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.

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The photographs this week are to do with the poem.

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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.'

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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.

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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

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.

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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.'

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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

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With very best wishes, Patricia

 

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.

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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.'

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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

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.

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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.'

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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?

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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.

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?

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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.'

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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

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.

                                                                   

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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.'

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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

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. 

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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?

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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