Sunday 25 September 2016

Resolution





Dear Reader,

Of late I have been thinking about fantasy and reality and how it plays a part in our lives, and in some lives more than others.  A.N. Wilson, writing about Beryl Bainbridge in The Spectator magazine, said that her life was a borderline between fact and fiction.  Apparently she was incapable of having experiences without shaping or changing them into some sort of fantasy.  Perhaps we all do this to some extent.  It made me think of the Archers again.  Large parts of the country have been mesmerized by the story of Helen and Rob and the subsequent court case, because Helen stabbed Rob out of fright, fearing for the life of her son, Henry.  I think over five million people have listened to this story in awe and anguish, all knowing that Ambridge and the Archers do not exist.  But somehow they exist for me and I presume for them too.  But what upset me this week and made me think how strange we human beings are, was the fact that there is going to be another animal in the new Winnie-the-Pooh stories.  There is going to be a penguin.  I particularly love the Hundred Acre Wood where Winnie-the-Pooh, Tigger, Piglet, and Eeyore live and I do not like the idea of sharing this magic place with a penguin.  I really do like penguins, I just don't want one in the Hundred Acre Wood. 

                                                                          *
Resolution

I need to breathe salt sea air,
run down the shell-strewn beach,
let the sharp east wind blow through my hair,
run for the horizon away out of reach.

I need the sound of the seagull's cry,
the music of waves rolling on sand
to help with questions of whether and why
I should change my direction, and stand

up for what I believe in.
I need the strength I know I will find
on that quiet sunfilled beach,
to be resolute, make up my mind.

Enveloped in peace, silence and sea
I will whisper to the listening wind,
"I have made the decision, watch over me,
I'm taking the path I've determined".

                                                                      *

Very best wishes, Patricia


Sunday 18 September 2016

Amarillo



Dear Reader,



                                                                  Amarillo


I am very proud of my granddaughter, aged 16 and just starting her A-Level work, who has got a Saturday job at a coffee shop.  She has to make drinks, coffee and tea, clean the tables, wash up, and serve the customers. For this job she is being a paid £7.70p per hour.  So I have been thinking back to my first job in 1958, which was as a secretary in a soft paper company in Knightsbridge.  I was paid for a five-day week, 9 am to 5.30 pm, £7.7s.6d.  I had, in addition, fifteen shillings a week luncheon vouchers.  I spent them in a cafe where for a bowl of soup and a piece of bread the three shillings (which today is worth 20p) was ample.  My granddaughter pays approximately £2.50p for a sandwich for her lunch.  It seems astonishing to me just how the value of money has changed in these last fifty years, and I still haven't quite got used to it all, even yet.

Only just bearing up with the hot weather we were having last week, I thought I would share with you a quotation from Jane Austen written in Kent in 1796:  

"What dreadful hot weather we have! - It keeps one in a continual state of inelegance." 
Quite so.
                                                                         *



Amarillo
(written in exasperation)

Is this the way
to Amarillo,
or is it past the Royal Oak,
turn left or right,
somewhere here, or there,
or is this the way to Basingstoke?

I this the way
to a wiser life,
a slimmer me,
to be a better wife?

Is this the way to Paris, France,
the way to ski,
or learn to dance,
ask friends to tea,
slay someone with a single glance?

Is this the way to anything or anywhere?
Some would say they do not care,
what does it matter?
And as for me, I must agree
with the latter.


                                                                                  *

Very best wishes, Patricia


Sunday 11 September 2016

Identity




                                                                                   Women spinning wool


Dear Reader,

This week I read that Prince Charles did a strange experiment to establish the comparative qualities of wool and synthetic fibre.  Six months ago he buried two jumpers of each material in a flower bed at Clarence House, thinking and hoping that the woollen jumper he buried there would be recyclable and biodegradable when he dug them up six months later.  In fact the woollen jersey had biodegraded itself to nothing, whilst the synthetic jersey was still completely intact, and I think he must have been pleased at this outcome, which was the result he wanted.  In 1571 his ancestor Queen Elizabeth I passed a law demanding that most of her subjects wear woollen hats on a Sunday to support the English wool trade.  In medieval England wool had become big business.  There was enormous demand for it, mainly to produce cloth, and everyone who had land, from peasants to major landowners, raised sheep.  I myself wear woollen and cotton clothes as much as possible, since synthetic materials don't suit me.  They make me either too hot or too cold - either way rather uncomfortable.

                                                                                *

 Identity

"Why hello", she said, "how are you,
what have you been doing,
how are your family, is your sister
still writing, I love her books,
and George, I expect he is as
busy as ever, and the twins, heavens
how are they, and your grandmother, does
she still live in Acapulco, breeding
donkeys, and your dog, is it alive and well?
Ah good, good, good.
Gosh look at the time -
I really must fly, but so
lovely to hear all about you,
and your life."

The woman scratched her fingernails
down her cheek,
a spot of blood
splattered in her hand,
she pinched her arm, sensed the pain,
she stamped the ground,
felt paving stones beneath her feet,
and drawing near she saw a 23 bus.
These things were proof of her
existence, weren't they?
So she was alive, was there,
just invisible.

                                                                              *

Very best wishes, Patricia


Sunday 4 September 2016

butterfly trousers




 

 

Dear Reader,

a very warm welcome back to my blog.  I have missed writing it over these recent weeks and hope that you, likewise, have missed reading it.  I will try to write something interesting or amusing, or both, each week for you to enjoy, and hope that you will also read the poems and get pleasure from them.

I expect you have had a good and interesting summer, with lots of wonderful things to remember  when autumn and then winter really set in.  When the evenings are shorter, darker and colder,
we long for a fire to sit round, a drink in hand, and a quiet time to think perhaps about our holiday and possibly get out the photographs to remind us of those balmy days.

The pictures today are of those memorable characters from the "Wind in the Willows", that favourite book written by Kenneth Graham.  I was thinking about them yesterday.  What is strange about them, I thought, is that not one of them has any form of partner.  Now I think Mr Badger could do with a wife.  She should be responsible and reliable, and would organize his world well.  She could pick up his handkerchiefs and polish his spectacles. Then Ratty.  He would need a sporty bohemian type of female rat, a good companion on some of his adventures.  I know today that gender identity is an important issue, and don't want to make all the partners female; but I feel sure Mr Mole would want a modest and pretty lady mole who enjoyed a spot of cooking and dusting, and sang in a sweet voice to him after supper.  But Mr Toad ... that is more difficult.  I can't imagine anyone of any gender wanting to share their life with him.  And probably he is happy on his own.  If, of course,  these delightful animals did share their lives with someone, it would not be the magical story of "Wind in the Willows" that we know and love.  So I think I will put the idea of partners for them out of my mind and leave them there on the river bank, messing about in boats, their strong friendships enjoyed with each other.

                                                                          *

butterfly trousers

the photograph stands on the table
in a very special place
a little girl with boots on
a sweet smile on her face

she wears her favourite trousers
small butterflies in red
a squirrel brooch on her jersey
a peaked cap on her head

she fished in a pool for tadpoles
brought them proudly back in a jar
she patted the new born foals
skipped in the meadows but didn't go far

in the garden shed she raced her snails
their names were Trusty, Ben, and Sue
she jumped her pony over posts and rails
rode in the forest by the river Brue

At bedtime I read her a story
tucked her in tight
kissed her tenderly
turned out the light

BUT WHERE IS SHE NOW?

that little girl with boots and cap
butterfly trousers in red
time has taken her youthful years
but those memories live on in my head

                                                                                *

With very best wishes, Patricia