Sunday 24 April 2016

The Date Jar

Dear Reader,

                                                                                  A Glossy Labrador


A woman who lived in Kenya was puzzled as to why the glossy coat of her labrador dog was often remarked on.  She simply didn't understand the reason for this admiration because she didn't feed him a special diet, in fact, nothing out of the ordinary.  But she did discover his secret.  The dog had taken a liking to avocados and was eating the ones that had fallen from a tree in the garden. Hence his glossy coat. 

In the 16th century Spanish explorers travelling to Mexico, where avocados grew in profusion, became the first Europeans to eat them.  By the time of the Spanish Conquest avocados had spread from Mexico through Central America into parts of South America.  The Spanish eventually brought avocados to Europe and sold them to other countries including England.  The first written record in English of the use of the word "avocado" was by Sir Hans Sloane in a 1696 index of Jamaican plants.  The word 'avocado' is believe to be derived from the Nahuatl (Aztec language) word 'ahuactl', which means 'testicle' and obviously described the shape of the fruit.  It is also likely that the Nahuatl speaking peoples believed that it was an aphrodisiac.  So there could be all sorts of excitements in store if we all ate more avocados.
                                                                            *


The Date Jar  

(after cancer operation)


On the breakfast table I noticed
the date jar,
hiding a little behind the cereals,
the milk, the marmalade, the sugar bowl,
and a small jug full of early daffodils.

The date jar?

My throat constricted.
It was the thought he had had,
laying things out,
that I might like a date,
that touched the chord.


                                                                              *

Very best wishes, Patricia


                                                                             

Sunday 17 April 2016

Quickening



Dear Reader,


                                                            Shepherds Huts, both modern and ancient.

Leonard Mascal, a 16th-century writer, who was reputed to have become Chief Farrier to James I, produced a number of very early works regarding rural life.  The Shepherds hut was first mentioned in a book he wrote in l596, indicating the shepherd's importance in the farming community.   In the 19th and 20th centuries the hut was used by shepherds during the lambing season, the hut itself being a kitchen, dining room, bedroom, sitting room and storeroom all rolled into one, and the old huts had stoves in one corner for cooking and a window on each side so the shepherd could see his flock.  To be able to hear the sheep a hinged stable door was positioned away from the prevailing winds.

I think Lady Chatterley and her lover gamekeeper, Oliver Mellors, enjoyed their trysts and passionate lovemaking in a shepherds hut such as you can see in the top picture.  I would have thought it must have been a bit draughty in the winter months, but perhaps they were too busy to notice.


                                                                           *       



Quickening

I want the pulse of life that has been asleep
to wake, embrace me, put on the light.
To hear the thrush, song-repeat, to keep
my trust in God to hurry icy winter's flight.
I want to glimpse, under sodden leaves, green shoots
to announce life's circle, its beginnings, have begun.
I want to run barefoot, abandon boots,
to walk through primrose paths, savour the sun.
I want to take off winter's dress, change its season,
to see the coloured petticoats of spring, bloom
and show us mortals nature's reason
to start afresh, admire the peacock's plume.
Cellar the coal, brush ashes from the fire,
I want to intertwine, my love, quicken, feel desire.


                                                                             *

Very best wishes, Patricia


                                                          


Sunday 10 April 2016

Truth Modern



                                                                         A Garden Gnome


Dear Reader,

In the Renaissance the gnome was a magical and diminutive spirit, first introduced in the l6th century by Paracelsus, the Swiss German philosopher, and later adopted by modern fantasy literature.  The gnome is generally thought to be a small humanoid that lives underground.


However I understand, sadly,  that the Garden Gnome has become an endangered species in Britain.  He is no longer welcome to adorn our gardens or cheer us up.  There has been, apparently, a huge fall in sales.  The Garden Gnome was invented in l9th-century Germany, and introduced to Britain in 1847 by Sir Charles Edmund Isham, a renowned gardener.  But the love affair between gnomes and the British peaked in the l970s after those who manufactured them changed their look, dressing them in daft costumes.  I think having a gnome in your garden was/is a bit "tacky" or even sinister or "naff", and 94% of people asked said "they would never have a gnome in their garden".  But for those of us who secretly quite like gnomes, we can take heart because there is new breed of giant gnomes being made to come out this summer, and one of them is shaped as the Queen.



                                                                           *

Truth Modern


Through a kaleidoscope's
shifting, bright colours,
set close to the eye,
the viewer's truth is reflected,
assuring the mind of its veracity,
acknowledging its fantasies
as realities,
seeing truth
not as it is, but as we would
like it to be,
spinning words,
detaching truth from its moorings,
setting it loose in murky waters.
Illusions of truth
sandwiched between lies
is the authentic truth
of our times.

                                                                           *

Very best wishes,  Patricia

Sunday 3 April 2016

Spring Fair



Dear Reader,

                                                                A farmyard with nothing much happening




If by chance you don't listen to The Archers, it is a radio soap that started in l95l and was billed as "an everyday story of country folk", giving out advice on farming matters to help farmers after the war,  but which is now known as a "contemporary drama in a rural setting".  The story line lately has been controversial, telling us about one of the female characters being abused by her husband.  I don't particularly like the story and hope it is all resolved very soon, but that is not the point I wanted to make.  A journalist, Libby Purves, wrote in a newspaper article last week that lots of people have given up listening to The Archers because it is so boring.  "Interminable pub chat, faux-yokel accents, village hall repairs and dairy emergencies" are a few of the things she listed that made the programme so dull.

But, for myself, I like the programme to be dull and predictable, where nothing much happens.  Ambridge is a safe haven in my head, listening to David moaning on about his cows or that it has or hasn't rained lately, is just what I like to hear when peeling the potatoes for supper.  I don't want excitement in Ambridge, I want soothing and the reassurance that all is well with the world.  Philip Larkin once said: "most of the time to most people, nothing much happens".  Nothing much happening is just how I like it and if I want excitement, which I don't, I could listen to the news.

                                                                           
                                                                            *


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 the 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.

                                                                             *

Very best wishes, Patricia