The House

                                                          Me on my 83rd birthday

Dear reader,

I have been thinking about fear this week, well not about fear so much as being 'fearful'.  I am reading an immensely interesting book about a young woman , aged 22, who decides to travel to India in the 1970s.   The book is called 'The Road East to India' by Deika A. Rosamund and is a diary of her adventures, (and gosh were there some) to India by train and bus.  It reflects on her personal experiences, emotions and the relationships she formed with fellow travellers and indigenous people.

Once she had earned enough money she travelled as far as Iran and then on to Afghanistan and Pakistan to India, braving many dangers on the way. Reading the book I decided she was either very brave or possibly in many instances, very naive and foolish.  Having said that I do admire her enormously and that is what I have been thinking about this week. As someone who is, and always has been, very fearful of life and its vicissitudes I simply can't imagine why she wanted to go to India by herself, a young woman travelling on her own, and then exploring villages, towns, cities when or wherever she felt like it. 

I suppose I have come to the conclusion of a well known fact, that the straw you pulled at your birth was not fair at all.  I would like to be more like Deika, fearless and brave. But in truth I am alert to every danger with the help of my chimp,  (the chimp that lives in my head). I have always found travelling anywhere, even to the nearest village, a mountain to climb, and have been astonished and envious by the things that this young woman did, and on her own.

                                                                                     *

From John Ruskin, 1867, March 19th, in Surrey

'Desperately cold, with huge -flaked snow.  The worst of January, November, and March all in one.'

 

From Richard Hayes, 1762, March 21st, in Kent

'This day I saw a yellow butterfly.....My rooks, by the cold weather and snows, did not begin building till last Sunday (14th).

                                                                                      *

The House

Was it the sound of Chopin
filling the street air,
escaping from a large keyhole
in the weathered front door,
or the first glimpse of pale
stone flooring and a rocking horse
in the hall corner, or was it the
Easter lilies rising tall out of
white enamel jugs, and books
everywhere, everywhere?

Was it the ancient dog
in front of a small log fire,
protected by a staunch Victorian fireguard,
or the scrubbed table and gentian-blue
hyacinths peeking out of a copper bowl,
Rockingham pottery plates
each one different,
or the sculpture of an unknown woman
young, rounded smooth,
placed lovingly on a window shelf
catching a flicker of the January sun?

Or was it the smell of beef stew,
a nursery smell dredged from childhood,
or the sight of home-grown pears
floating in sugared juice?
Or was it the feeling of safety,
warmth and love
everywhere, everywhere
that overwhelmed me?

                                                                                   *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Quickening

 Dear Reader,

Did you read a story about honey bees dancing this week?  Well if you didn't I looked it up as I thought it was so funny and here it is.

Baby honey bees learn to "waggle dance" as it is called which is a form of complex communication that they must learn and adopt in order to signal to their nestmates where the best food is.  The dance, where bees circle around in figure of eight patterns while waggling their bodies, is performed at great speed as each bee moves a body length in less than one second.

These moves, it has been discovered  also inform about food, direction, distance and type and quality of the meal.  The moves are learned by watching more experienced mates.  Apparently passing down this shared knowledge from one generation to the next is a "hallmark of culture", a behaviour well recognised in humans but also observed in animals.

Bee colonies were monitored until young bees took part in their first waggle dance. Observed 20 days later, it was found that their dancing was far more accurate and contained significantly less errors than when they made their initial attempts.

Well we should learn something new every day, it is said.  I thought bees just buzzed about and busied themselves making delicious honey, so I was wrong, not knowing about their dancing.

 

                                                                                   *

From Gilberts White, 1793, March 14th, in Hampshire

'Papilio rhamni, the brimstone butterfly, appears in the Holt. Trouts rise, and catch at insects.  A dob-chick comes down the Wey in sight of the windows, some times diving, and some times running on the banks.  Timothy the tortoise comes forth, and weighs 6lbs, 5oz.'

                                                                                 *

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 primroses paths, saviour 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 ashes from the fire,
I want to intertwine, my love, quicken, feel desire.

                                                                            *

With very best wishes, Patricia

A Grimsby Fisherman's Wife

 

 

Dear Reader 

Traditionally hares were associated with witches possibly because of their ability to seemingly disappear, and also due to their mad March boxing antics which appeared to onlookers to be a witches dance.  Witches were thought to be able to transform into hares to flee from impending trouble.

The sort of behaviour you are most likely to see in the month of March includes madcap chases and furious boxing matches. However this is not mad behaviour but instead the courting behaviour of male hares.  The boxing was commonly thought to be between two males battling over a female but they are more likely to be an unresponsive female fighting off a male's advances.

The hare was a sacred and mystical animal to the Celts; a symbol of abundance, prosperity and good fortune.  The were believed to have connections to the Other world.  They were treated with great respect and never eaten.

                                                                           *

Chimp News:   The chimp has been very quiet lately, the one that lives in my head and protects me.  I have thought of a new box for him to live in, it is made of mustard coloured velvet with ruby ribbons to secure him in it when we go out. He will probably be more active when I start going out again,  in the spring weather we all look forward to.

                                                                            *

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth, 1802, March 13th, in Westmorland

'After dinner walked to Rydale for letters - it was terribly cold - and we had 2 or 3 brisk hail showers - the hail looked clean and pretty upon the dry clean road.  Little Peggy Simpson was standing at the door catching hail stones in her hand.'

  

 

  

A Grimsby Fisherman’s Wife

Mrs. Ethel Richardson

 

 

 

During the day she knitted

her life into rough wool sweaters.

Fear of north east gales,

- more forecast -

fear of no return,

and Friday night beatings,

were turned with a collar,

stitched with sober wool's.

Knit one, purl one.

 

Men known to her, sea-taken;

the grief of loss for

a babe or two; and

winter storms and

treacherous rocks that

albatrossed a fisherman’s life,

were knitted into sleeves,

into polo necks.

Knit one, purl one.

 

At night from her narrow bed,

she knitted dreams of exotic places

warm from the southern sun.

She danced on beaches, cockle-free

and knitted love

into her dream sweaters,

with wool's, brightly coloured;

corals, blues, pinks, and red.

By night she knitted pumpkins.

Knit one, pearl one.

 

 

 

 

                                                                        *

With very best wishes, Patricia

                                                                    

Word-dancing

 Dear Reader,

I had been out to dinner and when I got home wrote the poem "Word-dancing".  I had had such a lovely evening, delicious food and inspiring conversation with the people on my left and on my right.  I can't remember if they were male or female but either way they were full of gaiety and information about a hundred different things.  From Jane Austen, and which book was our favourite, to whether Waitrose was really any better for shopping than, say, the Co-op.  We discussed foreign travel and I remember saying that Lyme Regis in Dorset, England, was just the ticket for me as a holiday destination. So lots of memories and fun exchanging views and values with like minded people.  

But what I wondered on the way home what did young people do for word-dancing? It seems to me that they spend a great deal of time watching their mobiles or texting, not talking or laughing or just enjoying human company. No they are silent but occupied. Dreadful.  Not wanting to sound smug I am very glad I lived in a time when good conversation was the norm, and exchanging laughter and ideas was fun.

                                                                                           *

From S.T. Coleridge, 1827, February 28th, in Highgate

What an interval! Heard the singing birds this morning  in our garden for the first time this year, though it rained and blew fiercely; but the long frost has broken up, and the wind, though fierce, was warm and westerly.

From John Ruskin, 1876, February 28th, in Oxfordshire

I saw some blessed purple walls against sunshine among the farms, and seemed to find my life again on the green banks. 

                                                                                              *

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.

 

                                                                               *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia                                                                             

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leaving

 Dear Reader

Often called the "polar wolf" or "white wolf", Arctic wolves inhabit the Arctic regions of North America and Greenland.  Thanks to its isolation, the Arctic world is not threatened by hunting and habitat destruction in the same way as its southern relatives.  

Arctic wolves are carnivorous hunters.  By nature the help to control the populations of other animals in the region like the musk ox, caribou and Arctic hares. Arctic wolves are very curious, inquisitive and are quite tolerant of man.  They howl to the moon to tell of their whereabouts and each has a very distinctive voice.  They run along way each day, sometimes more than 100 miles.  They always stay in their pack and look after each other.

                                                                                   *

The chimp has been very quiet this week, I think he is glad the warmer weather has come.  He is thrilled that the snowdrops and daffodils are now out in the garden and has spied several blue tits already finding suitable material for their nests.  Just to remind you this chimp lives in my head -  he is my protector but can be a bit over fussy and dictatorial at times.

                                                                                   *

From Dorothy Wordsworth, February 21st, 1802, in Cumberland

'A very wet morning....Snowdrops quite out, but cold and winterly; yet, for all this, a thrush that lives in our orchard has shouted and sung its merriest all day long.'

From John Ruskin, February 21st, 1843, Denmark Hill, Surrey

'What a lovely thing a bit of fine, sharp, crystallized broken snow is, held up against the blue sky catching the sun - talk of diamonds!'

                                                                                    *

Leaving

The day she left
her heart hammered
tears streamed down her cheeks

the rain beat against the car windows
an east wind blew
the road was black ribbons.

She took a small suitcase.
It held a red skirt, two shirts, underclothes,
two cardigans, a duffle coat
and three favourite books.

After twenty years of marriage
that was her spoils.

Oh, and the kettle.

                                                                                     *

With best wishes, Patricia

Good Afternoon

 Dear Reader,

In the last two or three weeks absolutely no ideas have come into my mind as a subject for a poem.  I have always heard of 'writer's block' but I thought that was for novel writer's who had got stuck with their story or were trying to think of a new one, and nothing springing to mind. So this week I have read several poetry books trying to find out what other poets poems are about.  Of course, you will be thinking to yourself, she must have already, over the years, read an enormous amount of poetry.  Well I have but I was looking for something different in each poem this time. I was looking for its reason.  But I have reached no conclusion.  It seems each poet writes about her/his own or experience of life whether it is funny, sad, or whatever, or it is just a small water colour.

I rang my friend and tutor Sue Johnson and she was very helpful.  With her help I think I have some new ideas now and so shall be busy again working on a poem, which is a great relief.  Not having a poem on the go is, for me, very upsetting.

                                                                                *

I wish the old fashioned manners of yesteryear were still here today.  I found the old man I met in the woods completely charming and only wish his sort were still to be found all over this island of ours.

                                                                                 *

From D.H. Lawrence, February 9th, 1919 in Derbyshire

It is marvellous weather- brilliant sunshine on the snow, clear as summer, slightly golden sun, distance lit up.  But is is immensely cold - everything frozen solid - milk, mustard, everything.  Yesterday I went out for a real walk, I have had a cold and been in bed.  I climbed with my niece to the bare top of the hills.   Wonderful it is to see the foot marks on the snow - beautiful ropes of rabbit prints, trailing away over the brows; heavy hare marks; a fox so sharp and dainty, going over the wall: birds with two feet that hop; very splendid straight advance of a pheasant; wood pigeons that are clumsy and move in flocks, splendid little leaping marks of weasels coming along like a necklace chain of berries; odd little filigree of the field-mice; the trail of a mole - it is astonishing what a world of wild creatures one feels about one, on the hills in snow.

    

 

Good Afternoon

 

 

I walked slowly through wild daisies,

clover and buttercups,

a quiet country solitary step,

no one to be seen,

the birds singing joyfully,

and a deer shyly running

through the wood.

 

Then I saw an old man,

walking down the path,

cap on head, long overcoat,

and red scarf.

 A sheepdog trotted

at his side.

“Good afternoon”, he said smiling

and raised his cap

 

Years fell away.

In childhood everyone greeted you

with ‘good afternoon’ hoping

it would be so for you.

And somehow those two words

filled my heart with love,

with tears not far away.

 

“Good afternoon to you too”, I said.

 

 

With very best wishes, Patricia                                                                             *

Attic Trunk

Dear Reader, 

I had a difficult and disconcerting experience this week.  My ex-husband died a month or two ago and my children have had to sort out his affairs, what to sell and how to pay the bills etc. All very stressful for them. But one thing that one daughter did, she arranged the Service Sheet for his funeral, what hymns, music and readings to place.  Perhaps she said to me you could write down the name of the vicar you want at your funeral and any choices for the Service sheet would make life a lot easier for us.  I can see that.  I understand.  But sitting down and doing it was a touch grim.  Lots of thoughts about dying and death obviously came to mind and who, anyway, would come to my funeral?  Lots of my friend are now dead so it won't be a big gathering.  

I decided to have 'Lord of the Dance' as one of my hymns.  Life is, after all, a bit of a dance and possibly  where we are going will have plenty of dancing.  I asked my step-son, Jeremy, what he thought would happen to us when we had died.  Jeremy is a wonderful and wise man and this is what he said.  "Well either it will be a magnificent surprise, or nothing."  Either way is a distinct possibility so I will go for the surprise.

                                                                                    *

From Gilbert White, February 6th, 1778, in Hampshire

'Foxes begin now to be very rank, and to smell so high, that as one rides along of a morning it is easy to distinguish where they had been the night before. At this season the intercourse between the sexes commences.'

From Francis Kilvert, February 6th, 1874 in Hampshire

'Another fairy frost.  the rime froze on the trees during the night and this morning every bough was bearded with delicate frost work.'

                                                                                  *\

 

Attic Trunk

 

 

 

Searching through her mother's attic trunk

she recognised a dusty, broken cricket bat,

saw a tiny knotted shawl that must have shrunk

and a youthful photo of aunt Dora, looking fat.

She found silver shoes wrapped in a crimson gypsy skirt

and a purple box housing a worn-thin wedding ring,

a Spanish fan trimmed with lace, and a grandad shirt

embracing faded love letters, tied with ageing string.

From sepia postcards she studied unknown folk,

and pulled out, lovingly, a greasy-tweed cloth cap,

her father’s penny whistle, a badger carved from oak,

and brass rubbings, rolled up in a parchment map.

Precious things we keep are candles on our life’s tree,

their discovery tells secret stories, provides a key.

 

                                                                         *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia