Katie's Angels

 Dear Reader 

Doves have held symbolic significance throughout history, primarily representing peace, love and the divine.  Their association with peace stems from biblical stories like Noah's dove returning with an olive branch, and their symbolism as the Holy Spirit in Christianity.  Doves have also been linked to love, fidelity, and even good luck in some cultures.

Some people believe that the sight of a mourning dove is a message from God, angels or other spiritual guides.   In the Old testament of the Bible, a dove is a symbol of reconciliation, forgiveness and peace.   Many dove species ae known to be monogamous and mate for life.   Once a pair is formed they typically remain together to nest and raise young.  

For Christians the dove is a powerful symbol of the Holy Spirit and God's love for us such as the one that landed o Jesus as he was baptized.

Doves capacity to find their way home over hundreds even thousands of miles is unrivalled in the animal kingdom.  This  uncanny ability has seen them used for centuries to deliver messages for royalty, military leaders and other notable figures.

                                                                                 *

 

From Gilbert White  August 23rd   1785  in Hampshire

'Martins and swallows congregate by hundreds on the church tower.  These birds never cluster in this manner, but on sunny days.  They are chiefly the first broods, rejected by their dams, who are busyed with a second family.

 From Alfred Tennyson   August 25th 1860 in Cornwall

'Tintagel.   Black cliffs and caves and storm and wind, but I weather it out and take my ten miles a day walks in  my weather-proofs.'

                                                                                    *

Katie's Angels

At dawn, driving eastwards,
mist still covering the fields,
trees ribboned in cobwebs,
sky blue and white,

she saw a rabbit, a pigeon,
and two hen pheasants,
but no cherubs, no bright light.

Much later, lost, tired,
rounding a corner she saw
gathered in the road
twenty white, white doves.

They flew up,
a breath of sunshine tipping their wings.
Ecstatic, she recognised the sign;
recognised her angels.

                                                                            *

With best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Universal Truth

 Dear Reader,

I thought this monarch butterfly would please you.  St. Petersburg obviously doesn't, I am sorry that it is such a bad picture.  But did you like the story about Ivan? I loved it and would love to go back to St. Petesburg and find him.

                                                                         *

Universal Truth

 

 

 

 

 

Everyone knows

that Philip Larkin wrote:

 

 

 

“They fuck you up,

your mum and dad,

they may not mean to,

but they do”.

 

 

 

And what Philip Larkin knew,

I know to be true.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                          *

With best wishes, Patricia

St. Petersburg

St. Petersburg

 Dear reader,

My partner, Francis, lived and worked in St. Petersburg for several months in 2004 with the British Council.  He lived, not in an hotel, but with a Russian family in a very small flat in a tenement building. 

Within his stay he gave lectures on Scotland and visited various children's homes where he played the bagpipe.  Today's poem was conjured up from a story Francis told me about one of his visits there.

                                                                                  *

St. Petersburg's history is one of rapid growth, political significance, and cultural influence marked by its founder, Peter the Great, as a new capital to modernize Russia.   

It became the heart of the Russian Empire a role it held for over two centuries.  The city also experienced periods of violence and revolution, most notably during the Russian revolution and Siege of Leningrad in World War II.

During World War II St. Petersburg (then known as Leningrad) endured a brutal 900 day siege by Nazi forces resulting in immense suffering and loss of life.  After the war the city was rebuilt and eventually voted to restore its original name, St. Petersburg, in1991.

St. Petersburg is renowned for the grand architecture, palaces, canals and museums, including the world famous HERMITAGE museum.  It remains a major cultural and tourist destination.

                                                                        *

From Gilbert White   August 3rd  1791 in Hampshire

'Somewhat of a chilly feel begins to prevail in the mornings and evenings....Men house hay as black as old thatch.'

From Dorothy Wordsworth  August 4th 1800 in Hampshire

'Rain in the night.  I tied up scarlet beans, nailed the honeysuckles, etc. etc. ...I pulled a large basket of peas....A very cold evening.'

                                                                         *

St. Petersburg  

 

The piper played

The Sky Boat Song

"Over the Sea to Sky'.

The children hummed

and beautiful music

filled the air,

haunting and mystical.

 

Suddenly the silent Russian boy

calipers binding his legs,

limped his way over

the wooden floor,

standing by the Piper

as the song ended.

 

Looking up, he said

 

My name is Ivan.

 

                                                                           *

Very best wishes, Patricia

Realization

 Dear Reader,

I am not quite sure which of my poems you like and which you don't.  Obviously memories of my childhood were not to your liking so I am putting this one 'Realization' up to see if that fares better.

 

                                                             *

 

 

Realization

 

 

I am

part of the whole.

 

I am

in the first light,

the bird’s first song,

the sun’s first dart

through the curtain crack,

in the music of summer trees.

 

I am

part of the alpha,

the birth,

the awakening,

the growing and spreading,

the throbbing of life.

 

I am part of all suffering

hands blood-stained.

Part of love

humanity shares and

of all good things.

 

I am

part of the omega,

the closing, the last light,

the call back from the dark

to the bright, eternal night.

 

                                                       *

 

 

With best wishes, Patricia

Memories of a six year old and a little later

 Dear Reader,

 

I remember so well in the long dark winter evenings sitting with Nanny having our tea, listening to tales of Uncle Remus.

Uncle Remus is the fictional title character and narrator of a collection of African American folktales complied and adapted by Joel Chandler Harris.  Uncle Remus is a compilation of Br'er Rabbit storytellers whom Harris encountered during his time at the Turnwold Plantation. 

Harris said that the use of Black dialect was an effort to add to the effect of the stories and to allow the stories to retain their authenticity.  

The character of Uncle Remus serves as a storyteller using animal fables to impart moral lessons while also reflecting the lived experience of African Americans during and after slavery.

The Uncle Remus tales are African American trickster stories about the exploits of Brer Rabbit, Brer Fox and other 'creeturs' that were created in Black regional dialect by Harris.

Uncle Remus is portrayed as a wise and dignified figure, often using humor and moral lessons to convey the complexities of human behaviour, particularly the folly of pride and self importance.

                                                                                    *

From Gerard Manley Hopkins    August 5th   1873  Isle of Man

'Up Snae Fell......You can see from it three kingdoms.   The day was bright; pied skies.  On the way back we saw eight or perhaps ten hawks together.'

From John Ruskin  August 7th 1847  in Warwickshire

'It rained hard while I staid in the cottage, but had ceased when I went over and out, and presently appeared such a bright far off streaky sky in the west seen over glistening hedges as made my heart leap again....And the sun came out presently and every shake of the trees shoke down more light upon the grass; and so I came to the village, and stood leaning on the churchyard gate, looking at the sheep, nibbling and resting among the graves (newly watered they lay, like a field of precious seed)....

                                                                        *

Memories of a six year old and a little later

 

A pale blue dress with pretty lace collar

threading conkers with green string

Mrs. Mason making sponge cakes

eating the filling with a wooden spoon

 

silver dance slippers with gold bows

Daddy's girlfriend pulling my hair

Mr. Holt forgetting to pick

me up from school, again

 

yellow lino in the nursery

listening to Uncle Remus on

the radio at teatime when

Nanny made me eat the crusts.

 

I remember stroking a black -nosed

cow called Bushka,

my friend Catherine and I

playing hopscotch.

 

Having impetigo and not being able

to breathe in the winter,

going down to the drawing room

filled with grown ups

 

where I was teased.

I cried and Nanny took me back

to the nursery and gave me a chocolate bear.

I remember making a raffeta mat

 

which took me ages.  My mother put it in a draw,

once I remember her getting drunk

stumbling upstairs

falling in the bathroom.

 

I remember Daddy borrowing

ten shillings from me and then

asking for it back the next day.

Grizzie came to stay with her two guinea pigs.

 

I remember my sister writing

a ghostly story about the ancient

manor house, hearing footsteps

on the path at midnight.

 

                                                  *

My mother was largely absent

from all these memories.

Nanny lived with us

she was 'my mother'.

 

She wrote to me at boarding school.

She was knitting a woolly hat

for my wedding day but she

died three weeks before it took place.

 

Nanny was my childhood security,

safety and friend and I loved her

absolutely with all my small heart.

And still do.

 

                                                                    *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

Lovable Rogue

 Dear reader,

I am writing the blog today because I realize that you didn't like the poem I put up on Sunday.  I think it was a very English poem understood by the many English readers I have.  But not so easy to understand from another country which didn't have boarding schools to go to.

Today's poem is about this universal man who crops up everywhere in the world, much loved by many as he dances through their lives.  And then probably leaves them.  But Ah they had some fun and feel that the world would be a sadder place without them.

                                                                                   *

From John Ruskin   August 1st  1884 in Lancashire

'Very lovely with calm lake, but the roses fading, the hay cut.  The summer is ended.  Autumn begun.'

From Richard Hayes   August 2nd  1773 in Kent

'The Fair.  Gentry very doubtful of the weather.   Never saw so few people pass.  No ladies in their long carriages and the fewest horse people remembered.'

                                                                                *

Loveable Rogue

 

 

Jeans jacket, black trousers

long curly black hair

an impish smile

sparkling white teeth.

 

A world traveller

worked in a kibbutz

surfed in Australia

sold jewellery in India,

Nepal and Afghanistan.

 

He had a finger in many pies,

he said, done many deals,

made friends, made enemies

walked the Silk Road.

 

The ladies loved him

he twinkled at them

made jokes

got on with their dogs.

 

He told good stories

wore silver rings

had a rose tattoo

on his arm, a cross on his leg.

 

This loveable rogue

was charming,

uninterested in the truth

and wandered through life

conscience free.

 

 

                                                                      *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

Not One of Us

 Dear Reader,

 

In the poem I have published today there is a  mention of netball.  This was a game I supposed to know the rules of and didn't, amongst many other things of which I was ignorant at this boarding school. If you don't know what netball is all about here is a small synopsis.

Netball originated from basketball in the late 19th century, adapting the sport for female players and emphasizing etiquette and modified rules.  It evolved from a variation of women's basketball in the United States and England eventually becoming a distinct sport with its own set of rules and regulations.

Beyond the fun and the fast-paced action netball offers a range of physical, mental and cognitive benefits for growing children and teenagers.  It helps develop communication skills, builds physical fitness and creates plenty of opportunities to socialize while giving players a real boost of confidence.

The main object of netball is to score goals from within a defined area by throwing  a ball into a ring attached to a 3.05 metres (10 feet) high post.   Players are assigned specific positions, which define their roes with in the team and restrict their movements to certain areas of the court.

                                                                                *

From Richard Hayes    July 30th  1776 in Kent

'Total eclipse of the moon.  Came on soon after 10 in the evening.  Began on the left side of the moon, and in about one hour was totally eclipsed, so that all her beautiful glittering (borrowed) light was quite gone; but not so far that you might not discern her.  She appeared of a beautiful orange colour like (not near so red) blood, resembling the light she appears in through fog.   Total darkness said to continue till about three quarters after one.   But I went to bed soon after she was totally eclipsed.'

From Dorothy Wordsworth   July 31st  1802 in London

'We mounted the Dover Coach at Charing Cross.  It was a beautiful morning.   The city, St. Paul's, with the river and a multitude of little boats, made a most beautiful sight as we crossed Westminster Bridge.  The houses were not overhung by their cloud of smoke, and they were spread out endlessly, yet the sun shone so brightly, with such a fierce light, that there was something like the purity of one of nature's own grande spectacles.'

                                                                                   *

Not one of us

 

 

 

A small figure at school in

a hot, strange land.   The

children left her alone,

she didn’t speak their language

or know their games or rules.

She was not one of them.

 

Winter now and an English

boarding school, where the rules

were known, but not to her.

She was clumsy, wore spectacles,

couldn’t tie her tie, dropped the netball,

couldn’t master dance steps gracefully

to the music of “Greensleeves”,

was not an asset, wouldn’t do.

She was not one of them.

 

She simply asked,

why do the safely-grounded

hear the beat of a terrified heart

and seek to silence it?   Is the beat

too loud, something not understood,

something to frighten?

Are things better when the group

destroys the alien in its midst?

 

She never knew,

she was not one of them

 

                                                                              *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

Wisdom of a Whispering Oak

 Dear Reader,

 

Charles II, also known as the Merry Monarch was king of England, Scotland and Ireland from 1660 until his death in 1685, marking the end of the Interregnum and Restoration of the Monarchy.

His reign was characterized by a vibrant cultural scene, The Great Plague and Great Fire of London and a complex relationship with Parliament  and religious factions.

Born in 1630, Charles II early life was disrupted by the English Civil War.  He fought alongside his father, Charles I, against Parliamentarians led by Oliver Cromwell.  He was defeated by Cromwell at the Battle of Worcester and forced into exile.

However, Charles was invited back to England in 1660, marking the Restoration of the Monarchy.  Charles II reign was marked by a blend of political skill and personal indulgence.  He was known for his charm and wit, earning him the name "Merry Monarch".

                                                                                    *

From Francis Kilvert   July 29th   1871 in Radnorshire

'Torrents of lashing and streaming rain all the morning, a thunderstorm without thunder breaking into a beautiful sunny afternoon.  I went to Hay to pay some bills.  On the crest of the hill above Hay I met a tall woman smoking a clay pipe and driving a black donkey.'

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth  July 31st  1802 in London

'We mounted the Dover Coach at Charing Cross.  It was a beautiful morning.  The city, St. Paul's, with the river and a multitude of little boats, made a most beautiful sight as we crossed Westminster Bridge.  The houses were not overhung by their cloud  of smoke, and they were spread out endlessly, yet the sun shone so brightly with such a fierce light, that here was even something like the purity of one of nature's own grand spectacles.'

                                                                             *

Wisdom of a Whispering Oak

 

The old oak whispers quietly,

spreads its branches,

shakes its leaves,

this is a true tale it says.

One day, long ago, a man climbed

into the depth of me,

frightened, out of breath

soldiers in pursuit.

I held him tight

wrapped my branches

round his body

hugged him.

The trees in the wood

told me he was a King,

but to me he was just a man

like all others.

 

                                                                              *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Throwing Away

 Dear Reader,

I have got a box with dance tickets and programmes of places I had been earlier in my life.  It is great fun looking back and remembering my youth with these pieces.

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

 

 

 

 

The Mind Cupboard

 Dear reader,

The concept of childhood has evolved significantly throughout history.   Initially children were viewed as small adults with little distinction between children and adulthood.   However, over time, societal views have shifted recognizing childhood as a distinct and important phase in life with unique needs and vulnerabilities.  This evolution is marked by changes in child labor laws, education systems, and societal attitudes towards children.

                                                                               *

My own childhood was very disturbing.  I was sent to boarding school from the age of seven and continued to go to boarding schools until I was fifteen. I never fitted into school life, was a loner, and had a thoroughly unhappy childhood.   

                                                                                  *

From Gilbert White  July 17th  1783  in Hampshire

'The jasmine is so sweet that I am obliged to quit my chamber.'

From S.T. Coleridge  July 19th  1803  in Cumberland

'Intensely hot day - left off a a waistcoat, and for yarn word silk stockings.'

From Francis Kilvert    July 22nd  1873  in Wiltshire

'Today the heat was excessive and as I sat reading under the lime, I pitied the poor haymakers toiling in the burning Common where it seemed to be raining fire.'

                                                                               *

The Mind Cupboard

 

 

 

My mind cupboard overflows

with unwanted debris.

It needs a spring clean.

 

I will brush away the cobwebs

of cheerless thoughts.

Scrub out the stains of childhood.

 

I will replace the brass hooks

corroded with salt tears,

empty all the screams

hoarded through the years.

 

I will replace the accumulated ashes

from the worn shelf-paper,

with virgin tissue.

 

I will chase and catch the wasps,

relieve them of their stings.

I will refill this cupboard

with love, and learnt, brighter things.

 

                                                                                 *

 

With best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

No Whispered Warning

 Dear reader,

The Aberfan disaster was a tragic colliery spoil tip collapse that occurred on October 21, 1966, in the Welsh village of Aberfan.  A large mass of coal waste, destabilized by heavy rain, slid down a mountainside and engulfed Pantylas Junior School and several houses, killing 116 children and 28 adults.

The disaster devastated the close-knit community, claiming lives of a generation of children and causing immense grief and trauma. Despite the best efforts of rescuers, including villagers, miners and emergency services the rescue operation was hampered by the sheer volume of debris and the  unstable conditions.

TheAberfan disaster was one of the worst mining-related disasters in British history, and its impact was felt across the nation and internationally. The disaster led to significant changes in safety regulations for mining operations and spoil tip management, and it highlighted the importance of community involvement in decisions that affect their lives.

Many survivors and community members continue to grapple with psychological scars of the disaster and the memory of Aberfan serves as a reminder of the human cost of industrial accidents.

                                                                               *

I remember hearing about Aberfan disaster on the news and crying in disbelief.

                                                                                *

 

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth  July 5th 1802 in Westmorland

'A very sweet morning.   William stayed some time in the orchard.....It came on a heavy rain, and we could not go to Dove Nest as we had intended ....The roses in the garden are fretted and battered and quite spoiled, the honey suckle, though in its glory, is sadly teazed.   The peas are beaten down.  The scarlet beans want sticking.  The garden is overrun with weeds.'

From John Ruskin   July 12th 1847 in Warwickshire

'Much struck......in coming from London by the lovely green of everything; certainly England gains more by summer or rather loses more in winter than any country I have seen in both seasons.'

                                                                                    *

 

 

 

No whispered warning

 

 

Catlin skips to school,

October leaves, red and yellow

fall across her path,

but do not whisper

warnings in her ear.

 

At breaktime Morwena falls

playing tag, and the children laugh.

All at once, from the valley,

an ominous noise,

engulfs the happy playground sounds,

as the derelict monster slagheap

starts to slip, slowly at first,

then gathering speed,

faster, faster, faster.

 

The blue sky blackens,

the mountain of dross,

cinders and mud,

rolls and trembles and shifts

as the angry giant roars,

burying the village school

under countless tons of coal.

 

 

Dust hangs in the air,

and silence, and more silence

then screams, and more screams,

tears and disbelief;

and the leaves, red and yellow,

still papering the ground.

 

 

 

 

With very best wishes, Patricia