The Promised Land

                                                                                      The Promised Land

 

Dear Reader,

A very strange thing happened to me last week.  I woke up in the night at about 3am and there was a voice in my head reciting the poem that I am posting today.  I got up to write it down because I know that lots of ideas I have in the night have vanished in the morning.  This voice reciting to me has happened once before, many years ago and my poem as a result: 'The Mind Cupboard' is very much a favourite of yours.   I don't know where the voice comes from but suspect it is my Guardian Angel.  Or it could be the Good Lord Himself. Obviously I was thinking about the Christian faith this week, Holy Week, and always get unsettled on Good Friday thinking of the Crucifixion. There are more things under this heaven than we know about, and I certainly know that several things that have happened in my life have not been understood by me at all.

 

The Promised Land

I cannot see the distant place 
It’s out of reach for me. I cannot see the distant place, 
misting to the sea. 

I cannot hear the singing birds 
or see the mountain range, 
I cannot speak my Christian name 
since my body starts to change. 

I will not know what happens next, 
Or, where I might be, 
I cannot see the distant place 
It’s out of reach for me. 

As I drift into the Promised Land
Lord and Saviour, hold my hand.

 

I am not sure whether this was meant for the people of Ukraine or for anyone nearing the end of their life. 

                                                                                    *

From Gilbert White, 1786 in Hampshire

'Hay is become very scarce and dear indeed.  My rick is now as slender as the waist of a virgin; and it would have been much for the reputation of the last two brides that I have married, had their waists been as slender....The first swallow that I heard of was on April 6th, the first nightingale April 13th.  The great straddle-bob, Orion, that in the winter seems to bestride my brew-house, is seen now descending of an evening, on one side foremost behind the hangar.'

                                                                                  *

I hope you all have a wonderful Easter holiday
and very best wishes, Patricia

Gentleman of the road

                                                                                   Gentleman of the road
 

 

Dear Reader,

The best laugh this week has definitely been about daffodils.  St. Blaise Town Council in Cornwall has cut down more than 1,000 flowers from a recreation ground for fears that children could fall ill eating them. Whatever next?  I have never heard of a child eating a daffodil any more than eating a rose or delphinium, or any flower for that matter.  I think some things brought up in council meetings in England have gone mad, and as a consequence chaos seems to reign. England that I love, and was brought up in, seems to have disappeared and lunatics have take over. Next lunacy could be that all trees have to be cut down in case they fall on us as we walk by.  Well I wouldn't be surprised.  God help us all.

                                                                                       *

Just to let you know about  my Covid experience.  My cough has nearly gone except for at night and I am feeling much better.  I think that it is a depressive illness, or was for me, but that part seems over now.  Feeling a bit tired goes on, but you all know how old I am and so feeling tired is natural at my age.

                                                                                      *

This is a message for those of you, especially from America, who very kindly write to me on FaceBook. I very much appreciate your comments but cannot put you on Friends Request.  Mainly because I don't know how to, but I am very happy to know you Follow me.

                                                                                       *

  A short extract from my book: Half a Pair of People. 

Everyone was very friendly. There were lots of bad jokes, and a few arguments, but only in the same way that a united family argues, with love not aggression. At 10 o’clock sharp when the director was beginning to lose control, we retired to the Crown and Cushion pub until closing time. Unlike the bar and beer at the Open University (which comes later), here, I was allowed to drink gin and tonic in peace, enjoying the theatre gossip. Past productions, future productions, costumes, who was going to paint the props this year, (it bloody well wasn’t going to be whoever was talking at the time), speculations on Christmas weather, how many tickets would sell, or whether with the advent of videos, the pantomime would still be popular. And soon. I drove back to Oxford not minding the fog and cold. gin coursing through the veins, lulled into a false sense of security. At that stage having a part in a pantomime was all I had hoped for – my dreams, as it were, come true.

*

Gentleman of the Road

The old man shuffled into the cafe
head bent, shoulders hunched
with a weather-beaten face
and straggly beard 

he looked sad and lonely.

In a deep rasping voice he said
he would like a ham sandwich.
I made in one,
and sat down beside him.

'I am gentleman of the road,' he told me
'been on it for fifty years or more.
I have walked the byways of
England, watched the sun come up
watched the sun go down.'

He told me his life story.

Often being cold and hungy,

frightened when sleeping

on a city street,

how he felt old and

out of sync with the times

how he hoped to die

in the countryside, under a willow tree.

When he left I hugged him

and tears came into his eyes

"I haven't been touched by another

human being for over thirty years', he said.

And tears came into my eyes.

                                                                                *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                

I glimpsed a child

 Dear reader,

This photograph is one I had taken when I had Covid.  I was cleared from Covid two weeks ago but I thought you might like to know the repercussions I still have.  The main difficulty I had with Covid was with a horrible cough which I still have.  It makes sleeping very tiresome as I have to sit up or if I lie down I immediately start to cough.  And if I do anything strenuous I come out in a sweat and have to stop, viz. making the bed, or gardening.  And I have been tearful which has been very unlike me for the last three years. I did read somewhere that depression is one of the unattractive features of having Covid or having had it. I have got an excellent cough mixture but it states on the label that it is an opiate and can become addictive. I might become addicted to alcohol but cough mixture?  I don't think so. Anyway I will keep you posted on how I am doing in the coming weeks.  

 

                                                                                           *

A short extract from my book: Half a Pair of People.  Pantomime Time.

 

 

 That left one possibility, the good fairy. I

was given her lines to read and knew instinctively that the part of

Fairy Silverchime would be offered to me. I deduced this from the

lack of anyone else’s apparent willingness, rather than from my

obvious reading or acting ability. (I had the feeling the prospective

cast is not supposed to state a preference for a certain part, but a

keen bearded man from the VG stores particularly wanted to play

King Rat. And said so. But he didn’t get it. It went to a more suitable

candidate, a teacher from Banbury. A week later, not having heard

anything, and strictly keeping to the rules of “don’t ring us, we’ll ring

you” the telephone rang and I was officially invited to play the pantomime

fairy in the 1982 Chipping Norton production of Dick Whittington.

Rehearsals took place at 7 o’clock on Tuesday evenings in various

venues. Sometimes the assembly room in the local school, sometime

in the Chipping Norton Theatre. (The Chipping Norton Theatre,

incidentally, is absolutely delightful, remarkably pretty architecture,

very small and full of atmosphere..........

 

                                                                    *

I glimpsed a child

on the kitchen chair
feet dangling
legs swinging

large brown eyes stared
from a dusty pale face

she didn't smile or speak

about seven years old I thought
Syrian or perhaps Iraqi
her clothes once pink and green
now mud-stained and torn

her silver bracelets sparkling
in the sunlight

I made her Moroccan mint tea
offered her cake
kissed her cold cheek
dried her tears

I fetched more sugar
but on return I saw
the chair was empty
the child gone
dissolved in the morning air 

                                                                  *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Goodbye

                                                                                     Mountain river

 Dear Reader

If I had to go on a march for something it would be to stop water companies polluting our rivers with sewage.  This is an unacceptable thing to do, absolutely disgusting. Here is a quote from The Daily Telegraph this week: Liz Garfield, the chief executive of Severn Trent, said spending more money on reducing sewage overflow into rivers would not have been good business because it had not been of concern to the public until recently. She went on to say that she thought it was a consequence of people connecting with nature during the Covid-19 lockdowns that had shifted public opinion. She also said that water companies had been investing £12 billion into river quality as a sector over the last few years.

Water companies are allowed to release sewage into rivers in extreme circumstances such as heavy rainfall, to flooding homes.  But data collected since 2020 has shown storm overflow systems are being  used on a daily basis in a potential breach of licences.

Ms. Garfield is one of the highest paid chief executives in the industry, earning £2.8 million in 2020.

                                                                                    *

I simply can't imagine earning that amount of money for whatever job I did, especially perhaps that one.

                                                                                    *

• A short extract from "Half a Pair of People' my book to come out soon. 
  

chapter 4

A Youthful Fantasy Realized

     

 

Until 1950 I lived near Windsor, so for many years of childhood was

able to enjoy the famous Windsor pantomime. Each year I looked

forward to it and was never disappointed. After the war children had

few treats so perhaps the ones we did have seemed extra

memorable. It was at a production of Cinderella in 1947 – a vintage

year – that I vowed I would one day perform in a pantomime myself.

     Some thirty-five years later, a friend lunching with me in Oxford

announced that the Chipping Norton Amateur Dramatic Society

were auditioning for Dick Whittington the following evening

Here then, was my chance to fulfill the childish ambition to be in a

pantomime. Chipping Norton is twenty-seven miles from Oxford and

and this, in itself, should have been the best reason for not

embarking on this particular venture. My twelve-year-old Renault 5

was temperamental enough in the warm months; in the winter it

frequently could not, or would not, start at all. The heating worked 

erratically, petrol was expensive but this then was my chance to fulfill my childish ambition.

                                                              * 

 

Goodbye

Why is it I can't ever
say goodbye to anyone, anytime,
without my throat contracting,
my eyes awash with tears,
a desperate feeling
of emptiness overwhelming me?

All those things I was
going to say but never did,
whirling about in my head.
The words I meant to say
but left unspoken,

that thanks I meant to write
but left virgin cream paper
on the shelf,
the love I meant to tell
imprisoned in my heart.

Don't shake my hand,
hug me,
kiss my cheek,
catch my eye.

I will dissolve.
Can only turn away,
blinded, speechless.

                                                         *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Realization

                                                                                  Yellow butterflies



 Dear reader,

On the afternoon of my birthday I started coughing.  I had been down to an 80th birthday party in Sussex at the weekend and thought I had probably got a chill at some time.  We stayed in a hotel which didn't provide blankets so we had to put up with duvets.  I can't bear duvets, either I am much too hot or much too cold.  Perhaps that it where my cough is coming from I thought. But just to be sure Francis tested me and yes I had Covid.  So this last week hasn't been tip-top for  me.  Coughing most of the night and thereby not sleeping very much at all has made me very tired. But I am so grateful that the three vaccinations helped me so that although Covid is not what you would want but not bad enough for hospitalization. I went for a short walk this morning and it was lovely being out in the sunshine, I have taken a turn for the better I think.

                                                                                      *

Out of my study window I saw this week lots of yellow butterflies.  Are these butterflies the first to appear in spring?  I haven't seen any other coloured ones.

                                                                                      *

A short piece from my book: 'Half a Pair of People', Chapter 3.

 

 Depression, despair, and misery swept over me quite frequently in

the early months. It struck around the hour of the dawn chorus.

Sleep was impossible. Eventually, however, I did find some good

ways of combating it. Thought control at night was essential; simply

not allowing your thoughts to stray into depressing areas. I made

literary problems for myself to work out. I pondered upon what Miss

Haversham would have done with her life if she had not decided to

spend it in one dark and cobwebby room? Or, had she lived now,

would Lady Bartram have risen from her sofa to raise money for the

Conservative Party, or NSPCC or rather, in her case, for the RSPCA?

That sort of thing. Sewing is soothing at 3.15am and with the World

Service and a cup of tea quite an enjoyable way of spending the

night. My sewing abilities are non-existent, but I made an attempt to

master easy patchwork; now tablecloths and several cushions

stitched in the early hours. My sister gave me some tapes of Peggy

Ashcroft reading four Katherine Mansfield short stories. These were

wonderfully sleep-inducing.

                                                                   *

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 the 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 very best wishes, my dear friends,

Patricia

 

Miracle

                                                                                        Barn swallows
 

 

Dear Reader, 

I have decided this week not to watch the news any more.  It is just too awful to think about and horrific to see the pictures.  I have read much about the two wars of last century and came to the obvious conclusion that wars are senseless, horrendous and barbaric and for what?   Why do men (and I say men because it has been men who have declared war) want more land, or more of something, when they  seem to have plenty of land already and the people of their country are getting on with their lives in peace. And peace is what most of us aspire to I suggest.  What can we do to help?  Well send a donation, which is what I am doing, otherwise if you are a believer, pray for a ceasefire and a halt to the war.

                                                                                   *

 A small section of my book : 'Half a Pair of People' which will be out in April I hope.

I did the desk work in the mornings. Necessary fresh air was taken daily, after

lunch. Oxford is traditionally a city full of bicycle riders. (I think many

of them bicycle with an image of someone else in mind. Either a girl

at a secretarial college trying to resemble a student or a student

trying to resemble an academic. Or a North Oxford housewife trying

out her Greenham Common outfit).  Anyway, I hate bicycles, and

maniacal cyclists. So, I tried a new venture, walking, which proved

both beneficial as exercise, and uplifting.  It is a magical experience

exploring the diversities of Oxford on foot. Watching the canal boats

at Donnington Bridge, visiting the beautiful colleges, or walking

through the water meadows and stopping on the way back in a

bookshop, was a perfect way to spend the afternoon. In the evening

after supper, I learnt to enjoy the peace. It is, I know, corny to

elaborate on the process of ‘knowing thyself’. Newly single people,

intent on finding their own ‘space’, whatever that means, can bore

on about it interminably. But as Socrates, Alexander Pope and

Herman Hess strongly recommend the idea of knowing oneself, and

as I greatly respect their judgement, that is precisely.........

                                                                                     *

  Miracle

 Rich in England's spring
cowparsley entrancing
in dog-rosed hedge,
the fecund earth lush green,
a baby swallow
hatches in a Suffolk barn,
to the cries of gulls
flying over mudflats,
over sea-lavender.

This small bird grows
embracing our summer warmth,
swooping on insects caught
above rolling grasslands.
It dips and tumbles gracefully,
trouble free.

But what instinct tells of winter cold?
This bird, hand-sized, will
fly over icy Pyrenees,
thirst through the parched Sahara,
soar and glide on trade winds,
south to the Cape of Africa
drawn, inexplicable to the heat
of the southern sun.

In early spring does
this swallow's courageous heart
grow restless, homesick for
 a Suffolk barn?
Is it a miracle that some force
of nature returns this minute bird
to its birth-nest by the English sea?
Who knows, but it seems so to me.

                                                                                        *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Questions

 Dear Reader,

It is always difficult for me to know which of my various poems you will like.  I wasn't sure about the one I put on last week: Questions, as someone in the media said it was rather 'twee'.  But it has had the most 'likes' or equivalent on my blog that I have ever had So I decided to put it on again in case you missed it.  And I will put it first today so you don't have to read anything else if you don't want to.

Questions

Were the summers different then,
did the sun shine more, when
wet and cloudy days were few, when
butterflies took wing, and warm wind blew.

Did the bees collect more honey,
did we laugh more, were more things funny,
was the sea less rough, more azure,
did finer shells bewitch us on the shore?

Did roses fade so soon, wind or rain blown,
or were hedgerows so rich and pretty, grown
when all the summer days were bright,
not awash with rain, but drenched in light.

Were the days so cold and dreary,
and did we ever feel so weary
of days of heat and sun and sea,
picnics, sandcastles, flasks of tea?

Did dreams then, sometimes, come true,
when love would find us, hold us too,
and make our whole world seem completely new,
when butterflies took wing, and warm winds blew?

    A small snippet from my book "Half a Pair of People'.                                                                          *

 I thought of the Schopenhauer quote:

"He who does not enjoy solitude does not love freedom”, and decided that

solitude equaling freedom would be an acquired taste, arrived at 

time, with much planning, effort and thought. As it was, I had

 forgotten to buy any food. So hungry, cold, and feeling less

courageous than I expected, I burst into tears. Until that evening I did

not realize exactly what it would be like to be totally alone:

something which is perhaps not possible to know until experienced.

In the midst of noisy families women dream of endless peace and

quiet on their own, sure that they would be entirely happy in

isolation. But in truth they might be no such thing. An hour or two

maybe…. But real solitude, though aspired to by many, is in practice

only really enjoyed by a few.

 

                                                                                          *

While the whole world is weeping it is difficult to think of anything funny.   But if you didn't see this piece in the newspaper this week let me tell you and perhaps you can smile a little.    Slugs and snails are no longer to be called "pests".  To help shed their negative image they are, from now on, to be called "garden visitors".  I will remember that when next one visits the garden. Could you too?

                                                                                          *

Very best wishes, Patricia