Of Different Stuff

Spitfires

Dear Reader, 

The Supermarine Spitfire is a legendary British fighter aircraft, particularly renowned for its role in the Battle of Britain during WWII.   It was known for its peed, agility and powerful weaponry, becoming a symbol of Allied resilience.  Over 20,000 Spitfires were produced, undergoing significant design changes and improvements throughout the war.

The iconic Supermarine Spitfire was critical in defending Luftwaffe air attacks during the Battle of Britain.

The Spitfire, also commonly referred to as the Supermarine Spitfire, in undoubtedly one of the most iconic and beloved aircraft in the history of aviation.  It was the only Allied fighter to be in production for the duration of WWII. During the war Spitfires flew 835,00 sorties.  They were also capable of carrying two 250lb bombs, one on each wing or one 500lb bomb under the fuselage.

Brad Pitt is an accomplished pilot and, in addition to having mastered the more common and garden aircraft, he owns a World War II-era Supermarine Spitfire.

 

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From D.H.Lawrence  May 24th  1916 in Cornwall

'The country is simply wonderful, blue, graceful little companies of bluebells everywhere on the moors, the gorse in flame, and on the cliffs and by the sea, a host of primrose, like settling butterflies, and seapinks like a hover of pink bees near the water.  There is a Spanish ship run on the rocks just below - great excitement everywhere.'

From Francis Kilvert   May 27th   1874  in Wiltshire

'.......banks and hedges brilliant with pink campion....As I came home the western heavens were jewelled with pure bright sparkling lights of grey silver and pale gold, and overhead a sublime mackerel sky of white and blue in its distant fleecy beauty gave me a more intense and grand sense of infinity and the illimitable than I ever remember to have had before.'

                                                                              *

Of Different Stuff

 

 

The ATS, the WAAFS, the WRENS,

rode in battleships,

flew spitfires and mosquitoes,

decoded enemy messages

nursed the wounded.

 

They tilled the land

drove tractors, fed the pigs,

birthed the lambs,

rose with the dawn,

went to bed late

exhausted and often hungry.

 

They walked alone in London

late at night

in the dark and dangerous streets,

they slept in freezing dormitories

shared a lavatory and basin

with twenty others.

 

These women were made

of different stuff.

They were fearless,

 they were brave.

 

                                          *

 

I am ashamed at my fearfulness

in the peace they fought for us,

gave us.

I am made, sadly, of different stuff.

 

                                                                          *

A new volume of my poetry 'Betrayal' has just been published.  If you would like a copy it is on Amazon under the name: Patricia Huth Ellis.   Click on that name and it will come up.  Some of the poems you will have already seen but there are lots of new ones.  It is my final book as the muse seems to have left me now, in old age.

                                                                          *

With very best wishes, Patricia

A Curse

                                                                       Medieval jewellery
 

 

Dear reader,

I have never understood how people can violate sacred graves and dig up bones that were put there to rest for ever by loving relatives.

It seems sacrilege.   I think Shakespeare would agree with me as he wrote on his memorial stone:

                                    'Good friends for Jesus sake forbear
                                     To dig the dust enclosed here
                                     Blessed be the man that spares these stones
                                     And cursed be he that moves my bones.'

I think it should be a very private resting place and the bones left alone in peace.  Why do we need to know what was in the coffin?  I would say it was no-one else's business, not even the scientists and archeologists who apparently need to know for some best good reason known to themselves. 

This seems to be the age of knowing everything.  But some secret things are best left secret and I would like to think that when my bones are left to rest, with my bear Aristotle by my side, I will hear the wind and the rain in tranquillity and quiet for a thousand years.  My bones left in peace.

                                                                                   *

From Dorothy Wordsworth  May 20th  1800 in Westmorland

'A fine mild rain.  After breakfast the sky cleared and before the clouds passed from the hills I went to Ambleside.  It was a sweet morning.  Everything green and overflowing with life, and the streams making a perpetual song, with the thrushes and all little birds, not forgetting the stonechats.'

From Gerard Manley Hopkins  May 21st 1874 in Surrey

'A mockery of bright sunshine day after day, no rain..... wind always holding from the north, dim blue skies, faint clouds, ashy frosts in the mornings:  saw young icy leaves along the sunk fence bitten and blackened.'

                                                                     *

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 mosiac 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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I have a new collection of my poetry out on Amazon.  Should you wish to purchase a copy you can do so here.  There are some new poems and some that you might have seen before.  It is my last collection before I leave this mortal coil and I do hope you will enjoy, at least, some of them.

                                                                       *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

Invocation to Iona

 Dear Reader,

Puffins, especially Atlantic puffins have a rich history marked by both decline and resurgence.  In the 19th century they were heavily hunted for feathers, eggs and meat leading to significant population drops in areas like Maine.  However, conservation efforts, like Project Puffin, have seen a revival of puffin populations in regions where they were once nearly extinct, demonstrating their resilience and the power of conservation.

In Iceland and Faroe Islands the birds have been hunted relatively sustainably for centuries.  But in North America in the 1800s and early 1900s populations declined and puffins disappeared entirely from the United States.

In Irish folklore puffins are reincarnations of Celtic monks and in the Faroe Islands they are known as prestur - priests.

Puffins are known for their curious nature and placid temperaments, often approaching humans without fear.  Puffins are highly intelligent birds.  Scientists have come to that conclusion as they have identified big-brain-behaviour in puffins which so far have only been discovered in primates and elephants.  For instance, the Atlantic puffin has been observed using sticks and twigs as a tool to scratch themselves.

                                                                        *

From Gerald Manley Hopkins   May 17th  1874  in Surrey

.... to Combe Wood to see and gather bluebells, which we did, but fell in bluehanded with a gamekeeper, which is a humbling thing to do.  Then we heard a nightingale utter few strains-strings of very liquid gurgles.

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth  May 20th  1800 in Westmorland

A fine mild rain.   After breakfast the sky cleared and before the clouds passed from the hills I went to Ambleside.    It was a sweet morning.   Everything green and overflowing with life, and the streams making a perpetual song, with the thrushes and all little birds, not forgetting the stone-chats.

                                                                        *

Invocation to Iona

 

“Iona, sacred island, mother,

I honour you,

who cradle the bones

of Scottish kings,

Who birthed coloured gemstones

to enchant bleached beaches,

who shelter puffins on your rocks.

 

I wrap myself in your history,

and knot the garment with

machair rope-grass.

In the Port of Coracle

your southern bay,

I hear the wind-blown cormorants cry

and draw a breath.

I see Columba’s footsteps

in the sand, and weep.

Tears overflow,

I am spirit-engulfed.

 

“I ask you, Iona,

is this then, or now,

what is, or what has been?

Does the rolling salt sea-mist

cover the uncounted time between?”

 

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With best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

Word-dancing

A Lunch party

 Dear Reader,

Because I am not really sure what goes on when you go"clubbing" I thought I would look on line and get a few tips should I want to go.  At my age I suspect I wouldn't but I might be surprised.

Clubbing is the activity of visiting and gathering socially at nightclubs and festivals.  That includes socializing, listening to music, dancing, drinking alcohol and using other recreational drugs.

The point of clubbing is, apparently, the social connections and support that develop through shared enjoyment of the music.  It seems you can wear whatever you like but a sexy T-shirt and high heels are recommended.

If you are practicing sobriety,  with the right mind set and a few savvy tips you can dance the night away fully present and energized without a drop of alcohol. From reducing stress and boosting mood, to improving physical fitness and social connections, clubbing can improve our overall well being.

I have now seen that at the age of 37 you seem too old for a night on the town, with a brutal 37 per cent of the respondents saying that there is nothing more tragic than seeing revelers in their 40s and 50s surrounded by twenty somethings.

And finally 4 reasons to avoid nightclubs. 1) The music can be awful.  2) The atmosphere can be very superficial.   3)   You may have to wait forever for a drink.   4)  The lights can be blinding.

Well obviously I won't and can't go clubbing being a wee bit over the age necessary to enter, and I don't think this is a great disappointment.  I will go and water the sweet peas instead.

                                                                                 *

From Gilbert White  May 12th   1790 in Hampshire

'The rhubarb-tart good and well flavoured.'

 

From D.H. Lawrence   May 14th   1915 in Sussex

'I find the country very beautiful  The apple trees are leaning forwards, all white with blossom towards the green grass.  I watch, in the morning when I wake up, a thrush on the wall outside the window - not a thrush, a blackbird - and he sings, opening his beak.  It is a strange thing to watch his singing, opening his beak and giving out his calls and warblings, then remaining silent.  He looks so remote, so buried in primeval silence, standing there on the wall, and bethinking himself, then opening his beak to make the strange, strong sounds.  He seems as if his singing were a sort of talking to himself, or of thinking aloud his strongest thoughts.  I wish I were a blackbird, like him.  I hate men.' 

                                                                              *

Word-dancing

 

 

 

The woman discovers the double act

of word-dancing at dinner,

recognizes with excitement

mutual friends from books, from poetry,

from world’s explored, but only

known thus far in solitude.

 

Together they dance through imagined lands

sharing knowledge,

throwing words back and forth

in light ethereal movements,

cerebral binding and bonding,

now the foxtrot, now the waltz..

 

For her these pleasures

are found at lunch parties, at dinner,

in libraries, on courses.

But where can the young word-dance?

Her grandson lunches on the run,

dines with EastEnders, 

goes clubbing on  solitary trips

too noisy,  frightening, for word-dancing,

for cerebral binding and bonding

now the foxtrot, now the waltz.

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia

 

PS  Perhaps DH Lawrence should have gone clubbing.  It might have cheered him up