When my Dad came home

Dear Reader,

                                                                                William Trevor, CBE

The Ballroom of Romance

                                                                      A More Romantic Ballroom

I read with great sadness about the recent death of my old friend William Trevor, the writer of novels and short stories.  His short stories have been likened to those of both Chekhov and Maupassant, with his themes being lost opportunity, self-deception, alienation, and regret.  He once said he was "interested in the sadness of fate, in the things that just happen to people".  I think his most well-known short story was "The Ballroom of Romance", certainly one I have read and re-read and really enjoyed.  It is set in rural Ireland in the 1950s.  The girl Bridie has been attending the local dance hall for years hoping to find a good husband who could help her on her family's farm.  But now, surrounded by younger and prettier women at these weekly dances, she realizes that all the good men of her generation have either emigrated or have got married, and her only remaining hope for marriage would be with the alcoholic and undesirable, uncouth Bowser Egan.  We don't know what choice she makes, but if it were I a single life, however hard, would be mine.

                                                                          *

When my Dad came home

he nodded off

in the old armchair,

any time,

forgot everything,

could name no names.

Tobacco smoke from woodbines

filled the house,

he drank malt whisky,

came home unsteadily from the pub.

He talked of cricket, he whistled

and hummed old country and western songs,

rocked in the rocking chair

and potted up red geraniums.

He ate junket and white fish

had headaches,

and he wept sometimes.

But we were good friends, my Dad and I,

night times he told me stories,

and tucked me into bed.

I never asked him about the war,

and he never said.

                                                                                  *

Very best wishes, Patricia

Emma

                                                                        Emma Deguara

Dear Reader,

I hope you will allow me a little indulgence this week, because I want to say a word or two about my granddaughter Emma.  There is so much adverse news about young people today and the terrible things they get up to, I thought, for a change, it would be a relief to know about an ordinary girl who brings so much joy to other people, through hard work, and great generosity of spirit to everyone she meets.  She went to the local school, gained good A-Levels,  then attended Brookes University in Oxford studying Graphic Design, and obtained a Distinction.  In the holidays she did some au pairing and worked as a waitress to earn some money to spend on her gap year.  Emma has had problems with her heart, but she never complains, accepts the situation, and gets on with her life.  In two weeks time she is going to Australia.  She is going on her own and intends to find work where she can.  In all those 1930s' plays people used to say to each other when one of them was going abroad:  Bon Voyage, have a good journey.  So I too say to Emma:  Bon Voyage, darling, and keep safe.

From Granny with love.

                                                                               *

 Emma

the little one
frightened to be left
at night
shared my bed
snuggled up with me
listened to nursery rhymes
on an old tape recorder

we went to the swings
sat on a bench
ate crisps
she grew and we went to
the Wildlife Park
stared at the monkeys

we watched Maizie Mouse
over and over again
and in her teens
The Sound of Music
she worked hard at school
had problems with her heart
but never complained

She went to college
got a Distinction
will continue her studies in Brighton
in September next year
is helpful, enthusiastic
puts her all into everything
is engaging and funny
she is Alpha plus

I loved her and looked after her
and now she looks after me


                                                                       *
With best wishes, Patricia

Links to my new book:

BLURB:

http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/7438045-a-collection-of-poems

AMAZON:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Collection-Poems-Patricia-Huth-Ellis/dp/1366883942/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1479565536&sr=1-1&keywords=patricia+huth+ellis

Thanks, Private Norfolk

Dear Reader,

 

                                            Private 1432, Cecil Ernest Bullimore, who joined a Norfolk Regiment.
                                                        Killed in action on 12th August, 1915.




During my summer holidays in the 1950s I lived in a small cottage in Norfolk, next to a river, and really in the middle of nowhere.  My sister and I had ponies to ride, and in those balmy days there was little traffic on the roads or in the lanes, so riding through the wonderful, large golden wheat fields was a great delight.  Sometimes we would take a picnic, dismount and eat it sitting among exotic wild flowers before going home.  We also had a yellow pony trap and a small, fat, cross pony called Joey to pull it along.  Sometimes we would harness Joey and trot off to Buxton, our nearest village, to watch the farrier shoe horses,  and I can still remember the strong smell of burnt hoof and metal.  Our cottage had no mains electricity and we had to pump water into a tank by hand.  My father gave us a sixpence for 100 pumps.

Norfolk in those days was a very quiet and peaceful county and had its own ways and its own accent.  I suspect it wasn't much different from the county, rivers, roads and lanes that the people who lived there in 1914-18 knew - those people, kind, uncomplaining and innocent, getting on with their lives in a traditional way.  The brave young men of Norfolk who signed up in 1914 and went to war would have had no idea what, for them, was to come.  In the two minutes silence today, when we remember those who died for us, I always say thank you to them all,  and hope, somewhere, they can hear me.

                                                                            *

Thanks, Private Norfolk

You left, singing, with your pals,
marching for good and glory.
You hadn't yet dug a trench,
killed an unknown soldier,
seen dead bodies, smelt their stench,
heard comrades' last sickening cries.

You gave your life with generous heart,
believed the lies
dispatched by loftier ranks.
And so to you, dear Private Norfolk,
I give salute,
and my deepest thanks

for swapping your mauve rain-skies,
your white-breast beaches, and beckoning sea,
your level fields of ripening corn,
to fight in foreign fields, for us,
for me.


With best wishes, Patricia
                                                                             *


PS.  Links to buy my new book below!

BLURB:

http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/7438045-a-collection-of-poems

AMAZON:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Collection-Poems-Patricia-Huth-Ellis/dp/1366883942/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1479565536&sr=1-1&keywords=patricia+huth+ellis

ANNOUNCEMENT - NEW BOOK

Dear Reader,

over the last few months, I have been working on an exciting new project with my granddaughter. I wanted to produce a new book with an updated collection of poems and illustrations, some of which have been published on this blog. 

It is with great pleasure that I can now announce that it is officially for sale. If you click on either of the links below, you will be taken to Blurb or Amazon, where you can buy it online.

BLURB:

http://www.blurb.co.uk/b/7438045-a-collection-of-poems

AMAZON:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Collection-Poems-Patricia-Huth-Ellis/dp/1366883942/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1479565536&sr=1-1&keywords=patricia+huth+ellis

Best wishes, Patricia

Bridal Red

Dear Reader,

                                                                               A Maasai Girl

Years ago I watched a documentary about a young girl from the Maasai tribe in Kenya.  I have never forgotten it and still think about this girl sometimes, even now.  She lived in a village, keeping watch over the cattle, playing in the river, loving and being loved by her mother and father and many brothers and sisters.  But then, when she was about fourteen, men from a neighbouring tribal village, about eighteen miles from her own, came looking for a bride and, after hard bargaining, she was sold. The girl was devastated and cried racking tears.  But she was covered in red sand, decorated in elaborate beads, and was made to walk over the mountains to join the man she was to marry.  The documentary did not show her in that village, but informed us at the end that she had died after being there only six weeks.  It did not tell us what the young girl died of, but I suspect of a broken heart.  The poem this week is one I wrote later, in great sorrow.


                                                                                   *


Bridal Red

I saw
a young girl smiling,
laughing, threading beads, minding goats,
chasing chickens, pulling feathers from their tails,
holding hands with sisters, friends,
chattering, gossiping, rough and tumbling
in bright sunlight.

I saw
scrub-plains, white rocks and blue,
blue mountains, straw huts,
men on haunches, chewing,
and thin dogs, fat babies,
loving families, happiness.

I saw
men, suddenly, appear from a distant village,
offering cows and sheep as an exchange
for a shepherd in need of a woman, a wife.
The girl was chosen,
a bargain was struck.

I saw
her stand silently, acquiescent,
red ochre paste and mud
plastered on her shaven head,
necklaces of golden wire
wound tightly round her neck,
ankle bracelets in profusion.

I saw
her sisters, her friends, not laughing now,
offering presents
a carved stick, a beaded purse.
At dawn she would leave as the sun rose,
to walk over the mountain pass
to an unknown bridegroom,
an unknown life.

I saw
as she left
her grief, her tears trickling,
then flooding through the paste and mud.
I saw her sorrow as the colour red,
and a crown of thorns her maidenhead.

                                                                                  *
With very best wishes, Patricia

PS.  Look out for a blog post announcement shortly.


                                                                           

Spirit Suitcase

Dear Reader,

                                                                          A Spider and his Web

I am not a natural lover of spiders, but they don't seem to have understood this and have visited my house in hordes this month.  They seem to be everywhere, in every corner, and certainly have their favourite spots, the downstairs loo being one of them.  Some of them, of course, are not as horrible as others.  The ones with the small bodies and long legs I put down the lavatory, thinking vaguely that they will have another chance at life, swirling about in the water. This is probably not true but it makes me feel less guilty.  But those black spiders that scuttle sideways have no second chance when I have caught them ........

The evolution of spiders has been going on for about 400 million years, and there are at least 45,700 spider species.  Most spiders live for about two years, and their best known method of ensnaring prey  is by means of a sticky web in which they capture different insects.  The male spider identifies himself by a variety of complex courtship rituals to avoid being eaten by the females, and they only survive a few matings, which are limited by their short life spans.

"Weaving spiders come not here

hence you long-legged spinners, hence

Beetles black, approach not near;

Worm nor Snail, do no offence."

From: Midsummer Night's Dream   (1595/6)

Thinking of Shakespeare, I am reading a really funny and interesting book about his life and the little that is known about it, by Bill Bryson.  He says that Shakespeare didn't scruple to steal plots, dialogue, names and titles, or whatever suited his purpose.  I didn't know that, and apparently George Bernard Shaw once said that Shakespeare was a wonderful teller of stories so long as someone else had told them first.  Could we all say that about the tales we tell, I wonder?

                                                                         *

Spirit Suitcase

A sturdy key
locks the spirit
in its suitcase.
It floats and dances,
dives low, climbs high,
is forever candle-lit.

The suitcase, new, shines,
leather polished,
locks and fittings brass-bright,
unbruised.
But through use, it gets kicks,
scuffs, scratches, and slowly fades.
Its original shape
is just recognizable,
only just there

while the spirit dances on ........   

                                                                  *

With best wishes, Patricia                                                               

Camel

Dear Reader,

                                                                                            A Silverback Gorilla


I feel very drawn towards Kumbuka, the 29-stone Silverback gorilla that escaped from his enclosure at London Zoo last week after a cage door was left open.  He found his way through two unlocked gates, and let himself into the food store, where he consumed nine pints of undiluted black currant squash during his hour of freedom.  Armed police were called to the zoo and Kumbuka was found, tranquillized, and moved back to his 'Gorilla Kingdom'.  Apparently he is a lovely gentle character and, although he bangs tree trunks and windows, it is just 'display behaviour'.  The life span of a gorilla is normally between 35 and 40 years, and they are considered highly intelligent animals.  Like other great apes, gorillas can laugh, grieve, and have rich emotional lives, developing strong family bonds.  I hate to think of any beautiful, clever, sensitive animal being shut up in a small unnatural space for people to gawp at and only wish poor Kumbuka had leapt over the enclosure wall and escaped to the freedom to which he is entitled.  I must say, though, that I feel comforted knowing that he found his way to the undiluted black currant squash and then obviously thoroughly enjoyed drinking it.

                                                                            *

Camel

The woman stares at me
into my rheumy eyes, my sad face
sees a dusty, dirty animal
mud sticking to my coat
my miserable tail hanging loose
my hooves cracked, hump matted.

But I want her to know
that this is not me.
I came from a land of warmth
of sun, of sand,
my Arab owner loved me
understood me
he spoke to me softly
he stroked my coat.
He rode on my back
Kelim rugs hugging my haunches
water in large panniers
strung to my side.
We rode to oases, to Petra Rose,
he was my friend
I weep for the want of him.

The woman walks away
but something glistens on her cheek.

                                                                             *

With best wishes, Patricia