Quickening

 Dear Reader,

Originally the primrose is native to the entire Northern Hemisphere.  This very persistent wild and garden perennial, once planted out in the garden, blooms again the following year.

The primrose, Primula Vulgaris, is one of the most familiar signs of spring.  Typically found in woodlands and beneath hedgerows it thrives in damp shade in a variety of situations,  It provides an early source of nectar and pollen for bees and other pollinators, and is used as a caterpillar foodplant by several species of moth.

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My partner, Francis, has been in hospital this last week with an infection due to a biopsy for prostate cancer.  He came home with a beastly cold and cough which I then caught.  It is very difficult to sleep when coughing every twenty minutes and I have been feeling low.  Fortunately Jessica went to a chemist who sold her Benelyn Cough mixture which seems to be working well.  The cough hasn't gone but it is, thank God, better. Who ever said old age is not for sissies was so right.  I wasn't prepared for all its machinations although, of course, Shakespeare does tell us in his sonnet, Seven Ages of Man, that all is not going to be rosy as we grow old.  I just didn't believe him or take enough notice and now here I am in its midst, battling on.  My poem this week says it all.

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From Gilbert White  January 14th  1776 in Hampshire

'Rugged, Siberian weather.  the narrow lanes are full of snow in some places....the road-wagons are obliged to stop and the stage-coaches are much embarassed.  I was obliged to be much abroad on this day, and scarce ever saw it fellow.'

From James Woodforde   January 24th 1790  in Norfolk

'The season so remarkably mild and warm that my brother gathered this morning in my garden some full blown primroses.'

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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 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 the ashes from the fire,

I want to intertwine, my love, quicken, feel desire.

 

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia

 

Cardigan

                                                                                         Patchwork skirts
 

 

 

Dear Reader,

It is funny, isn't it, how one gets attached to a certain piece of clothing and keeps it until it is so shabby that you have to let it go.  With great sadness I finally put my patchwork skirt in the bin after it was long past its sell by date.  This was years ago but I have had several garments since to which I have grown very fond and am very reluctant to put out.  After all they live your life with you.  They are round your shoulders, round your waist or covering your legs most of the day, they are part of you.  

Although I am about to be 84 I still choose with great care what I wear each day. I like to put my ensemble together to introduce to the world who I am being that day, which persona. (Most of my clothes are over twenty years old, I very rarely buy anything new.)  Could be a favourite pinafore dress with shirt and tie, so the school girl look perhaps, or long skirt, colourful scarf, big jersey, and brown boots so the hippy look.  Or whatever, its all for fun.  Well whatever style I choose it is with those much loved clothes that haunt my cupboards. My navy cardigan which the poem is about I will never discard, I simply couldn't.

                                                                                

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From Thomas Grey   1761 January 18th in Middlesex

'I took a walk to Kentish-Town, wind N.W., bright and frosty.  Thermometer at Noon was at 42.  The grass remarkably green and flourishing.  I observed on dry banks facing the south that Chickweed, Dandelion, Groundsel, Red Archangel, and Shepherd's Purse were beginning to flower.   This is all I know of the Country.' 

 

From Katherine Mansfield  1915 January 20th in Buckinghamshire

'A man outside is breaking stones.  The day is utterly quiet.  Sometimes a leaf rustles and a strange puff of wind passes the window.  The old man chops, chops, as though it were a heart beating out there.'

 

From Richard Hayes  1762 January 21st in Kent

'As mild a day as though May.  N.B. I saw a spotted butterfly - brown in colour.'   

 

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Cardigan

 

Why is it that it makes

me feel safe?

 

I ease myself into it

do all the buttons up,

am encased in warmth

and love and security,

it envelops and hugs me,

the cardigan is my shell.

 

What is it about my cardigan

that makes me think of

honey sandwiches,

daisies in a china vase,

a curled up dog in basket,

doves cooing on the roof,

Ratty, Mole and Badger

and possibly Mr. Toad?

 

The cardigan is safety,

reminds me of nanny,

her ponds face cream

her lavender water

her loving arms and

her kisses.

 

Cardigan, the forever garment of love.

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia

 

            

Beach Mirror

 Dear reader,

I was about eighteen when I became aware of the hippie movement and joined it. Having been to strict boarding schools for my education I was very attracted to its message of : "Make love, not War", and permission to be less regimented in my behaviour.  

The hippie movement in the United States began as a youth movement.  Composed of mostly white teenagers and young adults between 15 and 25 years old, hippies inherited a tradition of cultural dissent from bohemians and beatniks in the Beat Generation in the late 1950s.  The name derived from 'hip' a term applied to the Beats of the 1950s such as Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kermac who were generally considered to be precursors of hippies.  

Although not as visible as it once was, hippie culture has never died out completely. Hippies and neo-hippies can still be found on college campuses, on communes and at gatherings and festivals.

Hippies advocated nonviolence and love, a popular phrase being :  "Make love, not war", for which they were sometimes called "flower children'.   They promoted openness and tolerance as alternatives to the restrictions and regimentation the saw in middle-class society.

I think, at heart, I am still a hippie and pleased to be so in my eighties. 

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From John Clare  1884 January 30th in Coniston, Lancashire

'A yellow crocus and a bunch of single snowdrops in full flower - the mavis thrush has been singing all day long.  Spring seems begun. The woodbines all over the wood are in full leaf.'

From Samuel Pepys 1661 January 29th in Surrey

'To Southwark, and so over the fields to Lambeth, and there drank, it being the most glorious and warm day, even to amazement, for this time of the year.'

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Beach Mirror

 

I see myself, a young woman,

recognize the long skirt,

the three blonde children,

one on her hip,

two holding her hands,

all laughing, hugging, arguing,

her hair dancing in the wind.

 

Swirling thoughts about time past

consume me.

I kick at pebbles,

pick up oyster shells,

gaze at the everlasting point between sea and sky.

 

I have aged, certainly,

but, feeling the warmth of the sun,

watching the sea and the tides,

it seems these things

are ever the same as they were,

all those years gone by.

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia                                

 

A Curse

 Dear reader,

Do you remember me writing a little while ago about this tiresome chimp who lives in my head and protects me from any danger. He jumps about, warning me,  when he thinks I might be in trouble or have some trouble with something and he makes me very anxious indeed. He comes in the guise of a friend to me but I get very tired of his antics.

This week he was hysterical.  This is the story.  

Every night about 3 am I go downstairs and make myself a cup of tea.  In order to see the stairs I turn on the light at the top of the passage.   I make myself a cup and walking back into the passage found the light had been put out. So obviously the chimp had a hay day.  This was a poltergeist he said, haunting your house.  I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night trying to work out what had happened.  The next night still scared I followed my usual routine and discovered that a night light that Jessica (daughter) had given me for Christmas and which was being used in the passage turns itself off after a minute or two.  So that is why the light had gone out as I hadn't put the light at the top of the passage on, I suppose? I am very sleepy at 3am.  I gave the chimp a good talking to but he will, no doubt, take no notice.

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One of the tricks of a poltergeist is known for knocking noises so it will come as no surprise that the word poltergeist translates literally from the German word for spirit. The English word ghost is also related, it descends from the same ancient root that led to Geist.  Although ghost has been used in English since before the 12th century, poltergeist is a relative newcomer, first appearing as an English word in the middle of the 19th century.  

Most claims or fictional descriptions of poltergeists show them a being capable of pinching, biting and tripping people up.  They are also depicted as capable of the movement or levitation of objects such as furniture and cutlery, or noises such as knocking on doors.

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From D.H. Lawrence  January 5th 1916 in Cornwall

'There have been great winds, and the sea has been smoking white above the cliff - such a wind that it make one laugh with astonishment.  Now it is still again, and the evening is very yellow'.

From Francis Kilvert  January 6th 1879 in Herefordshire

'Old Christmas Day.   Last night the slip of the Holy thorn   ......grafted for me last spring in the vicarage lower garden blossomed in an intense frost.'

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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.

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia