Sunday 30 October 2016

Spirit Suitcase







Dear Reader,


                                                                          A Spider and his Web


I am not a natural lover of spiders, but they don't seem to have understood this and have visited my house in hordes this month.  They seem to be everywhere, in every corner, and certainly have their favourite spots, the downstairs loo being one of them.  Some of them, of course, are not as horrible as others.  The ones with the small bodies and long legs I put down the lavatory, thinking vaguely that they will have another chance at life, swirling about in the water. This is probably not true but it makes me feel less guilty.  But those black spiders that scuttle sideways have no second chance when I have caught them ........

The evolution of spiders has been going on for about 400 million years, and there are at least 45,700 spider species.  Most spiders live for about two years, and their best known method of ensnaring prey  is by means of a sticky web in which they capture different insects.  The male spider identifies himself by a variety of complex courtship rituals to avoid being eaten by the females, and they only survive a few matings, which are limited by their short life spans.

"Weaving spiders come not here
hence you long-legged spinners, hence
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm nor Snail, do no offence."

From: Midsummer Night's Dream   (1595/6)

Thinking of Shakespeare, I am reading a really funny and interesting book about his life and the little that is known about it, by Bill Bryson.  He says that Shakespeare didn't scruple to steal plots, dialogue, names and titles, or whatever suited his purpose.  I didn't know that, and apparently George Bernard Shaw once said that Shakespeare was a wonderful teller of stories so long as someone else had told them first.  Could we all say that about the tales we tell, I wonder?

                                                                         *


Spirit Suitcase

A sturdy key
locks the spirit
in its suitcase.
It floats and dances,
dives low, climbs high,
is forever candle-lit.

The suitcase, new, shines,
leather polished,
locks and fittings brass-bright,
unbruised.
But through use, it gets kicks,
scuffs, scratches, and slowly fades.
Its original shape
is just recognizable,
only just there

while the spirit dances on ........   

                                                                  *

With best wishes, Patricia                                                               

Sunday 23 October 2016

Camel




Dear Reader,




                                                                                            A Silverback Gorilla


I feel very drawn towards Kumbuka, the 29-stone Silverback gorilla that escaped from his enclosure at London Zoo last week after a cage door was left open.  He found his way through two unlocked gates, and let himself into the food store, where he consumed nine pints of undiluted black currant squash during his hour of freedom.  Armed police were called to the zoo and Kumbuka was found, tranquillized, and moved back to his 'Gorilla Kingdom'.  Apparently he is a lovely gentle character and, although he bangs tree trunks and windows, it is just 'display behaviour'.  The life span of a gorilla is normally between 35 and 40 years, and they are considered highly intelligent animals.  Like other great apes, gorillas can laugh, grieve, and have rich emotional lives, developing strong family bonds.  I hate to think of any beautiful, clever, sensitive animal being shut up in a small unnatural space for people to gawp at and only wish poor Kumbuka had leapt over the enclosure wall and escaped to the freedom to which he is entitled.  I must say, though, that I feel comforted knowing that he found his way to the undiluted black currant squash and then obviously thoroughly enjoyed drinking it.

                                                                            *

Camel

The woman stares at me
into my rheumy eyes, my sad face
sees a dusty, dirty animal
mud sticking to my coat
my miserable tail hanging loose
my hooves cracked, hump matted.

But I want her to know
that this is not me.
I came from a land of warmth
of sun, of sand,
my Arab owner loved me
understood me
he spoke to me softly
he stroked my coat.
He rode on my back
Kelim rugs hugging my haunches
water in large panniers
strung to my side.
We rode to oases, to Petra Rose,
he was my friend
I weep for the want of him.

The woman walks away
but something glistens on her cheek.

                                                                             *

With best wishes, Patricia


Sunday 16 October 2016

Throwing Away

Dear Reader,


                                                                              The Battle of Borodino, 1812

This week my husband finished reading to me out loud Leo Tolstoy's book "War and Peace" and, as you all probably know, it is a very long read.  Thinking now about the book, what it taught me is that, as in the book "Men are from Mars, Women from Venus", men and women are so, so different in their approach to life and its struggles.  Tolstoy's account of the Battle of Borodino, which was fought in September 1812, during the French invasion of Russia, was astonishing.  For me, the most interesting part was what the soldiers were thinking and doing before the battle, knowing that they would probably be slaughtered by the thousands the next day.  The Russians suffered terrible casualties during the fighting, losing over a third of their army.  Suffering a wound on the Borodino battlefield was effectively a death sentence, since the French forces didn't have enough food for the healthy, much less the sick or wounded, so soldiers starved to death or died of their wounds.  But, and this is the interesting part, on the night before the battle the soldiers apparently made camp in the woods, lit fires, sang, and lots of laughter was heard.  I know this account was in a novel but suspect Tolstoy knew it to be true, and I consider this behaviour very brave.  Of course, I can't speak for other women,  but if it had been me, not being of a courageous disposition, I would have tried to find a bottle of vodka, drink it and quietly pass out somewhere, hoping the battle was over when I came to my senses.

This is a small piece from Francis Kilvert's diary, on Michaelmas Eve, 1872, which I thought you might like:

"Dora said Syddy Ashe is fairly mad with disappointment at not having seen the 13th Hussars when they passed through Langley on their way to Colchester.  'I would have given a great deal to have seen one' she said, 'it would have been happiness to have seen one soldier, but to have missed the chance of seeing them all!  It is too much.'  And she nearly cried with vexation".

Women and girls have always loved soldiers.  I suspect it is not only the uniforms that seem so attractive but also the brave and courageous personalities that go with them.

                                                                             *

Throwing Away

the letters,
those billets doux,
the photographs,
the dance programmes,
the theatre tickets,
the postcards,
is a formidable task,
and weeping is not forbidden.

Before discarding
these once precious things,
the proof of special moments
lived in earlier times,
memorize them all with care.
And afterwards, relive
this solitary, remembered road,
and weeping is not forbidden.

                                                                             *

With best wishes, Patricia


Sunday 9 October 2016

That July




Dear Reader,
                                                                               Judge Jeffreys  1645-1689



Archaeologists have apparently discovered that about 7,000 years ago, an Alsatian dog went on a 250 -mile journey from York to Stonehenge.  This piece of information came from a tooth found, dating back 2,000 years before Stonehenge itself was built.  It was a bit of a surprise to the team from the University of Buckingham, because they didn't know that Mesolithic people travelled such long distances.  Anyway, this tale brought to mind a story about my own Alsatian dog, Kaiser.  Years ago I lived in an old manor house in the New Forest, near Beaulieu.  It was large, had been built in the 17th century, and had wings added at a later date.  And it was haunted.  There was a panelled spare room which Kaiser hated going into, if he would at all.  He barked and growled and put his hackles up, and preferred to sit on the landing outside.  It has been said that Judge Jeffreys, "the Hanging Judge", stayed in the house when he was on his way in l685 to preside over the autumn Assizes in the West Country.  This was to conduct the trials of captured rebels after the Monmouth Rebellion.  Judge Jeffreys was notorious for his brutal and harsh sentencing, and was a feared and hated magistrate.   Perhaps Kaiser sensed something of the judge and his malevolence, as a man who may have slept in that room.


                                                                               * 


That July

we planned to walk
along the river bank,
play bridge,
stay overnight in
a superior hotel,
eat in a white
linen-clothed dining room,
exchange gossip, news,
make jokes.

But someone-other
planned other-wise.
No river walks, or talks,
or jokes.
A fatal illness struck,
marked "no reprieve",
with no allowance
for two days under a sunny sky,
our special summer treat,

that July. 


                                                                            *

With best wishes, Patricia

Sunday 2 October 2016

A Proud Family Portrait


Dear Reader,
                                                                                  The Avebury Stones

Staying away in Wiltshire last week I went to visit the Avebury Stones.  Avebury is a World Heritage Site and is an astonishing and fascinating place.  Nothing much is known about the people who built Avebury, or what language they spoke, or what their clothes looked like.  It is thought that it may have been a place for celebrating important times of the year, or for marking important times in peoples' lives, or even their departure from life.  Another theory is that they were making contact with their ancestors, or with supernatural beings or forces, often with the hope or intention of influencing matters in their own lives.  Why they chose Avebury is also a matter for speculation, but a bank and a ditch were created around a circular area about 400 years before the first stones were erected.  I put my arms around one of the stones and thought how very strange it was that they had been standing here for so long and that some ancient person might have done just that all those thousands of years ago.  If you haven't been to Avebury, do try to go, because it is an uplifting and marvellous experience.



                                                                             *

A Proud Family Portrait

It wasn't a Reynolds or Gainsborough.
There were no silk or satin dresses
no elaborate hairstyles, large jewels,
or velvet neck ribbons.
There was no piano,
and no-one was reading a book.

Sitting at a wooden table
the ladies wore dull cotton dresses,
the man a black suit.
There were no silk hats, no smiles.
Solemn-faced this family
was merchant class,
had succeeded with hard work.

They were a proud family,
painted as they were
to remind themselves
and others, what they had achieved,
their dining table
a treasured possession,
their oak coffer,
their mahogany sideboard,
a Bible,
their precious gems.

                                                                         *

With best wishes, Patricia