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

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

 

 

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

                                                                         

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