perhaps best of all, having the courage
to not say yes to things
when I mean no

                                                                              *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 






Sunday 21 November 2021

The Shed





 Dear Reader,

There used to be an old shed in the garden of Grace Cottage where I lived for fifteen years.  Somebody who knew the garden as a farmyard years ago told me that pigs used to live in it.  When I had it, it was full of wonderful old tools, bits of rope and pieces of machinery. Several mice made their home in it and there were spiders everywhere. It smelt of lavender and tar.

But when I sold the house the shed was sold too and new owners moved in.  They were young and modern and wanted the shed as an office.  So the builders moved in and cleared all the accumulated things, put in a new door and painted the interior white. The shed was now an office with all its magic gone, nothing to see that it had been once a lovely old fashioned shed, with its own history.


                                                                                 *

From Dorothy Wordsworth, November 24th, 1801 in Westmorland

'I read a little of Chaucer, prepared the goose for dinner, and then we all walked out.  I was obliged to return for my fur tippet and spencer, it was so cold.....It was very windy, and we heard the wind everywhere about us as we went along the land, but the wall sheltered us.....' .


From Gilbert White, November 25th, 1781 in Hampshire

'Fog, with frost.  As the fog cleared away, the warm sun occasioned a prodigious reek, or steam to arise from the thatched roofs.'

                                                                                *


The Shed

The spider let himself down
from a crack in the grimy rafters.
Time to spin another web,
catch flies, feed his children.
This old shed he loved
had housed his ancestors,
its essence was in his blood.
He knew well the aged wooden bench
laden with hand-worn tools,
the bee's hum and buzz.
He knew of the warmth from the earth floor,
from the hurricane lamp, lit on dark evenings,
of the dusty windows facing north,
and he knew he could swing on the ash spokes
sliced to the wheel hung on the hook.
He knew too that the moonlight
cast shadows on the pile of logs,
home to small scuttling creatures.
He knew that nearby in a bed of shavings,
an old dog slept.
This restful shed scented with lavender and tar,
was a timeless place.

Clearing, cleaning, scraping, peeling,
the old shed becomes new.
Much buzzing and humming
as computers move in, reference books,
filing cabinets, printers, blaring telephones,
glaring lights, and stress.

No quiet shadows now
in the bright new shed,
no cracks, no silence, and the spider......dead.


                                                                              *

With best wishes, Patricia



Saturday 13 November 2021

The House

 






                                                                                       Rockingham Pottery Plates

 

Dear Reader,

The poem I wrote this week is about a house I was invited to by a neighbour who I didn't know at all well.  As soon as I stepped through the door I knew it was somewhere very special.  A proper home.  As you will see in the poem, everything to make a house seem loved, comfortable, and I would venture too, beautiful.  

When I see pictures of some modern houses with glass everywhere, grey walls and black furniture I wonder how anyone could live in them and be happy.  They look so grim and gloomy and on, say, a cold November afternoon I think I would take to my bed and stay there. 

The house we live in now is modern but I make it as cosy as possible and I have grown to love it.  I never thought I would when I left a pretty 17th century cottage to move here.  But the practicalities of living in a modern house outweigh the delights of the cottage, especially now I am old. Essentially it is always warm which for me is a wonderful bonus.  In Grace Cottage whatever we put the thermostat to the wind blew through the thin window panes and the house was always cold.  And there are no mice here, but they thrived in the cottage.  I can't cope with mice, and traps and mouse droppings in the vegetable rack.


                                                                                      *

From George Sturt, 1890, November 21st, in Surrey

'I noticed in the poplar above me two sorts of sound; the leaves pattering and rustling against one another, each with its separate chatter; and then as accompaniment and continuous ground-tone, the wind itself breathing audibly and caressingly between leave and round twigs and limbs.'

                                                                                       *


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

                                                                                    *


With very best wishes, Patricia


PS   I think Google has changed the format for this blog. It seems, friends tell me, that isn't possible to get the blog like they used to..  If you got notice of it every Sunday, for instance, I don't think you will be able to now.  I am not sure why they have done this and find it impossible to ask them.  If you know anything about this change could you please let me know.







Sunday 7 November 2021

In This Salford Street

 Dear Reader,


                                                                                           Salford


                                                                                 A Witch Bottle


Dear Reader,

Healers in 17th century England used witch bottles as anti-witchcraft devices when someone was cursed as bewitchment. They would be filled with ingredients such as the victim's hair and urine, along with "protective" pins, nails or thorns.  Sealed within vessels, they would be placed around the hearth or buried under the floorboards.

A stoneware bottle stored for years in the cellar of a school in Rochester, Kent has been identified as a significant 17th century "witch bottle" containing a cure against witchcraft.  The bottle has lain under Rochester Independent College for more than 300 years.  Its importance went unnoticed when it was unearthed in 2004.

When I lived in a 17th century cottage in this town, where I now live elsewhere, there was a damp and dark cellar down from the ground floor.  When workmen came to clear it out and decorate it they found an old bottle full of strange things.   Perhaps it was a witch bottle, who knows?

                                                                         *

From Jane Austen, 1798, November 17th, in Hampshire

'What fine weather this is!  Not very becoming perhaps early in the morning, but very pleasant out of doors at noon, and very wholesome - at least everybody fancies, so, and imagination is everything.'


From John Everett Millais, 1851, November 19th, in Surrey

'Fearfully cold.  Landscape trees upon my window-panes.   After breakfast chopped wood, and after that painted ivy.....See symptoms of a speedy finish to my background. After lunch pelted down some remaining apples in the orchard.  Read Tennyson and Thirty-Nine Articles.'


                                                                              *

In This Salford Street

the houses have no eyes,
windows and doors, boarded up.
These houses were home
to someone,
people grew up here,
played life's games,
made love, made babies,
made friendships last to the end.

They are all demolished now,
other people saw to that,
damp bricks and mortar,
which had served their time,
dispensable.

Nothing is left.
No shops, no pubs, no parks,
no prettiness,
nothing but rubble, dust, sadness
everywhere,
and a river running with tears.

                                                                    *


With best wishes, Patricia


Sunday 31 October 2021

Misconception




                                                                                   Common Pheasant

 

Dear Reader,

Each year 40 million pheasants are released into the countryside only to be shot.  That is what they are bred for.  The first pheasants were introduced nearly a thousand years ago from the mountains of Georgia, but the most common varieties now come from western China.

Pheasants are large, long tailed game birds.  The males have rich a dark green head, with chestnut, golden brown and black markings on their bodies and tails.  Pheasants can be found on woodland, farmland, scrub and wetlands.  But in its natural habitat the common pheasant lives in grasslands near water with small copses of trees.  

Pheasants are gregarious birds and outside the breeding season form loose flocks.  Whenever they are hunted they are always timid.  Once they associate humans with danger and will quickly retreat for safety after hearing the arrival of hunting parties.

                                                                   

                                                                                           *


From Gerald Manley Hopkins, 1873, October 29th, in Surrey

'Wonderful downpour of leaf: when the morning sun began to melt the frost they fell at one touch and in a few minutes  a whole tree was flung of them; they lay masking and papering the ground at the foot.   Then the tree seems to be looking down on its cast self as blue sky on snow after a long fall, its losing, its doing.'

From Dorothy Wordsworth, 1800, October 31st, in Windermere

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

                                                                                              *


Misconception

The woman thought when she left
the office building would explode,
blood from her willing heart
would drip from the ceiling,
pieces of her goodwill,
her ready smile,
possibly her arms and legs,
would drop into waste bins,
flow out of filing cabinets,
strew the carpet with bits of herself.
The atmosphere would be dank
with the tears for the loss of her.
She knew her worth.

In the spring, Sandra met her.
Karen, from Accounts,
now has her job, she said.
She is brilliant, everyone loves her.

The woman walked away,
mantled in her goodness,
surprised at what poor judgements
people make.

                                                                                     *

With best wishes, Patricia

Saturday 23 October 2021

Havana Cigars






                                                                                              Havana

 Dear Reader,

In the 1950s when I was a debutante I went to lots of dinner parties where, after dinner, the men smoked cigars. It is such a particular smell, never to be forgotten, and when I some times smell it in the street, it takes me straight back to those days. Francis and I have been watching Downton Abbey again, and it all so reminds me of my youthful days.  When we (I was married then and lived in the New Forest in a manor house) gave dinner parties, after the desert  the women rose to their feet and traipsed out of the dining room and went upstairs to "powder our noses". The men then smoked cigars and talked about money or told dirty stories until they got drunk on brandy, or some liqueur, then they drove home in that condition.  On several occasions guests would end up in ditches, and had, sometimes, bad accidents. And the smell of cigar smoke stayed in the dining room for days.  I can smell it now, writing this. 


                                                                                       *


From Dorothy Wordsworth, October 30th, 1802, in Westmorland

'It is a breathless, grey day, that leaves the golden woods of autumn quiet in their own tranquility, stately and beautiful in their decaying:the lake is a perfect mirror'.


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

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

                                                                                         *


Havana Cigars

A man walked past me
smoking a cigar,
puffing out smoke
with its unique aroma
of luxury and opulence.

What memories it brings.

Candlelit dinners eaten,
Cuban cigars passed round
in silver boxes
nestling in sandalwood.
Talk was of politics, shooting, fishing,
and dubious stories
generating laughter amongst the men.

Cigars at race course,
smoke and racehorse sweat mingling.
Cigars after lunch and coffee
the erotic smell of tobacco leaves
awakening desires.

Cigars enjoyed by old men
remembering younger days,
cigars in large country houses
with sunlit gardens embracing
the scent of gardenias and roses.
Evening dancing with
partners smelling of claret
and Havana cigars.

A time of grandeur
of abundance,

another time.

                                                                                   *

With best wishes, Patricia

 

 


Sunday 17 October 2021

Blue Gingham Dress

                                                                                              Elvis and I

 
 


 
 


                                                                                                  Elvis
 

 

Dear Reader,

Francis gave me a surprise last week.  He made an Elvis lookalike and brought him into the sitting room after supper. He knows that I love Elvis dearly, and always have, and I was wondering why he is, and always has been, so very popular with the public.  I read that somewhere a woman has a record of Elvis that she plays every day and has done so for over forty years.  

Neil McCormick in the Daily Telegraph writing about Adele's latest single says that 'the song and singer deliver a deeply emotional truth from the heart'. And, he argues, isn't that the very essence of what music is, and why it means so much to us?  So why do some voices touch us, our hearts and souls, that no other singer does?  It is certainly a mystery but I am sure it is a gift of some sort from God, or who ever your idea of a Higher Being is. Songs need a voice that can carry emotion and demand attention.  This Elvis did in spades for me and probably for you too.

 

                                                              *

From Gilbert White, October 25th, 1784 in Wiltshire

'Hard Frost, thick ice.  In my way to Newton I was covered with snow! Snow covers the ground, and trees!!'


From Francis Kilvert, October 25th, 1874 in Wiltshire


'A damp warm morning steaming with heat, the outer air like a hothouse, the inner air colder, and in consequence the old thick panelled walls of the front rooms streaming with warm air condensed on the cold walls....The afternoon was so gloomy that I was obliged for the first time to have lights in the pulpit.'

                                                                *

Blue Gingham Dress


She was wearing
a blue gingham dress
long-sleeved, with lace collar
one summer evening in July.

A sweet smell from lilies
lavender bushes
roses and orange blossom
drifted on the air,

the sea sapphire
played its own repetitive tune
soft and enticing
and a southerly wind blew.

Suddenly he took her hand
drew her near
kissed her gently
then came a call,

they separated
ran back to the house
her heart racing
knees weak, on fire.

The gingham dress
worn and faded now,
hangs at the back of the cupboard,
but the kiss is still as fresh
as it was on that one
summer evening in July.


With best wishes, Patricia








Sunday 10 October 2021

Camel







                                                                                          Petra Rose
 

 

Dear Reader,

The poem today was written after I had visited a wild life park near where I live. Of course it is lovely to go and spend the day looking at the animals especially if you have small children with you, but I do wonder about the rights of these animals.  Do lions and tigers, pandas, merekats, camels, and so on really enjoy being caged up all day with no wild places to hunt or go?  I suspect not and, if offered the choice, would love to be back in their natural habitats.  As circuses are now closing, especially if they had performing animals, perhaps in a few years time these wild life parks will be no more.  I would be glad if this were the case.

                                                                                       *

From Dorothy Wordsworth, October 12th, 1800 in Westmorland

'We pulled apples after dinner, a large basket full. We walked before tea by Bainriggs to observe the many-coloured foliage.  The oaks dark green with some yellow leaves, the birches generally still green, some near the water yellowish, the sycamore crimson-tufted, the mountain ash a deep orange, the common ash lemon colour, but many ashes still fresh in their summer green.'


From Gilbert White, October 13th, 1787 in Hampshire

'We saw several redwings among the bushes on the north side of the common. There were swallows about the village at the same time: so that summer and winter birds of  passage were seen on the same day.'


                                                                                        *


Camel

The woman stares at me
into my rheumy eyes, my sad face
sees a dusty, dirty animal,
mud sticking to my coat
my miserable tail hanging loose
my hooves cracked, hump matted.

But I want her to know that this is not me.
I come from a land of warmth
of sun, of sand,
my Arab owner loved me
understood me
he stroked my coat.
He rode on my back
Kelim rugs hugging my haunches
water in large panniers
strung to my side.

We rode to oases, To Petra Rose,
he was my friend.
I weep for the want of him.

The woman walks away
but something glistens on her cheek.


With best wishes, Patricia


Sunday 3 October 2021

Sideburns 2014


                                                                                  Thomas Hardy




                                                                            Thomas Hardy's cottage
 



Will you, dear reader, please excuse a bit of a rant this week.  I bought a book to read called 'Beautiful World, Where are you' by an Irish writer called Sally Rooney.  She seems to be the top author of the times, and this book was well reviewed by almost everyone.  But I found it so completely disappointing.  I have always thought that a novel needs to have a good story, one that you can't wait to get back to whilst washing the dishes. But this book didn't seem to have a good story, in fact almost no story at all.  Just four odd people meandering through the pages talking about themselves and their rather boring lives. But if graphic sex is your thing, then this would be the book for you.  Give me some of Thomas Hardy's work, his clever novels with such interesting characters and wonderful plots, and I won't bother with modern works in future. I know this makes me sound old and boring, not up with the times, but so be it.....

                                                                                        *

From Dorothy Wordsworth, 1800, October 2nd 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 conservation about the manners of the rich - avarice, inordinate desires, and effeminacy, unnaturalness, and the unworthy objects of education ... a showery evening.  The moon light lay upon the hills like snow.

                                                                                          *


Sideburns

Astonished, I see the sideburns
the slicked up hair,
the ill-fitting suit,
large red hands
jolting it back on the shoulders
with awkward gesture
at a young man's funeral
in the village church.
White lilies fill the air
with their sweet scent
while soft music plays.
I see tears on every cheek,
sad young women, and men too -
there to seek some comfort
from the vicar's words.

I blink and thought
I saw Thomas Hardy standing
in a nearby pew,
back in time from his day.
The ancient poet seemed to be
embodied in the blood and lives
of this congregation
among whom nothing has change over the
years,
not the people, nor the service,
and death is still great sorrow.

But there is tea and beer
at the Bull Inn,
gossip and laughter
tears and memories, as
life's cycle keeps turning,
our beginnings and our endings
the only certainties.


                                                                                      *


With best wishes, Patricia


 

Sunday 26 September 2021

Resolution






                                                                                            Brighton
 

 

Dear Reader,

This week I really did have an adventure.  I went to Brighton for four days with my daughter Jessica.  We went to help look after my sister who has dementia and lives in Brighton.  But we had the time of our lives or I did anyway.  We were staying in a 'functional hotel' near the station.  And it was fine, had everything we wanted but it wasn't pretty or delightful in any way.  But I got quite fond of it and looked forward to my rest in the afternoon in a comfortable bed. Jessica got up early and ran down to the sea where she bathed at eight in the morning.  

I absolutely loved Brighton.  It is so alive and vibrant. The streets have houses in multiple colours and the people I gazed at were wonderfully different from the folk on the staid Cotswold streets that I know.  Everyone in the shops, particularly in the Lanes were very funny and friendly. Apparently the Lanes are very famous, they are small roads full of fantastic goods, silver jewellery, second hand and vintage clothes, cafes and antique shops.  In fact I would like to live in Brighton and if I wasn't so old that moving is unthinkable, that is where I would go. 

                                                                                      *

From John Clare, September 26th, in Northants, 1824

'Took a walk in the fields, heard the harvest cricket and shrew-mouse uttering their little chickering songs among the crackling stubble.'


From Gilbert White, September 25h, Hampshire, 1772

'Vast tempest in the night that broke boughs from the trees, and blowed down much of the apples and pears.'

                                                                                        *


Resolution

I need to breathe salt sea air,
run down to the shell-strewn beach,
let the sharp east wind blow through my hair,
run for the horizon away out of reach.

I need the sound of the seagull's cry,
the music of waves rolling on sand
to help with questions of whether and why
I should change my direction, and stand

up for what I believe in.
I need the strength I know I will find
on that quiet sunfilled beach,
to be resolute, make up my mind.

Enveloped in peace, silence and sea
I will whisper to the listening wind,
"I have made the decision, watch over me,
I'm taking the path I have chosen."

                                                                                *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Friday 17 September 2021

Emma Alpha Plus

                                                                                     Grand daughter Emma



 Dear Reader,  

       Having grand children is one of life's great joys and brings such happiness.  I have loved and cherished and looked after mine since they were born and it has always been such a treat.  Grand children are not the same at all as your own children.  Somehow the gap  between us and them is just right, not too near and not too far, but grand parents are family and allowed to praise when necessary or punish if necessary too. And in my fifty's when they were little I really enjoyed playing with them, going to the swings, getting up at six in the morning so as not to wake Geoffrey, and going to the playground where we ate crisps and chocolate bars. I loved the afternoons when they were with me.  We liked watching ' Maisy the Mouse', and in particular watching 'The Sound of Music.' I couldn't possibly remember how many times we watched it, singing the songs along with Maria and the children.  My granddaughter Emma has got a beautiful voice and I still ask her to sing to me when she visits.

                                                                                 *


From Jane Austen in Kent 1796   September 18th

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


From Richard Hayes, 1766 in Hampshire   September 21st

'A robin sang all his note during Divine Service in the body of the church'.

                                                                                   *

Emma Alpha Plus 

Emma
the little one
frightened to be left
at night
shared my bed
snuggled up with me
listened to nursery rhymes
on an old tape recorder

we went to the swings
sat on a bench
ate crisps

she grew and we went to
the Wildlife Park
stared at the monkeys

we watched Maisy Mouse
over and over again
and in her teens
The Sound of Music

she worked hard at school
had problems with her
heart over beating and never
complained

she went to college
got a distinction
will go to Brighton to study
in September next year

she is helpful, enthusiastic
puts her all into everything
is engaging and funny

she is alpha plus

I loved her and looked after her
and now she looks after me

                                                                                  *

With very best wishes, Patricia

P.S. Emma now works in the film world for Warner Bros.