Absent

                                                                     Abandoned churches

Dear reader, 

The photographs today are to do with the poem 'Absent'.  I was walking alone in France years ago, miles from anywhere, when I came across an ancient church, dilapidated and rather scary.  I couldn't stop thinking about it and wrote the poem when I finally found my way back to the house we were renting.  What is it about empty buildings that have been used for joyful occasions and sorrowful ones? It is the left emotions I suppose, and that time passes for us all and what have we left. Well, our memories play a part, of course, and in this age, photographs and all sorts of things are exposed on our telephones, (about which I know very little!) But I had an enormous feeling of sadness while I was exploring the church and thought sadness must still be in the air.

                                                                                    *

Can one fall out of love a little with a place as opposed to a person?  We went to Lyme Regis again last week and I can't say it was a great success this time.  The weather was horrendous, rain bucketing down, a mist covering the view (which we went for) and the hotel was freezing.  I caught a chill as I had taken summer clothes when I should have taken clothes right for a November visit. And then the journeys. We have hardly been out of our nearby villages for over a year and and I was terrified on the M5 motorway.  Large trucks passing large trucks and cars hurtling by until I was about to have a panic attack and asked Francis to leave the motorway.  Then we got lost. Bloody satnav.

So our new life from now onwards is staying here, only foraging out to Witney or Chipping Norton.  And the relief at this  decision is enormous.

                                                                                       *

Absent

In this spectral place
there is a sense of desolation,
of God not being here
that strikes icy cold.
In the dank, dark nave
lies a decomposing owl,
a cobwebbed confessional, worn rotten,
and on the battered altar
a smashed wooden cross.

Long ago, did sunlight venture through
the cracked, ruby-stained glass window?
Were bread and wine transformed
into Christ's body and blood?
Did young men, expectant, marry
young women, kiss, and breathe in
the churchyard's sweet summer air?
And did tears blow away unseen
in the southern mistral winds,
after a service testifying that life was here
in this absent place?

                                                                                      *

With very best wishes, Patricia

No poem this week

 Dear Reader

This weekend I am staying in Lyme Regis so cannot write my Sunday blog with poem.

The seagulls are swooping everywhere, and visitors are advised not to feed them. But I love their special sounds when I wake up early and then watch them fly over the sea inthe early  morning. 

Francis played the pipes on the promenade and was much appreciated  by some, not all!

So I will be back next week and until then have a good week and may your God be with you.

Best wishes , Patricia

Yes, the Neighbours

                                                                            

                                                                              Neighbours
 

 

Dear Reader, 

I think it is interesting thinking about neighbours, new and old, and how best to approach them.  Do we want them to be our friends or simply be able to nod if we see them in the street?   We have some new neighbours.  They are a young couple with a small child.  Francis drew a card of welcome for them and we left it in their house to open when they arrived. Very sweetly they came round and introduced themselves to us, a doctor and a speech therapist and an adorable baby.  But we haven't seen them since.  My question is would they have liked us to call round and tell them where the best bread in town is to be bought, or how well we thought of the local dentist, or where were the best walks near our houses? Any of these things or none?

And the neighbours we have known for four or five years, what about them?  How much can we call on them? Three different couples and all delightful.  During lockdown each couple went shopping for us, dropped round (to the front door)  just to see we were coping, and spoke to us on the telephone several times.  Sadly I know that they are all very busy but one woman, we will call her Dora, loves my poetry and all the things she says about my poems are touching and poignant.  I would love to see more of her but know this is not possible. 

I suppose there is a sort of code for how to be a good neighbour.  Smiling when you see them but allowing them their space, seems to be about it.  

                                                                                     *

From Horace Walpole, June 14th, 1791, in Middlesex

'It froze hard last night: I went out or a moment to look at my haymakers, and was starved.  The contents of an English June are hay and ice, orange flowers and rheumatism.  I am now cowering over the fire.'

From Francis Kilvert, June 15th, 1873 in Wiltshire

'The sun and the golden buttercup meadows had it almost to themselves.....One or two people were crossing the Common early by the several paths through the golden sea of buttercups which will soon be the silver sea of ox-eyes.  The birds were singing quietly.  The cuckoo's notes tolled clear and sweet as a silver bell.'

                                                                                      *

Yes, the Neighbours

were very nice

two lovely children
playing quietly in the garden
a large friendly dog
no loud music
no noisy cars

I can't think
who would do this
to them

such a happy, smiling family
such a shame
such a waste

I am so sorry

But, of course,
we never spoke to them,
she said.

                                                                              *

With very best wishes, Patricia

That July

 

Dear Reader,

It seems that the famous painting by John Constable, known as 'The Hay Wain' was no such thing.  Most people apparently don't know the difference between a cart and a wagon.  A cart has two wheels and a wagon has four.  It is, in reality, a pole tug, designed and used to transport what remained of a tree after felling, when all the branches and foliage had been removed. What remained was the stock, which had to be taken to the foresters' premises so that it could be sawn into planks - via a saw pit. These vehicles would be soaked in a pond during the summer months to make sure that the spokes remained tight.

I have to say that most wagons, carts, and carriages look much the same to me. But I will look with more attention next time we go somewhere where there are these vehicles for us to inspect.

                                                                                   *

From Thomas Hardy, June 2nd, l865, in London

'Walked about by moonlight in the evening.  Wondered what woman, if any, I should be thinking about in five years' time.'

From Gilbert White, June 5th, 1782, in Hampshire

'My brother Thomas White nailed up several large scallop shells under the eaves of his house at South Lambeth, to see if the house-martins would build in them. These conveniences had not been fixed up half an hour before several pairs settled upon them; and expressing great complacency, began to build immediately.'

                                                                                   *

That July

we planned to walk
along the river bank,
play bridge,
stay overnight in
a superior hotel,
eat in a white
linen-clothed dining room,
exchange gossip, news,
make jokes.

But someone-other
planned other-wise.
No river walks, or talks,
or jokes.
A fatal illness struck,
marked "no reprieve",
with no allowance
for two days under a sunny sky,
our special summer treat,

that July.

                                                                               *

With best wishes, Patricia

Loss

 Dear reader,

I think this month of May, 2021, has been so depressing.  I could never work out whether it had actually got any hotter or whether it was just cold and damp. It usually was cold and damp. The thermostat in my body doesn't seem to work very well and I often find I am hot when everyone else is cold or visa versa.  So I am constantly putting layers of clothes on or taking them off.  Mostly putting them back on this May.  And I think we all long for a sight of the sun.  Francis and I try to go for a walk every day but I must say I have no enthusiasm for an east wind blowing through me, straight from Siberia. So sometimes we just don't have a walk and end up frustrated having taken no exercise.  Still today the elusive sun is actually shining and we intend to eat outside. Perhaps summer really has come at last.

                                                                                      *

From Samuel Pepys, 1662, May 29th, in Surrey

'With my wife and the two maids and the boy took boat and to Vauxhall, where I had not been a great while.  To the old Spring Garden, and there walked long, and the wenches gathered pinks'.

From William Cowper, 1786, May 29th, Buckinghamshire

'The grass under my windows is all bespangled with dewdrops, and the birds are singing in the apple trees, among the blossoms.  Never poet had a more commodious oratory in which to invoke his Muse'.

                                                                                      *

Loss

The old woman
totters slowly down the path.
Holding her hand we
go into the field
pick daffodils and buttercups.
Spring is on its way.

Later in her kitchen
she tries to say something, to find words
which seem to flutter away,
escape her, but she manages:
"I don't live
in this house, I live elsewhere."

She lies down on the sofa.
"I like looking at the sky" she murmurs,
and closing her eyes she falls asleep.
I kiss her on her pale, cold cheeks,
and weep.......

                                                                               *

With best wishes, Patricia

At Last

 Dear Reader,

My poem this week is about the topical subject of hugging.  You have probably read lots about tomorrow, Monday, being the day we are all allowed to hug someone and how completely wonderful that will be.  In fact I did an illicit hug with my granddaughter last week, I just couldn't wait any longer. And it was such an intense moment of bliss I will never forget it. I don't know whether you remember my poem about 'a gentleman of the road' who I met when I was working for the Samaritans.  We had chatted for quite some time about his life and when he left I gave him a hug. He hadn't touched another human being for over thirty years, he said, as a tear fell down his cheek.  But I think the hug I gave him cheered him up and helped him on his way.  It was emotional for me too.  

So go out there, my friends, and hug as many people as you can.  I think it is a great deprivation to ask humans not to touch each other. We are social animals and as such need to express ourselves to others in the way of a hug.  Obviously there are some people who do not want to be hugged: well that is their perogative. But for me, hugging is what I like to do, confirming my love for that person in my arms.

Some people find hugging a tree very endearing and satisfying.  So I have put a photograph of someone doing just that.

                                                                                     *

A British firm has become embroiled in an internationsl legal battle over who is entitled to produce Manuka honey.  It is feared that beekeepers from New Zealand want to ensure only honey produced in their country can carry the title.  A single jar of this honey can cost hundreds of pounds depending whether it meets certain criteria.  I buy mine from the Co-op and I think it is about ten pounds a jar.
It is delicious and apparently, in all sorts of ways, very good for you.  So if you feel weak after all the excitement of hugging again, I recommend you buy ajar.

                                                                                      *

At last           (after Covid restrictions were lifted)

the excitement
of hugging someone
after so long
the ecstatic feeling of
somebody much loved in your arms
kissing their cheeks
again and again
holding their hands, holding them close
fingers locking
standing still
breathing their breath
crying with pent up relief
filling that enormous
longing ache
with love and laughter
again

                                                                                  *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

The Holiday Cottage

Dear Reader, 

In the six years I have been writing this small blog I have only missed seven Sundays in all that time. But I really hate not writing it and this last Sunday was no exception so I am really sorry if you missed me. On Saturday I had a tooth out and it was all most unpleasant.  It was a back molar and took some time to move. The dentist had to cut three roots and then I had more injections and when I finally came out I was feeling very groggy and ill.  In fact I shan't be going to that dentist again. The attacked gum is healing now but still feels painful.  Anyway, that is the reason I wasn't able to write on Sunday.

                                                                                          

                                                                                      *

From DH Lawrence, 1915, May 15th in Sussex

I find the country very beautiful.  The apple trees are leaning forwards, all white with blossom, towards the green grass.  I watch, in the morning when I wake up, a thrush on the wall outside the window - not a thrush, a blackbird - and he sings, opening his beak.   It is a strange thing to watch his singing, opening his beak and giving out his calls and warblings, then remaining silent.  He looks so remote, so buried in primeval silence, standing there on the wall, and bethinking himself, then opening his beak to make the strange, strong sound.  he seems as if his singing were a sort of talking to himself, or of thinking aloud his strongest thoughts.  I wish I were a blackbird, like him.  I hate men.

 

                                                                                        *

 

The Holiday Cottage

The lone cottage is whitewashed
a small wicker fence
with garden gate
leads to the shore,
to the sea.
Before breakfast I take a cup of tea
on to the sand dunes,
breathe in the salt air,
search the horizon
or watch gannets,
seagulls, terns.
The wind blows softly.

But the cottage is not whitewashed,
does not sit by itself.
And the sea is far off.
This cottage is on an estate,
adjoining houses on either side,
loud music bellows from a window,
cars and trucks fill the drive,
a food store across the road
is the view.

                                                                                  *

With very best wishes, Patricia