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

 

 

 

 

Que reste-t-il de nos amours?

Dear Reader,

If you aren't much good at french translation: 

Que reste-t-il de nos amours?  Que reste-t-il de ces beaux jours? 

 I thought of this poem after watching a film with Iris Murdoch and another actress dancing in their kitchen but the title could apply to anyone.

It roughly means: What is left of our love? Where have all those beautiful days gone?   

Quite so.  I send a lot of time at night awake these days and obviously think about my life.  Why did I do this thing or that? Why didn't my marriage work out? Why did I send someone to prison when I was a magistrate, when I don't believe in prisons as they are?  Why did I send my children to boarding school when I was so unhappy at the ones I went to?  These are the sort of questions I ask myself but have come to the conclusion it is much better not to.  We did what we did, presumably at the time we thought it was for the best and really that is an end to it.  Looking forward is the best way to be happy now I think.  

I have just started to put some of my poems on a Poetry Group page and it has been uplifting and fun.  I was very welcomed by Tony Church, the administrator, and others and I am very much enjoying being part of it.  I have always been a bit of a recluse and loner but have found much to entertain me as one of the group. Thank you Poets Corner.

                                                                                     *

My chimp has been very quiet this week, sitting in his box peacefully. I saw photos of real chimps in the wild this week with some information about them. As I remember it, it said that chimps reactions to each other are very much the same as ours to each other. I don't think that news came as a surprise.  I would remind anyone who has forgotten that my chimp lives in my head and was introduced to me by Prof. Steve Peters in his book: The Chimp Paradox. 

                                                                                     *

From Samuel Pepys, January 29th, 1661Surrey

'To Southwark, and so over the fields to Lambeth, and there drank, it being a  most glorious and warm day, even to amazement, for this time of year.'

                                                                                     *

Que reste-t-il de nos amours?

 

 

 

 

A kitchen somewhere in France,

a candle alight on a small round table

remains of supper not yet cleared,

two old women sitting silently,

listening to soft music.

 

‘Que reste-t-il de nos amours?

Que reste-t-il de ses beaux jours?’

 

The two old women rise slowly,

start to dance,

gently holding each other close

crumpled hand in crumpled hand,

cheek brushing cheek,

no words spoken.

 

Is it of the once vibrant love

they had had together

that they are thinking,

or of other loves, or that life is short,

and each of us only have one turn at it,

that life is only made of moments

and they have had their share?

 

‘Que reste-t-il de tout cela

   Dites le moi?’

 

The two old women dance on, 

quietly swaying,

to soft music no longer playing.......

 

                                                                              *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

 

Journeys

 Dear reader,

I didn't know much about lions but found out that lions are the only cats that live in groups which are called prides, though there is one population of solitary lions. Prides are family units that may comprise anywhere from two to 40 lions including up to three or four males, a dozen or so females and their young. All of the pride's lionessess are related, and female cubs typically stay with the group as they age . Young males eventually leave and establish their own prides by taking over a group headed by another male.

Males defend their territory, marking the area with urine, roaring menacingly to warn intruders and chasing off animals that encroach on their turf.  Female lions are pride's primary hunters and leaders.  They often work together to prey on antelopes. zebras, wildebeest, and other large animals of the open grasslands. Many of these animals are faster than lions, so teamwork pays off. Female lions also raise their cubs communally.  Lions will also hunt alone if the opportunity presents itself and they also steal kills from hyenas or wild dogs.

                                                                                      *

I did say I would keep you up to date every so often about my chimp and how he is behaving.  Just to remind you this chimp lives in my head.  This week he went berserk.  I thought my daughter Jessica was coming to see me at teatime on Friday.  But she didn't turn up.  Well, said the chimp, she has probably been in an accident. Not don't worry, she probably got held up somewhere, or forgot. It had to be something bad or catastrophic according to my chimp.  It turns out I had got the wrong day.  But the chimp can make life a misery and I had to give him a severe talking to.  Whether it will do any good...... 

                                                                                        *

From Francis Kilvert, January 22nd, 1872 in Radnorshire

'Sunday.  A cold raw frost fog, dark and dreary....The Chapel bell rolled out sharp and sudden through the white mist to give notice of the service a quarter of an hour beforehand.  The hedges were hoary with rime and frost and the trees were hailing large pieces of ice down into the road.

Few people in Chapel.....I thought the markers in the Bible and Prayers had suddenly become very short, and after service Wilding the Clerk told me the church mice had eaten them off.'

                                                                                      *

Journeys

 

Young,
we fly to distant places,
walk the Silk Road,
swim in the Nile,
climb Kilimanjaro,
sail the great seas,
picnic in the desert
under the stars.

 

Middle aged, with children,
we travel to Europe,
walk in the hills,
ski, surf board, visit museums,
exclaim at the Eiffel Tower,
swim in rivers,
raid the High Streets.

Grandparents, and old now,

we travel all over the world,
enjoy lions in Africa,
natives dancing in Bali,
big white whales in vast oceans,
and explore National Parks

while drinking cups of tea,
preparing for the unknown

and longest journey.

                                                                                                           ^*

^{With very best wishes, Patricia}
                     

 

 

Sometimes

Dear Reader, 

First of all thank you so much all those of you who wrote voting that my blog continues.  I am very glad and will do my best to make the page interesting, funny sometimes, and hope that my poem touches the heart.

This week I have been reading more books about the first World War. Vera Brittain's very powerful autobiography, 'Testament of Youth'.  This war is my special interest, perhaps because my father served in it.  He was mentioned in dispatches three times for bravery and when he came home was never very well.  He had been gassed.  What Vera is saying in this long book is that her generation of young people, say between 18 years old and 25, lost their youthful exciting years because of the war.  Instead of finishing her degree at Oxford university she became a nurse and performed her horrible duties with a heavy heart.  Her fiance was killed at the front and she never really got over it.  Hers was a 'bankrupt, shattered generation' and she hoped the successive generations would learn from the war's futility and  horror.

I wonder if they have?

                                                                                      *

From Gilbert White, 1776, January 14th in Hampshire

'Rugged, Siberian weather,  The narrow lanes are full of snow in some places .....The road-waggons are obliged to stop, and the stage-coaches are much embarassed.  I was obliged to be  much abroad on this day, and scarce ever saw its fellow.'

From James Woodeforde, 1790, January 14th in Norfolk

'The season so remarkably mild and warm that my brother gathered this morning in my garden some full blown primroses.'

                                                                                     *

Sometimes

I feel overwhelmed by
a spirit of joyfulness,
a desire to jump, to dance,
to laugh, to see the world
in a bright light,

sometimes I am optimistic
enjoy the warmth of the sun,
soft patter of rain on my face,
the wonders of this world.

Sometimes I believe
people are kind and good,
are innocent of evil,
deserve praise and
I honour them

and sometimes I don't.

                                                                                  *

With very best wishes, Patricia