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.'

 

                                                                                         *

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.' 

                                                                                *

 

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                                                                             *

 

Moment

 

 Dear Reader, 

The Easter lily native to  Japan's Ryukyu Islands, became a symbol of Christ's Resurrection and purity.  Introduced to England in 1819 it was later popularized in the US after WW1 by Louis Houghton, who brought bulbs to Oregon, establishing the "Easter Lily Capital of the World".

Legend holds that white lilies sprang up in the Garden of Gethsemane where drops of Jesus's sweat fell during his final hours.  They are often called "White Robed Apostles of Hope'.

In the Christian tradition the white lily symbolizes purity, rebirth, new beginnings and hope and is most often associated with the resurrection of Jesus Christ as observed on Easter. In Pagan traditions the Easter lily is associated with motherhood and is often gifted to mothers as a symbol of gratitude.  Across many religions and beliefs the white lilies are symbols of purity and grace.

                                                                            * 

The Easter lily is my favourite flower but unfortunately since I have aged I can't breath in the strong scent without feeling faint, and having difficulty breathing.

                                                                             *

 

From James Woodforde   February 1st  1799 in Norfolk

'Very hard frost with much snow and very rough easterly wind....  I don't know that I ever felt a more severe day.  The turnips all froze to blocks, obliged to split them with beetle and wedges, and some difficulty to get at them on account of the snow - their tops entirely gone and they lay as apples on the ground.' 

 

From Francis Kilvert   February 2nd 1872 in Radnorshire 

'The morning was superb, warm, and brilliant, like a May morning, and the hundreds of yellow stars of the Cape Jessamine between the drawing room and dining room windows, were full of bees.' 

 

                                                                             *

 

MOMENT

 

The church is cool from summer sun,

organ music plays.

 

We walk down the aisle

enjoy the scent of lilies

filling the holy air

point out ruby stained glass windows

depicting Christ on the cross,

examine oak and stone carvings

plaster heads of saints

the altar cloth rich in green and gold.

 

He runs up the pulpit steps

says a few words in Latin.

I laugh

then we kneel together in a back pew

say a prayer.

 

He takes my hand.

 

                                                        *

 With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Churchyard

 Dear Reader,

Norman churches in England (c.1066-1150)  were monumental stone Romanesque structures built by the Normans to assert religious and political authority after the Conquest, replacing nearly all Anglo-Saxon, mostly wooden, buildings.   

Characterized by round arches, massive pillars and often decorated with chevron patterns, these grand, long naved multi-story basilicas aimed to dominate the landscape with key examples including Durham Cathedral and St.Albans Cathedral.

In some cases churches were built as acts of atonement.  For example, William the Conqueror founded Battle Abbey on the exact spot where King Harold was killed during the Battle of Hastings.  

 

                                                                              *

From Dorothy Wordsworth  January 27th   1802   Westmorland

'A beautiful mild morning; the sun shone; the lake was still, and all the shores reflected in it......The bees were humming about the hive.   William raked a few stones off the garden, his first garden labour this year.  I cut the shrubs.'

 

                                                                           *

Churchyard

 

The day was ice cold,
frost sparkled on hedges and trees.
Grass glittered in
the graveyard of the old
Norman church,

 still standing firm and solid.

 

A ghostly haze hung over the

headstones, banks and banks

of snowdrops sheltered under

 trees in great clumps,

a few early daffodils peeped out.

 

There was silence everywhere.

Far away hills and fields
filled my vision and

spirituality filled the air.
Angels flew around me,

shared their                                                            

paradise of quiet perfection

and love.

 

                                                                               *

With best wishes, Patricia 

January Weather

 Dear Reader,

St. Merryn, Cornwall, is a village with ancient roots, named after a 6th/7th century community hub evolving through centuries of construction, and thriving today as a peaceful coastal area known for its beautiful beaches near Padstow, blending history with its popular modern holiday destination status.

The name links to a Welsh missionary possibly St. Mirin who spread Christianity in the region.  The village church has always been central, undergoing many building phases and extensions over time, and its history reflects a close-knit community with strong family ties.

                                                                              *

For some reason the poem I put on last week a "Soldier's Meditation" has been enormously popular. Particularly in Singapore and Hong Kong.  So I will put it up again this week along with "January Weather" a poem I always love.  Gosh the weather has been terrible hasn't it?  As someone with a difficult and weak chest I can hardly go out to walk and find I get "cabin fever" if I don't go out for days.  Well at least there are snowdrops in the garden so spring is on its way, thank goodness.

                                                                               *

 

 From Gilbert White  January 20th  1775  in Hampshire

'Lambs fall, and are frozen to the ground.'

 

From John Constable  January 20th 1834 in Hampstead

'The trees and the clouds seem to ask me to try and do something like them.'

 

From Katherine Mansfield   January 20th  1915  in Buckinghamshire 

'A man outside is breaking stones.  the day is utterly quiet.   Sometimes a leaf rustles and a strange puff of wind passes the window. The old man chops, chops as though it were a heart beating out there.' 

                                                                                   *

Soldier’s Meditation

 

 

 

 

My cigarette time-burns,

my body trembles,

only minutes now

until the action starts.

 

Am I brave?   no, not brave

I am shit-scared,

my body reeks.

The last drop of whisky

wets my parched lips.

I light another cigarette.

 

I hold this gun to hide behind.

With it, I will aim and slaughter

someone unknown, someone’s son,

mother, father, daughter.

 

 

If killed, I want no part in bands playing,

or speeches glorifying my sacrifice.

I want no weeping, seen or unseen,

pitying those who were,

those who had been.

 

Go, action, ready, time to start.

Dear God, do leaden wings always fly

a universal soldier’s heart?

 

 

                                                                               *

January Weather

 

We know from recorded history, 

that in St. Merryn

a hundred years ago,

there blew great winds

and the sea was smoking white.

 

We know that it was warm in Kent,

where the thrushes thought spring

had come, and piped away.

And primroses were a yellow carpet

in North Norfolk,

or so the parson wrote.

 

We know of cutting winds in Hampshire,

of icicles and frost, and in Skiddaw on a mild day,

a brown spotted butterfly was seen.

We know that hungry church

mice ate bible markers,

hungry people died of cold.

 

And we know that this dark winter month

had days of snow, that wild clouds

gathered in the sky unleashing icy rain,

churning up the plough.

 

And yet, again, we also know 

the sun shone in that distant year,

it was warm enough to push through

early snowdrops, and Holy Thorn.

Light was glimpsed, here and there,

all life struggled for its moments. 

 

                                                                       *

 

 

With best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soldier's Meditation

 Dear Reader,

Wolf Moon

 

 

Dear Reader,

According to the Old Farmer's Almanac the January full moon was named the 'Wolf Moon" because "wolves were more often heard howling at this time".   It was traditionally believed that wolves howled due to hunger during winter, but we know today that wolves howl for other reasons.

Native American tribes also referred to this moon as The Freeze up Moon, Hard Moon or Centre Moon, marking the deep winter season.

It is said that the Wolf Moon enhances intuition and emotional awareness. For New Beginnings:  It marks a time for setting intentions and embracing change. For Inner Strength: This lunar phase symbolizes personal power and resilience.  For Emotional Healing:  The Cancer influence promotes nurturing and self care.

The Bible says as you observe the Wolf Moon let it inspire you to cultivate a deeper connection with God, your community and your own spiritual path.  Embrace the transformation it symbolizes and trust in the intuition God has placed within you.

                                                                                  *

As is my wont I was making a cup of tea at 3am on Saturday night when I saw the Wolf Moon.  It looked so beautiful but icy cold.  I am glad I was up to see it.

                                                                                    *

 

From Richard Hayes   January 11th 1765   in Kent 

'Brisk wind but quite warm.  Song thrush pipes away as though an April morn.' 

 

From Francis Kilvert   January 12th  1873  in Wiltshire

'When I came out the night was superb.   The sky was cloudless, the moon rode high and full in the deep blue vault and the evening star blazed in the west.  the air was filled with the tolling and chiming of bells from St Paul's and Chippenham old church.......I walked up and down the drive several times before I could make up my mind to leave the wonderful beauty of the night and go indoors'.

 

                                                                             *

 

Soldier’s Meditation

 

 

 

 

My cigarette time-burns,

my body trembles,

only minutes now

until the action starts.

 

Am I brave?   no, not brave

I am shit-scared,

my body reeks.

The last drop of whisky

wets my parched lips.

I light another cigarette.

 

I hold this gun to hide behind.

With it, I will aim and slaughter

someone unknown, someone’s son,

mother, father, daughter.

 

 

If killed, I want no part in bands playing,

or speeches glorifying my sacrifice.

I want no weeping, seen or unseen,

pitying those who were,

those who had been.

 

Go, action, ready, time to start.

Dear God, do leaden wings always fly

a universal soldier’s heart?

 

 

 

                                                                                                         *

I have been thinking about the soldiers fighting in Ukraine this week and thought this poem pertinent.

   

                                                                                                          *

 

With very best wishes,  Patricia 

 

 

The Mind cupboard

 Dear Reader,

Daffodils  (genus Narcissus) have a rich history, linked to Greek myth (Narcissus) and Roman introduction to Britain where they were thought to have healing powers before becoming a major commercial crop in the 19th century, particularly in Cornwall, symbolizing rebirth, hope and new beginnings across cultures.

The botanical name for the daffodil is narcissus, named after a young man known for his beauty in Greek mythology who was tricked into falling in love with his own reflection.  The drooping flowers that characterize most daffodils are said to represent Narcissus bending over to catch his own reflection in a pool of water.

The name derives from the Greek 'narco' which is the root of the word narcotic.  The etymology probably relates to the daffodil's toxicity - all parts of the plant are poisonous.

Daffodils have inspired writers, poets and artists through the centuries.  A favourite flower among romantic poets, they were immortalized by Wordsworth in his poem 'Daffodils" one of the most famous  poems in the English language. 

                                                                         *

I put the poem 'The Mind Cupboard" on the blog in the middle of the week as I thought it appropriate in the New Year.  As many readers agreed with me I have left in on for one more week.  

                                                                          *

 

From Samuel Pepys   January 1st  1667 in London  

'Lay long, being a bitter, cold, frosty day, the frost being now grown old, and the Thames covered in ice.'

 

From Thomas Hardy  January 2nd   1886 in Dorset

'Cold weather brings out upon the faces of people the written marks of their habits, vices, passions, and memories, as warmth brings out on paper a writing in sympathetic ink.' 

                                                                           *

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 very best wishes, Patricia