A Curse

Dear Reader,

 

Over the years I have put this poem on my blog and it seems that it has touched a chord with some of you. It was William Shakespeare who dared anyone to remove or disturb his bones as can be seen in the church in Stratford -upon- Avon where he is buried. 

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

Your burial ground should be sacred and it is disgraceful to dig it up and put any contents on show in a public place.  You should be allowed to rest in peace.  A curse on you who plunder the earth, and violate sacred places ......

                                                                               *

 

 

From John Everett Millais  October 16th  1851 in Surrey

'Worked on my picture; painted nasturtiums; saw a stoat run into a hole in the garden wall; went up to it and endevoured to lure the little beast out by mimicking a rat's or mouse's squeak...Succeeded, to my astonishment.  He came half out of the hole and looked in my face, within easy reach. 

 

From William Allingham   October 17th   1863 in the New Forest, Hampshire

'Two woodpeckers, green as parroquets.  The setting sun, the fiery ferns, the golden-russet beechen leaves. 

                                                                                 *

 

 

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.

 

                                                                   *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Invocation to Iona (repeat)

 Dear Reader,

 

Obviously the 'Invocation to Iona' poem is very popular with you so I decided to put it on again this week.

                                                                           *

 

Puffins are iconic seabirds known for their colourful bills and clumsy walk on the land.  They use rough their tongues to pin slippery fish against the roof of their mouths, allowing them to carry a record-breaking number of fish at once, often around 10/12 or up to a dozen in a single trip.

Their vibrant orange and red bills are actually a seasonal decoration.  In winter they shed the colourful outer sheaf of their bill and become a dull grey, blooming bright orange again in spring to attract a mate

Puffins are largely monogamous and mate for life, sometimes staying with the same partner for up to 20 years.   When couples re-unite at the colony after spending months apart at sea, they greet each other with a ritual called 'billing' where they gently tap and rub their beaks together.  Instead of open nests puffins dig 1- 3 meters deep into grassy cliffs or take over an abandoned rabbit tunnel to lay their single egg. 

                                                                            *

I have still got a vicious cough.  How long, I wonder, will I have it and when will it go away.?  AI tells me that I can have it for 6-8 weeks. Lots to look forward to then.

                                                                             *

From Dorothy Wordsworth  October 11th  1802 in Westmorland 

' A beautiful day.  We walked to the Easedale hills to hunt waterfalls.  William and Mary left me sitting on a stone in the solitary mountains, and went to Easedale tarn.  I grew chilly and followed them.' 

 Just a note here.  Poor Mary Wordsworth (William's wife) never got a moment with her husband without Dorothy appearing to accompany them, wanted or not.

 

                                                                                          *

 

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’s 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?”

 

                                                                *

With  very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

Invocation to Iona

 Dear Reader,

The island of Iona, off the west coast of Scotland is widely celebrated as the cradle of Scottish Christianity, famous for its historic abbey and royal burial grounds.

The Irish monk, St. Columba, arrived at Iona is 563 AD with 12 companions.  He built a small monastery and used the remote island as a base to spread Celtic Christianity across Scotland and northern Britain.  

 

                                                                        *

 I think Iona is the most spiritual, and magical too, of all the places I have visited in my life. I went down to the beach where St.Columba arrived thousands of years ago and literally burst into tears. The beach was deserted, I was alone, and felt at one with St. Columba on this beautiful island with its history.  I would like to call Iona home, but in fact I live many miles from Scotland and Iona, so I have just got my vivid memories to think about, and lots of photographs of course.

 

 

 

                                                                           *

From Dorothy Wordsworth    October 1st  1800 in Westmorland

'A very rainy morning.   We walked after dinner to observe the torrents....the lichens are now coming out afresh, I carried home a collection in the afternoon.  We had a pleasant conversation about the manners of the rich- avarice, inordinate desires, and the effeminacy, unnaturalness, and the unworthy objects of education.....a showery evening.  The moonlight lay upon the hills like snow.' 

 

  From Francis Kilvert   October 4th    1871 in Radnorshire

' A mournful splendour in the brilliant gold of the sloes and the crimson leaves of the pear trees.    

 

                                                                            *

       

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’s 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?”

 

 

                                                                                     *

With very best wishes, Patricia