Word-dancing

 Dear Reader,

I had been out to dinner and when I got home wrote the poem "Word-dancing".  I had had such a lovely evening, delicious food and inspiring conversation with the people on my left and on my right.  I can't remember if they were male or female but either way they were full of gaiety and information about a hundred different things.  From Jane Austen, and which book was our favourite, to whether Waitrose was really any better for shopping than, say, the Co-op.  We discussed foreign travel and I remember saying that Lyme Regis in Dorset, England, was just the ticket for me as a holiday destination. So lots of memories and fun exchanging views and values with like minded people.  

But what I wondered on the way home what did young people do for word-dancing? It seems to me that they spend a great deal of time watching their mobiles or texting, not talking or laughing or just enjoying human company. No they are silent but occupied. Dreadful.  Not wanting to sound smug I am very glad I lived in a time when good conversation was the norm, and exchanging laughter and ideas was fun.

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From S.T. Coleridge, 1827, February 28th, in Highgate

What an interval! Heard the singing birds this morning  in our garden for the first time this year, though it rained and blew fiercely; but the long frost has broken up, and the wind, though fierce, was warm and westerly.

From John Ruskin, 1876, February 28th, in Oxfordshire

I saw some blessed purple walls against sunshine among the farms, and seemed to find my life again on the green banks. 

                                                                                              *

Word-dancing

 

 

 

The woman discovers the double act

of word-dancing at dinner,

recognizes with excitement

mutual friends from books, from poetry,

from world’s explored, but only

known thus far in solitude.

 

Together they dance through imagined lands

sharing knowledge,

throwing words back and forth

in light ethereal movements,

cerebral binding and bonding,

now the foxtrot, now the waltz..

 

For her these pleasures

are found at lunch parties, at dinner,

in libraries, on courses.

But where can the young word-dance?

Her grandson lunches on the run,

dines with Eastenders, 

goes clubbing on  solitary trips

too noisy,  frightening, for word-dancing,

for cerebral binding and bonding

now the foxtrot, now the waltz.

 

                                                                               *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia                                                                             

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leaving

 Dear Reader

Often called the "polar wolf" or "white wolf", Arctic wolves inhabit the Arctic regions of North America and Greenland.  Thanks to its isolation, the Arctic world is not threatened by hunting and habitat destruction in the same way as its southern relatives.  

Arctic wolves are carnivorous hunters.  By nature the help to control the populations of other animals in the region like the musk ox, caribou and Arctic hares. Arctic wolves are very curious, inquisitive and are quite tolerant of man.  They howl to the moon to tell of their whereabouts and each has a very distinctive voice.  They run along way each day, sometimes more than 100 miles.  They always stay in their pack and look after each other.

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The chimp has been very quiet this week, I think he is glad the warmer weather has come.  He is thrilled that the snowdrops and daffodils are now out in the garden and has spied several blue tits already finding suitable material for their nests.  Just to remind you this chimp lives in my head -  he is my protector but can be a bit over fussy and dictatorial at times.

                                                                                   *

From Dorothy Wordsworth, February 21st, 1802, in Cumberland

'A very wet morning....Snowdrops quite out, but cold and winterly; yet, for all this, a thrush that lives in our orchard has shouted and sung its merriest all day long.'

From John Ruskin, February 21st, 1843, Denmark Hill, Surrey

'What a lovely thing a bit of fine, sharp, crystallized broken snow is, held up against the blue sky catching the sun - talk of diamonds!'

                                                                                    *

Leaving

The day she left
her heart hammered
tears streamed down her cheeks

the rain beat against the car windows
an east wind blew
the road was black ribbons.

She took a small suitcase.
It held a red skirt, two shirts, underclothes,
two cardigans, a duffle coat
and three favourite books.

After twenty years of marriage
that was her spoils.

Oh, and the kettle.

                                                                                     *

With best wishes, Patricia

Good Afternoon

 Dear Reader,

In the last two or three weeks absolutely no ideas have come into my mind as a subject for a poem.  I have always heard of 'writer's block' but I thought that was for novel writer's who had got stuck with their story or were trying to think of a new one, and nothing springing to mind. So this week I have read several poetry books trying to find out what other poets poems are about.  Of course, you will be thinking to yourself, she must have already, over the years, read an enormous amount of poetry.  Well I have but I was looking for something different in each poem this time. I was looking for its reason.  But I have reached no conclusion.  It seems each poet writes about her/his own or experience of life whether it is funny, sad, or whatever, or it is just a small water colour.

I rang my friend and tutor Sue Johnson and she was very helpful.  With her help I think I have some new ideas now and so shall be busy again working on a poem, which is a great relief.  Not having a poem on the go is, for me, very upsetting.

                                                                                *

I wish the old fashioned manners of yesteryear were still here today.  I found the old man I met in the woods completely charming and only wish his sort were still to be found all over this island of ours.

                                                                                 *

From D.H. Lawrence, February 9th, 1919 in Derbyshire

It is marvellous weather- brilliant sunshine on the snow, clear as summer, slightly golden sun, distance lit up.  But is is immensely cold - everything frozen solid - milk, mustard, everything.  Yesterday I went out for a real walk, I have had a cold and been in bed.  I climbed with my niece to the bare top of the hills.   Wonderful it is to see the foot marks on the snow - beautiful ropes of rabbit prints, trailing away over the brows; heavy hare marks; a fox so sharp and dainty, going over the wall: birds with two feet that hop; very splendid straight advance of a pheasant; wood pigeons that are clumsy and move in flocks, splendid little leaping marks of weasels coming along like a necklace chain of berries; odd little filigree of the field-mice; the trail of a mole - it is astonishing what a world of wild creatures one feels about one, on the hills in snow.

    

 

Good Afternoon

 

 

I walked slowly through wild daisies,

clover and buttercups,

a quiet country solitary step,

no one to be seen,

the birds singing joyfully,

and a deer shyly running

through the wood.

 

Then I saw an old man,

walking down the path,

cap on head, long overcoat,

and red scarf.

 A sheepdog trotted

at his side.

“Good afternoon”, he said smiling

and raised his cap

 

Years fell away.

In childhood everyone greeted you

with ‘good afternoon’ hoping

it would be so for you.

And somehow those two words

filled my heart with love,

with tears not far away.

 

“Good afternoon to you too”, I said.

 

 

With very best wishes, Patricia                                                                             *

Attic Trunk

Dear Reader, 

I had a difficult and disconcerting experience this week.  My ex-husband died a month or two ago and my children have had to sort out his affairs, what to sell and how to pay the bills etc. All very stressful for them. But one thing that one daughter did, she arranged the Service Sheet for his funeral, what hymns, music and readings to place.  Perhaps she said to me you could write down the name of the vicar you want at your funeral and any choices for the Service sheet would make life a lot easier for us.  I can see that.  I understand.  But sitting down and doing it was a touch grim.  Lots of thoughts about dying and death obviously came to mind and who, anyway, would come to my funeral?  Lots of my friend are now dead so it won't be a big gathering.  

I decided to have 'Lord of the Dance' as one of my hymns.  Life is, after all, a bit of a dance and possibly  where we are going will have plenty of dancing.  I asked my step-son, Jeremy, what he thought would happen to us when we had died.  Jeremy is a wonderful and wise man and this is what he said.  "Well either it will be a magnificent surprise, or nothing."  Either way is a distinct possibility so I will go for the surprise.

                                                                                    *

From Gilbert White, February 6th, 1778, in Hampshire

'Foxes begin now to be very rank, and to smell so high, that as one rides along of a morning it is easy to distinguish where they had been the night before. At this season the intercourse between the sexes commences.'

From Francis Kilvert, February 6th, 1874 in Hampshire

'Another fairy frost.  the rime froze on the trees during the night and this morning every bough was bearded with delicate frost work.'

                                                                                  *\

 

Attic Trunk

 

 

 

Searching through her mother's attic trunk

she recognised a dusty, broken cricket bat,

saw a tiny knotted shawl that must have shrunk

and a youthful photo of aunt Dora, looking fat.

She found silver shoes wrapped in a crimson gypsy skirt

and a purple box housing a worn-thin wedding ring,

a Spanish fan trimmed with lace, and a grandad shirt

embracing faded love letters, tied with ageing string.

From sepia postcards she studied unknown folk,

and pulled out, lovingly, a greasy-tweed cloth cap,

her father’s penny whistle, a badger carved from oak,

and brass rubbings, rolled up in a parchment map.

Precious things we keep are candles on our life’s tree,

their discovery tells secret stories, provides a key.

 

                                                                         *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia