Wednesday, 26 June 2013
Artist Marjorie Wilson
On my antique oak table the French slipware
jug cradles such a temporary fragility.
I could not be disturbed by their profusion
in my garden for there could be nothing
malefic about buttercups; their joyous
yellows are never baleful or harmful,
thriving as they do even more so now
in our poor, drenched and depleted earth.
I store their magic along with their vision
in the compartment of memory that
I keep for those vile, vexed days and wonder why
we cannot be like the buttercups.
Could we not persist, rise up and open
our eyes wide enough to see between the
enclosing, dying trees? When times are shaky,
the light is low and all about us is rapidly
breaking in pieces, should we not spread ourselves
in battle, against the odds. Instead we
sleepwalk within a cosy, manufactured
reality; instead we make no sound.
Sunday, 23 June 2013
Could I have been the hermit on a Celtic coast,
the writer in her hut, the poet praying at the well.
A solitary saint?
The lighthouse keeper, high, alone and lofty on some rocky shore.
The singer with a voice pure and lasting, effortless and sure.
The dancer with just music flowing in my veins.
The player of the tunes with much feeling in the strains.
The tennis player, swift, precise and pure, a legend in the game.
The true artist; seeing all and then setting free the sight.
The whitest, wildest pony roaming wide and free.
The sensual, sultry cat, somewhat pampered, fed and warm.
The bird that always flies alone, glides, swoops
and nests where peace lies in a beauty
which the taint of Man has yet to kill.
My year is made because today M has seen the kingfisher on our river bridge. It was before seven in the morning and this poor photo was very hastily snapped through a (dirty) window through rain, wind, mist and low light (well it is summer!).
Last year I did not see it at all which worried me and most summers I am lucky to see only a few flashes of the brilliant blue as it flies up or downstream. Only very occasionally have we seen it unmoving for any peiod of time.
Needless to say I shall be up early from now on, camera at the ready. Watch this space won't you? And please keep everything crossed.
Bye for now,
Thursday, 13 June 2013
Sunday, 9 June 2013
Pot Pourri, Herbert James Draper 1863-1920
I am perennial, lasting, stalwart and courageous;
fragile but not brittle or insubstantial for I am an enchantress
and shall not easily crumble, fracture or fragment.
I am hardy, tough, bouncing back whatever may befall me.
I am pastel, soft-hued, sweet-scented,
seemingly gentle, quiet and tender.
(Keep me from exotics, the red-hot, fiery fervent types,
those hot-house specimens will only disturb my roots).
Plant me near water in semi-shade,
let me flourish in a space where only warm sun shines
and the soft rains of Ireland fall.
Keep bees around me; may you and they enjoy my scent and colour,
let my ambrosial, aromatic balm scent your days and sate your senses.
Preserve my petals in pot pourri or a pouncet box.
Do not prune me, cut me back or take cuttings from my stems so I
may bloom and bud and for you I may even set seed, if you nurture me,
speak to me often and gaze at me with love.
Think of me in winter when I am unseen but un-dead,
hiding with the dormouse in a deep,
hiding with the dormouse in a deep,
and sweet-sleep hibernation under a snowy blanket of white.
Wait for me for I shall return.
Do not lose hope,
Keep me in your heart and your imagination.
Wednesday, 5 June 2013
Artist Marcia Baldwin
Into each life a rain must fall.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Rain goddess; elemental, vital, only
only really at home in the mountains;
she mizzles, drizzles, spits and spots
for she is pure rain, she is precipitation
falling from the skies, carried on a cloud.
She is a downpour drencher, a cloudburst
soaker who can either be a flurry
or be foul, wild and wanton with the wind.
She can shower you or she may scare you
but a rain goddess may softly caress you
and with the rays of the sun might bring you
rainbows in her wake. Her outflowing tears
really only want to bring you much joy
as she descends upon you from the skies,
feeds your body and sustains your dry Earth.
Her diamond dust brings forth our magical streams
and rivers; gives birth to our deep oceans.
causing torrents with her force for she is
pure rain, she is precipitation.
Sunday, 2 June 2013
Funeral for a Friend
As I watched a wholly good man’s body
laid into the ground after the requiem,
the missa pro defunctis, I thought how
his kind seem all but extinct now, a priest
with such an honest heart, like the Roman
ring he always wore, pure gold, intagio,
a gem engraved in pastelled cameo.
For his ways were truly mellow, moderate
and kind, tender but always unobtrusive
whose lips had brushed no others’ mouths, only
the pax, the holy kiss of peace at High Mass
in his sacred monastery. As the
crucifix was laid upon him I considered
his life, forever enclosed, his spirit
ruled by his religion and its cloistered
celibacy. A force for good passed with
him on that day and as it rose we were
left miserable and marooned in our
disillusioned, aimless orphan of a world.