Cold Christ Child

 Dear Reader,

 

I wrote today's poem after I had been to a London Art Gallery showing religious paintings and depicting Jesus Christ in Mary's arms, naked.  It is not known the exact date He was born but new evidence indicates that He may have been born in late summer or early autumn in the year 12BC, and that the star that led the three wise men to Bethlehem was Hailey's comet.  

Apparently it was a cold Mediterranean night when He was born in which case He would have needed lots of warm blankets to cover him.  But there He is with nothing on in many paintings.  Mary and Joseph themselves wore heavy woollen cloaks constructed to shed rain and snow. Under their cloaks they wore long robes, belted at the waist. I always look for the truth in stories, and in life itself, so I suspect He was clothed in something warm but the artists wanted the drama of innocent naked child.

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Just a small thought about Boris Johnson and his inability to tell the truth.  Oscar Wilde said:  'Whoever let the truth get in the way of a good story' and this is exactly how Boris thinks.  He wants to be entertaining, funny and a bit outrageous and exact detail is not important.The truth is as he tells it, and what the hell does it matter anyway, I suspect, he thinks to himself.

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From John Ruskin, March 28th, 1875, in Lancashire

 

'A clear afternoon, with some beauty of amber light behind the hills, and lovely starlight at ten, changed instantly into whistling wild wind at half past ten, and this morning rain, bitter cold black wind and wild lake, all blowing from the south.  I utterly languid, and cold handed and hopeless. '

                                                                                   

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Cold Christ Child

 

Why did Murillo, Fra Filippo Lippi, 

Leonardo da Vinci paint

the Christ Child naked?

Did they not know of night-time cold?

 

Was the hot Levantine wind

blowing in the midday sun,

enough to stay the chill of evening

and warm this precious child?

 

They painted the Madonna in a dress,

the soldiers fully clad

in jerkins, armour, helmets,

the angels in sumptuous robes,

but the Christ Child is left on marble floors,

or dandled in laps,

with nothing to swaddle and secure him.

 

Could it be that this cold start

was not enough 

to set alight the love

needed to save us all?

 

                                                                        *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                  

The House

                                                          Me on my 83rd birthday

Dear reader,

I have been thinking about fear this week, well not about fear so much as being 'fearful'.  I am reading an immensely interesting book about a young woman , aged 22, who decides to travel to India in the 1970s.   The book is called 'The Road East to India' by Deika A. Rosamund and is a diary of her adventures, (and gosh were there some) to India by train and bus.  It reflects on her personal experiences, emotions and the relationships she formed with fellow travellers and indigenous people.

Once she had earned enough money she travelled as far as Iran and then on to Afghanistan and Pakistan to India, braving many dangers on the way. Reading the book I decided she was either very brave or possibly in many instances, very naive and foolish.  Having said that I do admire her enormously and that is what I have been thinking about this week. As someone who is, and always has been, very fearful of life and its vicissitudes I simply can't imagine why she wanted to go to India by herself, a young woman travelling on her own, and then exploring villages, towns, cities when or wherever she felt like it. 

I suppose I have come to the conclusion of a well known fact, that the straw you pulled at your birth was not fair at all.  I would like to be more like Deika, fearless and brave. But in truth I am alert to every danger with the help of my chimp,  (the chimp that lives in my head). I have always found travelling anywhere, even to the nearest village, a mountain to climb, and have been astonished and envious by the things that this young woman did, and on her own.

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From John Ruskin, 1867, March 19th, in Surrey

'Desperately cold, with huge -flaked snow.  The worst of January, November, and March all in one.'

 

From Richard Hayes, 1762, March 21st, in Kent

'This day I saw a yellow butterfly.....My rooks, by the cold weather and snows, did not begin building till last Sunday (14th).

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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?

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With very best wishes, Patricia

Quickening

 Dear Reader,

Did you read a story about honey bees dancing this week?  Well if you didn't I looked it up as I thought it was so funny and here it is.

Baby honey bees learn to "waggle dance" as it is called which is a form of complex communication that they must learn and adopt in order to signal to their nestmates where the best food is.  The dance, where bees circle around in figure of eight patterns while waggling their bodies, is performed at great speed as each bee moves a body length in less than one second.

These moves, it has been discovered  also inform about food, direction, distance and type and quality of the meal.  The moves are learned by watching more experienced mates.  Apparently passing down this shared knowledge from one generation to the next is a "hallmark of culture", a behaviour well recognised in humans but also observed in animals.

Bee colonies were monitored until young bees took part in their first waggle dance. Observed 20 days later, it was found that their dancing was far more accurate and contained significantly less errors than when they made their initial attempts.

Well we should learn something new every day, it is said.  I thought bees just buzzed about and busied themselves making delicious honey, so I was wrong, not knowing about their dancing.

 

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From Gilberts White, 1793, March 14th, in Hampshire

'Papilio rhamni, the brimstone butterfly, appears in the Holt. Trouts rise, and catch at insects.  A dob-chick comes down the Wey in sight of the windows, some times diving, and some times running on the banks.  Timothy the tortoise comes forth, and weighs 6lbs, 5oz.'

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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 primroses paths, saviour 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.

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With very best wishes, Patricia

A Grimsby Fisherman's Wife

 

 

Dear Reader 

Traditionally hares were associated with witches possibly because of their ability to seemingly disappear, and also due to their mad March boxing antics which appeared to onlookers to be a witches dance.  Witches were thought to be able to transform into hares to flee from impending trouble.

The sort of behaviour you are most likely to see in the month of March includes madcap chases and furious boxing matches. However this is not mad behaviour but instead the courting behaviour of male hares.  The boxing was commonly thought to be between two males battling over a female but they are more likely to be an unresponsive female fighting off a male's advances.

The hare was a sacred and mystical animal to the Celts; a symbol of abundance, prosperity and good fortune.  The were believed to have connections to the Other world.  They were treated with great respect and never eaten.

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Chimp News:   The chimp has been very quiet lately, the one that lives in my head and protects me.  I have thought of a new box for him to live in, it is made of mustard coloured velvet with ruby ribbons to secure him in it when we go out. He will probably be more active when I start going out again,  in the spring weather we all look forward to.

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From Dorothy Wordsworth, 1802, March 13th, in Westmorland

'After dinner walked to Rydale for letters - it was terribly cold - and we had 2 or 3 brisk hail showers - the hail looked clean and pretty upon the dry clean road.  Little Peggy Simpson was standing at the door catching hail stones in her hand.'

  

 

  

A Grimsby Fisherman’s Wife

Mrs. Ethel Richardson

 

 

 

During the day she knitted

her life into rough wool sweaters.

Fear of north east gales,

- more forecast -

fear of no return,

and Friday night beatings,

were turned with a collar,

stitched with sober wool's.

Knit one, purl one.

 

Men known to her, sea-taken;

the grief of loss for

a babe or two; and

winter storms and

treacherous rocks that

albatrossed a fisherman’s life,

were knitted into sleeves,

into polo necks.

Knit one, purl one.

 

At night from her narrow bed,

she knitted dreams of exotic places

warm from the southern sun.

She danced on beaches, cockle-free

and knitted love

into her dream sweaters,

with wool's, brightly coloured;

corals, blues, pinks, and red.

By night she knitted pumpkins.

Knit one, pearl one.

 

 

 

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia