violets

 Dear  Reader,

 

I thought you might like to see these violets, photographed by Jessica, in a Cotswold wood.

 

Best wishes Patricia 

Spring Fair

 Dear reader,

Country fairs originated from ancient seasonal European gatherings evolving from medieval trading markets into, by the 18th century, major spectacles of entertainment, agriculture and commerce.

While early fairs were strictly for trade, they transformed in the 19th century with mechanized rides, sideshows, and, in America, agricultural competitions.

Funfairs have been a staple for family days out in the UK for centureis.  One of the earliest fairs recorded was Bartholemew Fair in 1133.  The oldest fair in the UK is Goose Fair, a tradition for the ages.   Nottingham's Goose Fair is still going strong over 700 years later. The event started in the 13th century and is referred to as the world's oldest travelling fair.

                                                                                 *

I wrote this poem after taking Jessica to a fair when she was about 17.  She really did disappear and I didn't see her again until the next morning. I never found out where she had gone and what she was doing. 

                                                                                  *

 `From Dorothy Wordsworth   March 13th  1802 in Westmorland

'After dinner we walked to Rydale for letters - it was terribly cold- we had 2 or 3 brisk hail showers - the hail stones looked clean and pretty upon the dry clean road.  Little Peggy Simpson was standing at the door catching the hail stones in her hand.'

From Francis Kilvert   March 19th   1871 in Radnorshire

'The sun was almost overpowering.   Heavy black clouds drove up and rolled round the sky without veiling the hot sunshine, black clouds with white edges they were, looking suspiciously like thunder clouds.  Against these black clouds the sunshine showed the faint delicate green and pink of the trees thickening with bursting buds.' 

                                                                                *

 

 

Spring Fair                 

 

 

 

The young girl

and her mother, holding hands,

hurry down the hill

where the bright lights beckon,

see the big dippers hurtling,

painted horses swirling, yellow

swing boats diving, swooping,

smell the grease and diesel,

hear the loud beat of music,

the children’s screams.

 

Young men of the fair,

long-haired, dark, a little wild,

eye the girls with bright,

knowing looks.

The air is full of restlessness, of quickening,

an urgency to act

before the end of night,

when morning light will move them on.

 

Dusk falls, the young girl drops her mother’s hand,

stirred by the primal desire of early spring.

Running silently she disappears into the night, eager

to share what ancient fires of life can bring.

 

                                                                                 *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Glimpsed a Child

 

 

Dear Reader, 

In the heart of Morocco where tradition weaves through the fabric of daily life, the ritual of mint tea preparation is a story of culture, hospitality and history.

This beloved drink, a symphony of green tea, mint leaves, sugar, and water, is more than a beverage, it is a symbol of Moroccan generosity and warmth, cherished from the bustling souks of Marrakesh to the tranquil Amazign (Berber) villages in the Atlas mountains.

Beyond its soothing taste, Moroccan mint tea is lauded fro its health benefits.  Rich in antioxidants , this verdant drink is a guardian of well-being, offering a refreshing pause in the rhythm of life, a moment to reflect and rejuvenate amidst the day's pursuits.

The serving of mint tea in Morocco transcends the mere act of hospitality, it is a ceremonial gesture of respect and friendship. It graces the most auspicious occasions, from weddings to religious festivities, each pour from the ornate berrad (teapot) as a symbol of unity and celebration.

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Marrakesh is quite my favourite place abroad.  It is so exciting with rich colour everywhere, exotic people and beautiful buildings. I bought a carpet whilst being offered mint tea.  It was delicious.

                                                                              *

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth  March 1st  1798 in Somerset

'The shapes of the mist, slowly moving along, exquisitely beautiful; passing over the sheep they almost seemed to have more of life than those quiet creatures.  The unseen birds singing in the mist.'

 

From Francis Kilvert  March 6th   1875  in Wiltshire

'A sudden and blessed change in the weather, a S.W. wind, bearing warm rain, and the birds in the garden and orchard singing like mad creatures.'

 

From D.H. Lawrence   March 8th  1916 in Cornwall

'It is still cold.   Snow falls sometimes, then vanishes at once.  Then the sun shines, some gorse bushes smell hot and sweet.'

                                                                               *

 

 

I glimpsed a child

 

on the kitchen chair

feet dangling

legs swinging

 

large brown eyes stared

from a dusty pale face

 

she didn’t smile or speak

 

about seven years old I thought

Syrian perhaps or Iraqi

her clothes once pink and green

now mud stained and torn

 

her silver bracelets sparkling

in the sunlight

 

I made her Moroccan mint tea

offered her cake

kissed her cold cheek

dried her tears

 

I fetched more sugar

but on return I saw

the chair was empty

the child gone

dissolved in the morning air

 

                                                         *

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                              

I Call to you

 Dear Reader,

 

The poem "Praise" doesn't seem to have touched your hearts!  So here is "I Call to You" which I do know you like. 

 

 

I Call To You

 

I am the winter snow

the summer sun

I am the birdsong

the first snowdrop

I am the seagull's cry

the gold red sunset

I am the butterfly, the ladybird

the falling leaves

I am the blue mountains

the oak tree

I am whispering trees

the silver stream

I am the Southerly wind

the Northern Star

I am the sound of the sea

the gentle rain

I am the light, peace

love and sisterly soul

 

 

I call to you

 

 

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Best wishes to you all, Patricia 

 

 

 

Praise

Dear Reader, 

The story of the primrose (Primula vulgaris) is a journey from ancient mystical folklore to the heart of English literature and Victorian tradition.  Known as one of the first flowers of spring - derived from the Latin prima rosa - this unassuming, pale yellow flower had held a place in European culture for centuries.

In Irish and Scottish folklore the primrose is deeply associated with fairies, often called "fairy cups".  It was believed that a bunch of primroses, particularly when placed on a doorstep on May Eve, acted a a barrier against evil spirits and protected the household.  Also a Scottish legend claimed that if you ate a primrose you would gain the ability to see fairies.

And farmers would place them in cow sheds to stop fairies stealing the milk.  The primrose was a favourite of William Shakespeare who often used it to represent youth, early death or fleeting pleasure. 

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Lots of different flowers have come up in the garden this week but no primroses. 

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From Dorothy Wordsworth   February 26th  1798 in Somerset

'A winter prospect shows every cottage, every farm, and the forms of distant trees, such as in summer have no distinguishing mark.' 

From S.T. Coleridge  February 28th   1827 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  February 29th   1876 in Oxfordshire 

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

 

 

Praise

 

She always tried to be good

did her best in everything she did

but her best wasn’t

good enough

 

her mother was too busy

meeting drinking friends

her father didn’t notice

he was too busy making films

 

and they didn’t seem

to know about praise

 

but praise is so easy to give

and so difficult to get

why can’t people see that

a word or two can change

a whole life view

 

can turn a bad black day

into a day to remember

when your heart fills

with love and thanks

    

With very best wishes, Patricia                                                                          * 

Love Unlocked and the poem: Miracle

 Dear reader,

Valentine's Day originated from a blend of ancient Roman, pagan and Christian traditions, evolving from the mid-February fertility festival of Lupercalia into a celebration of romantic love during the Middle Ages.  It is associated with Saint Valentine, a 3rd century martyr, and became linked to romance via literature by the 14th century,

A celebration for the Feast of St. Valentine on February 14th took place in the 14th/15th centuries when notions of courtly love flourished apparently by association with "lovebirds'  of early spring.  In 18th century England, it grew into an occasion for couples to express their love for each other by presenting flowers, offering confectionery, and sending greeting cards.

In Italy Saint Valentine's keys are given to lovers "as a romantic symbol and an invitation to unlock the giver's heart". 

                                                                                      *

 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 in Surrey

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

 

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Miracle

 

 

Rich in England’s spring,

cow parsley entrancing

in dog-rosed hedge,

the fecund earth lush green,

a baby swallow

hatches in a Suffolk barn,

to the cries of gulls

flying over mudflats,

over sea-lavender.

 

This small bird grows

embracing our summer warmth,

swooping on insects caught

above rolling grasslands.

It dips and tumbles gracefully,

trouble free.

 

But what instinct tells of winter’s cold?

This bird, hand-sized, will

fly over icy Pyrenees,

thirst through the parched Sahara,

soar and glide on trade winds,

south to The Cape of Africa

drawn, inexplicably, to the heat

of the southern sun.

 

In early spring does

this swallow’s courageous heart

grow restless, homesick for 

a Suffolk barn?

Is it a miracle that some force

of nature returns this minute bird

to its birth-nest by the English sea?

Who knows, but it seems so to me.

 

 

                                                                                    *

 

Love unlocked

 

 

 

 

What can I say about love

that has not been said?

 

 

I have little to add except

my sweetheart proffered

a unique key

to the door of possibilities,

through loving me.

 

                                                           *

 

 

 

 

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

Screams Unheard

 Dear reader,

The Imperial War Museum was established to record the military and civilian contributions, toil, and sacrifices of the British Empire.

It opened in 1920 at Crystal Palace, moving to its current Lambeth Road location in 1936, and has expanded to cover all modern conflicts.

It was proposed by Sir Alfred Mond and approved in March 1917 to collect materials while the war was still on going.  It aimed to be a record of the war effort rather than a monument to victory.

The War Museum holds a vast collection of over 33 million items, including personal letters, photographs and large objects like tanks and aircraft offering a comprehensive view of modern war.

                                                                             *

 

 

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

'It is marvelous weather - brilliant sunshine on the snow, clear as summer, slightly golden sun, distance lit up.  But it is immensely co;d - 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 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 the snow.' 

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Screams unheard

 

It is very well done, she said,

the War Museum,

we will visit one afternoon.

Visit the dead?

I know the grief and loss wars cause,

I remain silent, pause

then say, yes why not.

 

We did visit,

people crowded everywhere.

Schoolchildren were

chewing gum, shouting,

scribbling on odd pieces of paper,

bored with the uncool dead,

and old history.

 

We lunched in the restaurant

on hot soup, buttered buns,

then hurried downstairs to

inspect tanks and guns.

Under lowered lights

in ominous gloom,

sepia scenes of uniformed men

hung in a darkened room.

 

Underground now,

the bowels of the earth.

Ah, the virtual reality attraction

the gas chamber.

Permission to touch

the white tiles, the copper pipes

where the gas would come

not very nice, but very well done.

 

A teenager laughed

licked his ice cream,

then wandered away,

obscene, obscene.

 

Normandy landings next

on film,

Sea-sodden soldiers, exhausted, cold,

weary young faces, made old,

blasts of noise, terror and blood,

bulleted corpses floating in mud.

Screech, more aircraft over,

some of ‘our boys’ after the Hun.

Very clever, very real,

very well done.

 

We should have gone to the Dolls

Museum, she said.

Perhaps more entertaining

than the dreary dead.

 

Did anyone else hear the screams,

or feel the grief, the anger, the fear,

all of the things I felt there…..

 

                                                                                                *

 

 

 

With very best wishes, Patricia                                                                             *