Sunday 27 September 2015

Bus Stop Princess


Dear Reader,

I was driving slowly down the Cowley Road in Oxford when I saw this unobtrusive person at a bus stop.  I looked at her and she looked at me and then she smiled. And that smile quite transformed her. The woman I saw was no longer Cinderella, but a princess, and a beautiful woman. 
Hence this poem.

She waited, unnoticed, invisible.
Her fluffy green jersey egg-stained,
uninteresting trousers and sensible shoes
inviting no attention.
She was a brown paper parcel,
loosely string-tied.

But she smiled at me
with such sweetness,
such a smile of goodness,
I saw her sensible shoes
become sparkling slippers,
her shabby clothes
turn into a ball dress
fashioned from sunlight,
stitched up with love.

Not then a story-book princess
but a real princess
glimpsed at a bus stop.

             *

My musings this week are on:      Oscar Wilde, Dorset and Schadenfreude.

Oscar Wilde once said: "other people's happiness is a trifle dull" so I will be brief in telling you that our holiday in Dorset this week was delightful in every way.
The sun shone for us, the sky was clear and bright blue, and the small hotel nestling in the Dorset hills was perfect.  However, it is well known,  that people would rather hear about your misfortunes than your good times. How, on your holiday,  it rained every day, the view from your hotel bedroom was over the dust bins, and that you and your partner were hardly speaking by the end of the break. So I was wondering this week what it is in us that gives us more satisfaction learning of others misadventures than learning of their pleasures?  It is called schadenfreude, if that helps.

Very best wishes,  Patricia

Sunday 20 September 2015

The House




Dear Reader,

I wonder if you have ever had a strange, rather sad feeling when you entered a house, or a building of some sort, or even on a country walk. Something you see or feel brings back memories and you are not sure why. But I think they must be something to do with childhood, something perhaps that upset you or touched you but that you didn't dwell on at the time. And in this particular place the feelings return.  I felt like this when I went to lunch with a neighbour in the small market town I live in.
This is the poem I wrote when I went home.

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 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?

                    *

A muse this week....

I have been thinking of stamina, The Queen, and myself.  The Queen has now been on the throne for sixty three years and, in her photographs, I think she looks marvellous.  And she is 89.  But what astounds me is her incredible constitution.  She never seems to have a cold or get ill like the rest of us, and I often think of her on that boat, going down the river Thames last year, standing in the cold and wet for four hours without so much as a cardigan round her shoulders. And then all those engagements she has to perform: astonishing.  So I conclude she must be made of quite different stuff, a better material,  to me,  who gets tired shopping,  going for a short walk in the afternoon, and cooking the supper. 
And I am only 75.

Very best wishes, Patricia

Sunday 13 September 2015

A Curse





Dear Reader,

I am always very distressed when I read about the bones of an ancient person buried with its special treasures, being disturbed, being violated, and then taken away somewhere to be dissected.  This I feel is an affront, something we simply should not do.  These bones are sacred and embody the spirit and soul of a human being, albeit they are no longer sentient.  They wished to be buried and to then to rest in peace, and rightly so.  But their peace has been stolen.

A Curse

on those who plunder the earth,
and violate sacred places....

A curse on those who disturb
and steal gently-bandaged skulls,
legs, arms, and finger-bones,
jewels: perhaps a pearl bracelet,
a coral ring, hair pins, or a mosaic plate,
set out lovingly with food
for the long journey home.
Who have lain there, at peace,
for many thousand years,
the sand, the desert winds, the rains,
nature's bed.

A curse on those whose
laughter and excitement
fills the air, stealing these remains,
transporting them to people
in white coats,
who dissect their dignity,
stick labels on them,
give them to museums
to enlighten an ice-cream-licking public.

                     *

Musing this week.....

Whilst  wondering which poem to choose this week, and choosing "A Curse",  I thought about Richard III and the finding of his bones in Leicester City in August 2012.  He was killed at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485 and was subsequently taken by the Grey Friars, to their friary church, and buried there.      Hundreds of years later Leicester Car Park was built over his bones and busy important people, knowing of his whereabouts, dug him up.   So poor Richard III no longer rests in peace, but I don't suppose Leicester City council feels any guilt, or anyone else for that matter.


These words are on Shakespeare's gravestone:


"Good frend for Jesus sake forbeare,
To digg the dust encloased heare
Blese be the man that spares thes stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones."






Very best wishes, Patricia



Sunday 6 September 2015

Love Unlocked


Dear Reader,

I started writing this blog ten weeks ago on the advice of one of my granddaughters, Emma, who thought people reading it might enjoy the poems.   As I said in my introduction to this blog I  do know that lots of people would rather scrub the dishes than read a poem, but there are a few out there who do enjoy the odd one.  So I have tried to interest those few people who have looked and enjoyed them.  BUT and this is a big BUT I have had no comments from anyone about the work. Either good or bad or even indifferent. And this makes a difference as to whether I continue.  Writing a comment is NOT difficult.  Press on "comment", tick "anonymous", write your thoughts and press publish.  That's it.  Please do this as it is very important to me and I would be most grateful if you did.

There isn't much story to write about the short poem I wrote on the subject of love.  Goodness me
enough has been written on this subject by Shakespeare, to The Beatles, and thousands more.  So to think of something original was not going to happen, but I did my best and here it is.

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.

             *

A musing this week,

There has been so much sorrow, suffering and grief to engulf us this week that  I thought I would share with you Francis Kilvert's diary entry for September 6th, 1875, to try to make us feel happier for a minute or two.

'The morning suddenly became glorious and we saw what had happened in the night.  All night long millions of gossamer spiders had been spinning and the whole country was covered.....The gossamer webs gleamed and twinkled into crimson and gold and green like the most exquisite shot-silk dress in the finest texture of gauzy silver wire.  I never saw anything like it or anything so exquisite.........'

Very best wishes, Patricia