The Mind Cupboard

 Dear Reader,

 

As this poem is your favourite of all my work I thought I would put it up today for you to enjoy on New Year's Day, perhaps..... 

 

 

The Mind Cupboard

 

 

 

My mind cupboard overflows

with unwanted debris.

It needs a spring clean.

 

I will brush away the cobwebs

of cheerless thoughts.

Scrub out the stains of childhood.

 

I will replace the brass hooks

corroded with salt tears,

empty all the screams

hoarded through the years.

 

I will replace the accumulated ashes

from the worn shelf-paper,

with virgin tissue.

 

I will chase and catch the wasps,

relieve them of their stings.

I will refill this cupboard

with love, and learnt, brighter things.

 

 

                                                           *

 

With best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                    

Plummage

Dear reader, 

Mistletoe's history stretches from sacred pagan rituals to  modern Christmas romance.  It was revered by the Druids for fertility and eternal life, central to Norse myth where Loki used it to kill Baldur, leading to its link with love and peace after Baldur's revival.

This ancient lore evolved into European winter decor for protection then blossomed into the Victorian-era, kissing tradition where berries were plucked fro each kiss, symbolizing love and good fortune.

Celtic Druids considered mistletoe sacred believing its ability to grow without roots on trees(like oak) connected the earthly and spiritual worlds, symbolizing vitality and re-birth used in healing rituals.

One of our most practiced Christmas traditions - kissing under the mistletoe - comes from Victorian times when a boy could win a kiss from a girl for each mistletoe berry he picked from his bunch.  This game probably originated from a Norse legend in which the goddess Frigga declared mistletoe a symbol of love. 

                                                                                *

From Richard Hayes   December 20th  1772 in Kent

'I now have strawberries in bloom as white as though in the month of May, under north wall, and a young elm in beautiful green leaf, planted over the way in Elm Grove.  Was it now the month of may I should soon have a ripe strawberry for dessert.   Wind full south, with a very pleasant and warmish breeze as I have felt colder in May and June.'

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth  December 20th  1801 in Westmorland

'Sunday.    It snowed all day ......It was very deep snow.   The brooms were very beautiful, arched feathers with wiry stalks pointed to the end, smaller and smaller.   They waved gently with the weight of the snow.' 

 

                                                                             *

 

Plumage

 

 

Deep in the humid forest

Scenting 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 some after shave

hum a tune, dancer a step or two,

and sally forth,

hoping some female will

fall in love with him.

 

And sometimes they do.

 

                                                                   *

Happy New Year my dear Friends,

 

with best wishes,

Patricia 

Quickening

Dear Reader,

 

The song thrush lives up to its name and is a consummate singer.  It is often heard at first light and as darkness falls at the end of the day.  The song thrush is essentially a woodland bird that has adapted to use our parks and gardens for feeding and breeding.

It is known for it habit of hitting snails against a rock to break the shell and access the soft bodied prey within; piles of broken snail shells are a good indicator of a birds presence. 

During the 1970s and 1980s the population went into a steep decline and many British gardens lost their resident song thrush.   More recently there has been a slight sign sign of recovery.

Thrushes are plump, often brown or grey, known for foraging in the ground for insects, worms and fruit.  They build cup-shaped nests and are famous for their melodic repetitive songs.

                                                                              *

So it is Christmas week once again.  Gosh it seems such a short while since last year. I had a happy year  walking, reading and watching some good films.  I discovered Heartbeat.  This is a very old fashioned series on Netflix.  I love it.  It all takes place in a village in Yorkshire and most of the action is in the Police Station, circa I suppose, 1950/60.   It all reminds me of how things were then and I really wish that they were still as they are in Heartbeat.  A better and kinder world. Ah well.....

                                                                              *

From Dorothy Wordsworth    December 12th  1801 in Westmorland

'A find 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 the 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.  The ashes glittering spears with their upright stems..... We played at cards - sate up late.'

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth  December 19th   1802  in Westmorland

'......as mild a day as I ever remember.   We all set out to walk......There were flowers of various kinds - the topmost bell of a foxglove, geraniums, daisies, a buttercup in the water ...... small yellow flowers (I do not know their name) in the turf, a large bunch of strawberry blossoms.'

 

                                                                                   *

 

 

 

 

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 its 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 the ashes from the fire,

I want to intertwine, my love, quicken, feel desire.

 

 

                                                                                         *

 

I wish you all a very happy Christmas day and a successful New Year, in whatever way you choose.

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

 

 

Going Back

 Dear Reader,

Oak panelling began in medieval times for insulation, evolving from simple boards to intricate Tudor/Elizabethan designs (linenfold strapwork) for warmth and status, the larger Georgian panels (often painted softwood), declining in Victorian times for wallpaper, and seeing a resurgence in Arts and Crafts and modern designs for its warmth, beauty and insulation, using oak for its durability and classic appeal.

Plain vertically-boarded panelling was in use by the 13th century.  More familiar framed panelling dates back to the 14th century and before the 18th century was mainly of oak.

                                                                                * 

 There is something about a panelled room that transports me.  It is the same sort of feeling I have when I go into a library, an antique bookshop or possibly into an old church.  The past is till there, it envelops me.   Even the smell of those places sticks on my clothes, and I love it.  I really know sometimes that Jane Austen or Charles Dickens are there in the shop, talking.  The characters come alive.  

What happens to you, do write and tell me please.

                                                                                  *

 From Nathaniel Hawthorne   December 11th  1855 in Lancashire

'This has been a foggy morning and forenoon snowing a little now and then and disagreeably cold.......At about twelve there is a faint glow of sunlight, like the gleaming reflection for a not highly polished kettle.' 

 

From Gilbert White     December     13th  1775 in Hampshire  

 

'Ice bears: boys slide.' 

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth   December 18th 1801 in Hampshire

Mary and William walked round the two lakes (Grasmere and Rydal Water).   I stayed at home to make bread, cakes and pies.   I went afterwards to meet them.....It was a chearful glorious day.   the birches and all trees beautiful. hips bright red, mosses green.' 

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Going Back

 

The old farmhouse,

surrounded by

rhododendron bushes,

was a funny old place,

full of twists and turns

passages and panelled rooms,

a large sunny kitchen

with green lino floor,

a dark larder

full of hams and baskets of eggs,

while dogs slept in the small

drying room where it was warm.

 

There was a ghost, of course,

a smuggler killed fighting another

over a brandy run aborted.

I felt it, twice,

a middle of the night experience, ice cold, terrifying.

My dog wouldn't go in there,

just growled.

 

Tadpoles were caught in the streams,

ponies were ridden over the forest,

lots of apple crumble,

toad in the hole, beef stews,

and dumplings eaten

picnics on the lawn,

squirrels watching, watching....

a cosy family house

the children's home.

 

But now?

Years later it is reformed.  It is a

mansion.  Rebuilt with mega money.

All the farmyard magic gone,

the sun that used to filter

through dusty windows,

the back door with never a key,

the old farmhouse destroyed,

no longer a home but a fort.

A prison. Cameras everywhere

watching watching......

 

                                                                            * 

With best wishes, Patricia 

 

Sleep Snare

Dear reader, 

The croissant originated from Austrian pastry called "kipferl" with a popular legend crediting its creation to 1683 Viennese bakers celebrating victory over the Ottoman Empire by making crescent-shaped pastry after the siege of Vienna.This pastry was later introduced to France and transformed into the modern flaky version by french bakers in the the 19th and 20th centuries who adopted the kipferl and crated a laminated, yeast-leavened dough for it.

The earliest recorded introduction of the kipferl to France occurred in 1839, when Austrian artillery officer, August Zang, founded a Viennese baker in Paris.  Parisians fell in love with the kipferl and with Viennese baking as a whole and imitated the bread in their own shops. 

                                                                                 *

From Francis Kilvert  December 8th   1872 in Wiltshire

'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 o 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.... I went out to see where the cows were, fearing that the large elms inn the avenue might fall and crush them.   The trees were writhing, swaying, rocking, lashing their arms wildly and straining terribly in the tempest but I could not see that any were gone yet.'

 

                                                                                    *

Sleep snare

 

 

 

 

I lie awake and hear

the clock strike three,

and wonder how to

snare elusive sleep,

how to capture it,

how to find

its hiding place

and coax it back to bed.

I might entice  it

with crimson berries,

or butter croissants

then pounce on it,

and let it loose

inside my head.

But sharp is cunning sleep

it knows the tricks,

is bored of counting sheep.

 

 

 

I must fly northwards

to the moon

and let sleep take me

 

 

soon

 

          soon

 

soon ......... 

 

 

 

 

                                                                             *

With very best wishes, Patricia