No. not my last ever blog posting. Just a piece of music that always touches my heart. I heard it a lot over the weekend because of the D-Day reunions in Normandy.
Artist
Monday, 8 June 2009
Friday, 5 June 2009
New Discoveries and No Pain
Dear Diary,
Nothing is so beautiful as spring -- when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.
Gerald Manley Hopkins
Gerald Manley Hopkins
It’s Friday!
Many blessings today. I had a good night’s sleep after going to bed at a reasonable time; for once I avoided Question Time as I was sleepy and felt I couldn’t take much more political discussion in these dark, dark days. My back is better thanks to my treatment on Wednesday and I spent the morning in the garden making a start on the Big Weed. I restricted myself to just a morning’s work but may have another little go this evening, it is quite enjoyable really and rewarding to see some plants once more! The sun shone but was not too strong so it was just perfect for me to get on with weed pulling. And all around me the birds were singing - I refilled their feeders as a reward. Best news of all is that I heard the cuckoo, it was very close by and cuckooing away madly.
I have many new finds to write about, the first is a new author who has written her first novel and it is on the shortlist for this year's Orange prize. It is The Wilderness by Samantha Harvey. I have only just started it but it is beautifully written, I will report back.
Isn't it a beautiful cover?I am also reading Irma Kurtz’s new book About Time and enjoying it very much - all about growing old disgracefully.
Not such a great cover!
I saw another great programme last night on BBC4 that was part of their Poetry Season. It was presented by the great poet Owen Sheers and his subject was Lynnette Roberts, a Carmarthenshire poet (1909-1995 - born in Argentina of Welsh stock) who I am ashamed to say I had never heard of before. Dylan Thomas stole the limelight from her methinks. Here is a wee extract from the poem he featured.
From Llanybri
If you come my way that is...
Between now and then, I will offer you
A fist full of rock cress fresh from the bank
The valley tips of garlic red with dew
Cooler than shallots, a breath you can swank
In the village when you come! At noon-day
I will offer you a choice bowl of cowl
Served with a 'lover's' spoon and a chopped spray
Of leeks or savori fach, not used now
In the old way you'll understand! The din
Of children singing through the eyelet sheds
Ringing 'smith hoops, chasing the butt of hens;
Or I can offer you Cwmcelyn spread
With quartz stones, from the wild scratchings of men;
You will have to go carefully with clogs
Or thick shoes for it's treacherous the fen,
The East and West Marshes also have bogs.
Lynette Roberts
Between now and then, I will offer you
A fist full of rock cress fresh from the bank
The valley tips of garlic red with dew
Cooler than shallots, a breath you can swank
In the village when you come! At noon-day
I will offer you a choice bowl of cowl
Served with a 'lover's' spoon and a chopped spray
Of leeks or savori fach, not used now
In the old way you'll understand! The din
Of children singing through the eyelet sheds
Ringing 'smith hoops, chasing the butt of hens;
Or I can offer you Cwmcelyn spread
With quartz stones, from the wild scratchings of men;
You will have to go carefully with clogs
Or thick shoes for it's treacherous the fen,
The East and West Marshes also have bogs.
Lynette Roberts
I have also discovered a new artist, you may well know of her but I didn't - her name is Sherree Valentine Daines and I saw one of her paintings on the front of a Country Life magazine that comes to the library. I love paintings of children and this artist has done many of those.
The two pics at the top are also by this gifted artist.
That’s all for today,
May all your weeds be wildflowers
Bye for now,
Cait.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
Morning Musings
And in the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years.
Abraham Lincoln, American 16th US President who helped to bring about the emancipation of slaves.
Abraham Lincoln, American 16th US President who helped to bring about the emancipation of slaves.
Dear Diary,
Apologies for being absent for far too many days; the clement weather has drawn me outside away from the desk and my strained back has been painful but touch wood it seems better these last few days. Rest and sleep are always the best thing. I have an appointment with my cranial osteopath this afternoon and she is a true miracle-worker. It is such a gentle way of treating and I cannot understand how it works but it does and that is all that matters. I am convinced that different complementary therapies suit different people.
I had a little wander round taking a few photos of the garden in the early morning.
The garden is becoming overrun with weeds as, because of my back, I have not been able to do any gardening. I am quite depressed about that. There are still many blossoms though which I am enjoying and many bees are too which pleases me and doubly so as we have a beekeeper as a neighbour. We do have a few housemartins nesting in the eaves, I was worried that they hadn't arrived; their numbers diminish each year though which is a shame. I haven't heard the cuckoo but it has been heard a few miles away. The dippers are nesting under the bridge. (ssshhh). The red kites and buzzards are around, the herons too and the wild ducks. Foxes, squirrels, all manner of creatures are in the vicinity and when I take the dogs in the field all they want to do is sniff and follow their trails.
M and I have just been whitewashing the outside of our garage, a job long overdue but satisfying to do once started. There is pleasure in knowing the paint will soon dry because here in Wales we are blessed with yet another very hot day.
I received my Irish books newsletter by email this morning and two of the reviews jumped out at me, one is about Great Blasket, my favourite island off the Dingle peninsula in County Kerry and the second is about Time, or rather the lack of it and tips on making it stretch. I could certainly do with some of those. Here are the reviews in case you are interested.
Blasket Spirit: Stories from the Islands by Anita Fennelly
(Paperback; 13 Euro / 18 USD / 10 UK; 210 pages)
Seeking solitude after personal crisis, Anita Fennelly spent a
summer alone on the Great Blasket Island. This is her account, written by candlelight, of the gradual thawing of her personal
isolation through the friendship of the characters of Blasket
Island life today: fishermen, ferrymen, backpackers, islanders
descendants, a dolphin, a weaver, a trio of seals and even a
former taoiseach. Anita weaves a tapestry of tales: ghost stories
told by the fireside, stories of love and hatred, stories
celebrating womanhood. Ultimately, Anita’s own story is one of
healing, survival and hope. Blasket Spirit reveals a timeless
place where the souls of the past and present are inextricably
linked with the emotional and physical struggles of island life.
Into this story of personal healing and recovery, the island
stories, its people and places and wildlife are interwoven to
form an original and multi-layered memoir.
----------------------------------------
Not Enough Hours: The Secrets of Making Every Second Count
by Owen Fitzpatrick
(Large Format Paperback; 14 Euro / 19 USD / 11 UK; 382 pages)
Have you taken on far more than you can handle? Is your life an
exhausting cycle of commuting, work, housework, children and bed?
Find it impossible to say no? Does the pace of modern life leave
you breathless? Are there just not enough hours in your day? Then
this is the book for you! We've all heard of the credit crunch
but many of us also face a time crunch every day, where we just
can't seem to fit everything into 24 hours. The world seems to be
moving at a faster speed than ever. And in Ireland, we have a
unique approach to time. Owen Fitzpatrick, presenter of RTA's
Not Enough Hours, shows how you can take control of your life so
that you make the most of every second. He describes where our
concept of time comes from, and how people s perception of time
differs. He profiles the seven time victims - the workaholic, the
perfectionist, the walk over, the hurrier, the worrier, the busy
bee and the time stranger and outlines the six time eaters. His
TimeWise programme explains in simple terms how to solve all of
your time problems in four easy steps analyse, prioritise,
organise, actualise. And he brings it all down to earth with tips
on finding time for yourself, time for love, time for children,
time for work, and even time for household chores. With a wealth
of practical examples from the RTÉ series and from other
people's lives, Not Enough Hours is a simple, easy-to-read,
no-nonsense guide for anybody who wants to have the time of their
lives. You'll save yourself a lot of time by reading it!
I am in despair about the state of our democracy. Our disgraced politicians are behaving like rats, devouring each other as the ship goes down and instead of getting on with their jobs of running the country they are now out to destroy their leader and take him down with them. There are villains, nay criminals in all parties and they are getting away with their crimes!
(Would we? No!)
God knows what the answer is, save complete root and branch reform.
Do we get the politicians we deserve I wonder? Some folk (me included) have said it all started going downhill with Margaret Thatcher’s dictatorship when selfish greed and the pursuit of riches became most people’s aim in life and rather than the personal qualities of a person’s character that was important, it was how much money one had that was equated with status (and b***** everyone else!). Society as a concept was dismissed and it was every man for himself (or woman for herself). It was because of this climate in the 1980’s that we dropped out and escaped from Surrey/ Sussex to the wilds of Wales as we wanted to live a simple life and be apart from that mindset.
I was listening to the radio the other day and caught part of an interview with an American male. He seemed to be talking such sense, seemed so gentle and intelligent - it took a few minutes for me to realise it was Barack Obama! Would that we had someone in the UK as eloquent and committed to purpose as the US President appears to be.
Blessings?
Memories of the magic of Great Blasket and being alone with M on the island many years ago.
Writing by candlelight - that appeals to me.
My new solar/wind up radio - I have two now, one for upstairs and one down. Better reception and free leccy!
Flowers.
Sunshine.
Cranial Osteopathy, sleep and rest.
Ah well that’s all for now,
Enjoy the day and may each second stretch for you.
God bless,
Cait.
PS I have posted a few pics and a short poem on my Cait’s photos blog.
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
Dear John
Dear Diary,
I watched an excellent programme on BBC2 last night about the life of the Metaphysical poet John Donne. It was part of the wonderful Poetry Season programmes that are on BBC radio and television at the moment; this one was presented by Simon Schama and the wonderful Irish actress Fiona Shaw recited extracts from Donne’s poems and how well she did this too. Donne’s wife Anne came from Loseley Manor near Guildford which I know well as I used to live close by. And after they were married they lived by the river Wey at Pyrford, near Woking.
They showed this painting of Donne last night and I kept looking at it because it reminded me of someone.
He was attractive, would you agree? - Dark Mediterranean good looks, swarthy, romantic. And just look at those artistic hands…
Jack Savoretti. Can you see the likeness? If you have not heard of him he is a wonderful singer/songwriter who should be more well-known.
I’ve always been a fan of John Donne, especially back in the mists of time when I too was young and romantic; in fact I have a verse of his somewhere that I copied out when I was in my twenties, I kept it for years andI am sure I still have it but I am so annoyed because I can't find it now and neither can I find the lines anywhere on the net. Ah well, I shall keep looking. Here is a taster anyway.
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were. Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
Meditation 17
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions
SONG.
GO and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
Air And Angels
TWICE or thrice had I loved thee,
Before I knew thy face or name ;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame
Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be.
Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing did I see.
But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,
More subtle than the parent is
Love must not be, but take a body too ;
And therefore what thou wert, and who,
I bid Love ask, and now
That it assume thy body, I allow,
And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.
Whilst thus to ballast love I thought,
And so more steadily to have gone,
With wares which would sink admiration,
I saw I had love's pinnace overfraught ;
Thy every hair for love to work upon
Is much too much ; some fitter must be sought ;
For, nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scattering bright, can love inhere ;
Then as an angel face and wings
Of air, not pure as it, yet pure doth wear,
So thy love may be my love's sphere ;
Just such disparity
As is 'twixt air's and angels' purity,
'Twixt women's love, and men's, will ever be.
The Sun Rising
Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late schoolboys, and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me
Whether both the'Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear: "All here in one bed lay."
She'is all states, and all princes I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compar'd to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy'as we,
In that the world's contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.
And just to prove that I am still a romantic - here is a taste of Jack. I must still be romantic because this video made me cry.
Without - Jack Savoretti
Enjoy.
Blessings?
Sleep, naps, clean sheets and summer days.
May days with the lightest of showers and warm sweet sunshine.
And kindly acts and romance.
Self-seeders.
In the garden and on the page.
Or in a song.
Poets, voices in a melody; their words our inspiration.
Bye for now,
Cait.
Healing, Papa would tell me is not a science but the intuitive art of wooing nature.
W H Auden
1907-1973
W H Auden
1907-1973
I watched an excellent programme on BBC2 last night about the life of the Metaphysical poet John Donne. It was part of the wonderful Poetry Season programmes that are on BBC radio and television at the moment; this one was presented by Simon Schama and the wonderful Irish actress Fiona Shaw recited extracts from Donne’s poems and how well she did this too. Donne’s wife Anne came from Loseley Manor near Guildford which I know well as I used to live close by. And after they were married they lived by the river Wey at Pyrford, near Woking.
They showed this painting of Donne last night and I kept looking at it because it reminded me of someone.
He was attractive, would you agree? - Dark Mediterranean good looks, swarthy, romantic. And just look at those artistic hands…
Jack Savoretti. Can you see the likeness? If you have not heard of him he is a wonderful singer/songwriter who should be more well-known.
I’ve always been a fan of John Donne, especially back in the mists of time when I too was young and romantic; in fact I have a verse of his somewhere that I copied out when I was in my twenties, I kept it for years andI am sure I still have it but I am so annoyed because I can't find it now and neither can I find the lines anywhere on the net. Ah well, I shall keep looking. Here is a taster anyway.
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were. Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
Meditation 17
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions
SONG.
GO and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
Air And Angels
TWICE or thrice had I loved thee,
Before I knew thy face or name ;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame
Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be.
Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing did I see.
But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,
More subtle than the parent is
Love must not be, but take a body too ;
And therefore what thou wert, and who,
I bid Love ask, and now
That it assume thy body, I allow,
And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.
Whilst thus to ballast love I thought,
And so more steadily to have gone,
With wares which would sink admiration,
I saw I had love's pinnace overfraught ;
Thy every hair for love to work upon
Is much too much ; some fitter must be sought ;
For, nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scattering bright, can love inhere ;
Then as an angel face and wings
Of air, not pure as it, yet pure doth wear,
So thy love may be my love's sphere ;
Just such disparity
As is 'twixt air's and angels' purity,
'Twixt women's love, and men's, will ever be.
The Sun Rising
Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late schoolboys, and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me
Whether both the'Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear: "All here in one bed lay."
She'is all states, and all princes I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compar'd to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy'as we,
In that the world's contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.
And just to prove that I am still a romantic - here is a taste of Jack. I must still be romantic because this video made me cry.
Without - Jack Savoretti
Enjoy.
Blessings?
Sleep, naps, clean sheets and summer days.
May days with the lightest of showers and warm sweet sunshine.
And kindly acts and romance.
Self-seeders.
In the garden and on the page.
Or in a song.
Poets, voices in a melody; their words our inspiration.
Bye for now,
Cait.
Monday, 25 May 2009
Garden Musings
Dear Diary,
I am going to start and finish with a poem, I discovered both yesterday.
Try To Praise The Mutilated World
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the grey feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the grey feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
Adam Zagajewski
Just a few musings on the garden today. I can only muse as my back is still delicate. So I watch and muse and enjoy for there is much to make one feel good at this time of year. I shall ignore the weeds and pretend they are just plants in the wrong place…for now.
Each new day brings the gift of a new molehill in my garden and now they are popping up close to the bird/squirrel/pheasant feeding station. They have moved from the field across the river into the garden. The plus side is they leave heaps of gorgeous soil for my pots but I fear the velvety little creatures will be caught by my cat (or by my man!) but I secretly wish that they won’t be but rather they just stay a (short) while and then move on. They aren’t supposed to like Radio 1 (who does?) so I could play that by their homes or pile heaps of dog mess by their hills, they don’t like that either do they? (who does?).
Yesterday was sunny, very warm indeed, could it have been our summer for (so far) it is cooler and duller today.
So what has pleased me in my hours of pain?
Buttercups and daisies.
I love grass filled with daisies and whenever I see them I remember daisy chains that I used to make for my favourite daughter when she was a toddler.
Our field is filling with buttercups and when they are tall I shall bring some in and put out in vases.
I love also the buttercup-lined path up to the cottage and there is a similar bed by the path at the library too, both are such a cheerful, sunny, buttery yellow. It is a pity these plants are so over-exuberant and have to be restrained.
Bluebells. Need I say more? Armfuls of bluebells is a phrase that always comes to mind. I picked some yesterday for the cottage and also a few stems of my magic crab apple’s blossom.
Not only moles, there are Welsh poppies poppying up all over. I am particularly pleased because it took years to get them to grow and I didn’t succeed until a dear friend passed on some of the poppy seeds from her garden in Herefordshire.
There are verbascums popping up in odd places. Some may remember me posting a pic of one last year as a mystery plant that was luckily identified for me. I was told I may be lucky if it seeded itself and it has, what joy. Last year’s plant grew over eight feet in height and I had been told it would be about three feet. Everything in our garden grows to giant size proportions in height; it is very strange. Reminds me of the Findhorn Garden in Scotland. Could there be divas at work in our garden I wonder?
Foxgloves too are popping up, wild ones which I adore.
Columbines in varying colours are everywhere and they too are very tall.
Lavender and roses, ah roses still to come. And honeysuckle flowers and all the joys of June.
My much-loved red peonies are nearly out, they never fail me and remain really healthy. When I first moved here they were by the riverbank and I moved them to a bed near the cottage, something all the books said was not advisable but mine seemed to have thrived.
Our laburnum tree is in blossom now, everything is late up here in the hills. Our seasons are shorter which is a shame but I always pray that the plants will stay in flower longer and they do if we are blessed with an Indian summer.
I love the way the garden changes each year - trees get taller, climbers are higher, shrubs bigger and ground cover plants spread more widely. The course of the river alters too. quite drastically this time, after the flood last year.
And my neighbours have just given me some sweet pea plants so I shall be off to plant them in a big pot along with some of my home made compost and some lovely soil courtesy of Mr Mole.
And later I shall try and take a few photographs of my garden, that should not strain my back too much. And then I shall curl up with Anne Enright's Yesterday's Weather (apt title methinks), a volume of short stories and for someone like me who doesn't normally enjoy short stories this is writing to die for.
But before I go here is the second poem I discovered yesterday.
To My Friends
Dear friends, and here I say friends
In the broad sense of the word:
Wife, sister, associates, relatives,
Schoolmates of both sexes,
People seen only once
Or frequented all my life;
Provided that between us, for at least a moment,
A line has been stretched,
A well-defined bond.
I speak for you, companions of a crowded
Road, not without its difficulties,
And for you too, who have lost
Soul, courage, the desire to live;
Or no one, or someone, or perhaps only one person, or
you
Who are reading me: remember the time
Before the wax hardened,
When everyone was like a seal.
Each of us bears the imprint
Of a friend met along the way;
In each the trace of each.
For good or evil
In wisdom or in folly
Everyone stamped by everyone.
Now that the time crowds in
And the undertakings are finished,
To all of you the humble wish
That autumn will be long and mild.
In the broad sense of the word:
Wife, sister, associates, relatives,
Schoolmates of both sexes,
People seen only once
Or frequented all my life;
Provided that between us, for at least a moment,
A line has been stretched,
A well-defined bond.
I speak for you, companions of a crowded
Road, not without its difficulties,
And for you too, who have lost
Soul, courage, the desire to live;
Or no one, or someone, or perhaps only one person, or
you
Who are reading me: remember the time
Before the wax hardened,
When everyone was like a seal.
Each of us bears the imprint
Of a friend met along the way;
In each the trace of each.
For good or evil
In wisdom or in folly
Everyone stamped by everyone.
Now that the time crowds in
And the undertakings are finished,
To all of you the humble wish
That autumn will be long and mild.
Primo Levi
Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Paolo Nutini - Candy
It's been a long time since I have heard a new song that I have fallen instantly in love with. My favourite daughter told me about Candy at the weekend.
Here are the lyrics.
Enjoy his soulful voice.
Candy
I was perched outside in the pouring rain
Trying to make myself a sail
Then I'll float to you my darlin'
With the evening on my tail
Although not the most honest means of travel
It gets me there nonetheless
I'm a heartless man at worst, babe
And a helpless one at best
Darling I'll bathe your skin
I'll even wash your clothes
Just give me some candy, before I go
Oh, darling I'll kiss your eyes
And lay you down on your rug
Just give me some candy
After my heart
Oh I'm often false explaining
But to her it plays out all the same
and although I'm left defeated
It get's held against my name
I know you got plenty to offer baby
But I guess I've taken quite enough
Well I'm some stain there on your bed sheet
You're my diamond in the rough
Darling I'll bathe your skin
I'll even wash your clothes
Just give me some candy
before I go
Oh, darling I'll kiss your eyes
And lay you down on your rug
Just give me some candy
After my heart
I know that there´re writings on the wall
But Darling I'll bathe your skin
I'll even wash your clothes
Just give me some candy
After my heart
Oh I'll be there waiting for you
Paolo Nutini
His album Sunny Side Up is out on June 1st, I can't wait.
Here are the lyrics.
Enjoy his soulful voice.
Candy
I was perched outside in the pouring rain
Trying to make myself a sail
Then I'll float to you my darlin'
With the evening on my tail
Although not the most honest means of travel
It gets me there nonetheless
I'm a heartless man at worst, babe
And a helpless one at best
Darling I'll bathe your skin
I'll even wash your clothes
Just give me some candy, before I go
Oh, darling I'll kiss your eyes
And lay you down on your rug
Just give me some candy
After my heart
Oh I'm often false explaining
But to her it plays out all the same
and although I'm left defeated
It get's held against my name
I know you got plenty to offer baby
But I guess I've taken quite enough
Well I'm some stain there on your bed sheet
You're my diamond in the rough
Darling I'll bathe your skin
I'll even wash your clothes
Just give me some candy
before I go
Oh, darling I'll kiss your eyes
And lay you down on your rug
Just give me some candy
After my heart
I know that there´re writings on the wall
But Darling I'll bathe your skin
I'll even wash your clothes
Just give me some candy
After my heart
Oh I'll be there waiting for you
Paolo Nutini
His album Sunny Side Up is out on June 1st, I can't wait.
Monday, 18 May 2009
Money, the root of all evil?
Dear Diary,
Today.
I am late in posting this and so it is really Old News, the like of which you have probably had your fill. For that I apologise but I have a good excuse as I had a wee accident in the home, something I have a penchant for doing, if truth were told. But even though we Arians are accident-prone this one was not my fault. I was sitting on the edge of my new and previously much-loved and raved about Ikea Poang chair when I reached out to brush one of my dogs.
Suddenly I found myself on the floor and the chair which had tipped over was on top of me. So if you have one of these chairs then beware. They are probably safe on carpet but mine is on quarry tiles and must have slipped. Since then I have had pain in my back which I am hoping is just bruising. Thank God for Ibuprofen, hot water bottles, Tiger Balm and arnica. They can be my Blessings for today. At least it has rained almost solidly these last few days so I couldn’t have gardened anyway.
Anyway here is the late post.
(Last Friday)
I received an extremely high ‘leccy bill this morning; not the best time to start worrying about how I would manage to pay it……..with what is going on in our country. So I warn you, today’s blog will be free of Blessings but instead will be full of Moans and Groans.
BBC’s Question Time was from Grimsby last night and was exceptional in that there was none of the usual argument between the politicians on the panel. There was one MP from each of the main parties and they all looked as if they were suffering from lack of sleep, indeed they seemed to be visibly shaken and I detected a wobble in their voices but I must say that the lack of backbiting between them was very welcome.
Margaret Beckett was heckled…. and some …..(whoop whoop! - I just wished it had been Hazel Blears). Teresa May was struggling. Min Campbell, who, naïve soul that I can be sometimes. I would never have suspected of any wrongdoings was also clearly in a bit of a corner. They were all heckled as the programme progressed.
Conversely you could almost see the halo around the head of the Assistant Editor of the Telegraph as he was bathing in the glory of the appreciation of the audience and probably the whole of the electorate too. There was even a good looking bloke on there too in the form of one of the top bods from McDonalds and he also spoke such good common sense. Would that there were more like these two, with a sense of urgency and strong, decisive solutions to this expenses horror story.
So just how angry am I with our politicians?
I am incensed. Especially with those who have broken or twisted their rules and treated taxpayers with contempt. I am even more than angry, I am livid with those who are nothing more than criminals, crooks, fraudsters - we know who they are and they are still coming. They should be prosecuted as anyone else would be and I see that the Daily Mail are starting a fund to bring about private prosecutions.
(I never thought I would ever agree with the Daily Mail!).
There is a complete lack of morality in this whole affair, a lack of ethics in the manner we have been governed. Pure corruption is the name of the game.
A few more questions…
Why should MP’s set their own salaries anyway? No other employee does.
Should politicians be above the law? Should anyone be above the law?
Should fraudster be prosecuted? Of course they should.
And shouldn’t those MP’s who payback what they ‘stole,’ pay the interest as well?
Half our banks are in national ownership which is all down to risky investment and obscene amounts paid out in bonuses to the bankers.
And the heads of these organisations, RBS’s Fred Goodwin for example, swan off with HUGE pensions
A root and branch reform of our so-called democracy is long overdue.
And now I hear that more money is needed for the Olympic Village and only 2.7 million pounds is in the contingency fund, half of which has already been spent and only 36% of the building work done. And all the while cuts have been made countrywide in small sporting sports projects that would have benefited the whole of our population.
Security costs for the bands of Royal hangers-on is another drain. Just one example - £280,000 each a year for Beatrice and Eugenie and £110,000 for a recent trip when one of them went swanning round the world.
On a lighter note I am losing myself in a funny book recommended by a borrower. It is The Only Boy for Me by Gill McNeil who also wrote Divas Don’t Knit which I haven’t read. I don’t normally read chicklit type books (am I too old?) but this one is making me laugh out loud in places so is good laughter therapy for me, better than political hysteria any day.
And if there is an antidote for all our anger I would suggest you read How to be Free by Tom Hodgkinson. This is a must-be-read-by-everyone kind of book.
There are lots of good poetry programmes on BBC4 and Radio 4 at the moment so if you are a lover of poetry like me then look out for them.
I shall leave it at that,
Bye for now,
I am off to bath two smelly dogs, one is especially foxy.
Cait.
Today.
Money is the root of all evil, and yet it is such a useful root that we cannot get on without it any more than we can without potatoes.
Louisa May Alcott
1832-1888
Louisa May Alcott
1832-1888
Politicks are now nothing more than a means of rising in the world. With this sole view do men engage in politicks and their whole conduct proceeds upon it.
Dr Johnson in Boswell’s Life of Johnson, 1775.
Dr Johnson in Boswell’s Life of Johnson, 1775.
I am late in posting this and so it is really Old News, the like of which you have probably had your fill. For that I apologise but I have a good excuse as I had a wee accident in the home, something I have a penchant for doing, if truth were told. But even though we Arians are accident-prone this one was not my fault. I was sitting on the edge of my new and previously much-loved and raved about Ikea Poang chair when I reached out to brush one of my dogs.
Suddenly I found myself on the floor and the chair which had tipped over was on top of me. So if you have one of these chairs then beware. They are probably safe on carpet but mine is on quarry tiles and must have slipped. Since then I have had pain in my back which I am hoping is just bruising. Thank God for Ibuprofen, hot water bottles, Tiger Balm and arnica. They can be my Blessings for today. At least it has rained almost solidly these last few days so I couldn’t have gardened anyway.
Anyway here is the late post.
(Last Friday)
I received an extremely high ‘leccy bill this morning; not the best time to start worrying about how I would manage to pay it……..with what is going on in our country. So I warn you, today’s blog will be free of Blessings but instead will be full of Moans and Groans.
BBC’s Question Time was from Grimsby last night and was exceptional in that there was none of the usual argument between the politicians on the panel. There was one MP from each of the main parties and they all looked as if they were suffering from lack of sleep, indeed they seemed to be visibly shaken and I detected a wobble in their voices but I must say that the lack of backbiting between them was very welcome.
Margaret Beckett was heckled…. and some …..(whoop whoop! - I just wished it had been Hazel Blears). Teresa May was struggling. Min Campbell, who, naïve soul that I can be sometimes. I would never have suspected of any wrongdoings was also clearly in a bit of a corner. They were all heckled as the programme progressed.
Conversely you could almost see the halo around the head of the Assistant Editor of the Telegraph as he was bathing in the glory of the appreciation of the audience and probably the whole of the electorate too. There was even a good looking bloke on there too in the form of one of the top bods from McDonalds and he also spoke such good common sense. Would that there were more like these two, with a sense of urgency and strong, decisive solutions to this expenses horror story.
So just how angry am I with our politicians?
I am incensed. Especially with those who have broken or twisted their rules and treated taxpayers with contempt. I am even more than angry, I am livid with those who are nothing more than criminals, crooks, fraudsters - we know who they are and they are still coming. They should be prosecuted as anyone else would be and I see that the Daily Mail are starting a fund to bring about private prosecutions.
(I never thought I would ever agree with the Daily Mail!).
There is a complete lack of morality in this whole affair, a lack of ethics in the manner we have been governed. Pure corruption is the name of the game.
A few more questions…
Why should MP’s set their own salaries anyway? No other employee does.
Should politicians be above the law? Should anyone be above the law?
Should fraudster be prosecuted? Of course they should.
And shouldn’t those MP’s who payback what they ‘stole,’ pay the interest as well?
Half our banks are in national ownership which is all down to risky investment and obscene amounts paid out in bonuses to the bankers.
And the heads of these organisations, RBS’s Fred Goodwin for example, swan off with HUGE pensions
A root and branch reform of our so-called democracy is long overdue.
And now I hear that more money is needed for the Olympic Village and only 2.7 million pounds is in the contingency fund, half of which has already been spent and only 36% of the building work done. And all the while cuts have been made countrywide in small sporting sports projects that would have benefited the whole of our population.
Security costs for the bands of Royal hangers-on is another drain. Just one example - £280,000 each a year for Beatrice and Eugenie and £110,000 for a recent trip when one of them went swanning round the world.
On a lighter note I am losing myself in a funny book recommended by a borrower. It is The Only Boy for Me by Gill McNeil who also wrote Divas Don’t Knit which I haven’t read. I don’t normally read chicklit type books (am I too old?) but this one is making me laugh out loud in places so is good laughter therapy for me, better than political hysteria any day.
And if there is an antidote for all our anger I would suggest you read How to be Free by Tom Hodgkinson. This is a must-be-read-by-everyone kind of book.
There are lots of good poetry programmes on BBC4 and Radio 4 at the moment so if you are a lover of poetry like me then look out for them.
I shall leave it at that,
Bye for now,
I am off to bath two smelly dogs, one is especially foxy.
Cait.
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
Old fashioned bread pudding
The proof of the pudding is in the eating. By a small sample we may judge of the whole piece.
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
1547-1616
Delia Smith’s Old Fashioned Bread Pudding.
8 oz bread brown or white (225g) - cut off crusts
Half pint milk (275 ml)
2 oz butter, melted (50g)
3 oz soft brown sugar (75g) - or white if needs be
2 level teaspoons mixed spice
1 egg beaten
6 oz mixed fruit (175g)
Grated rind of half an orange
Freshly grated nutmeg
Pre-heat oven to Gas 4, 350F (180C)
A 2 - 2 and a half pint (1.25-1.5 litre) baking dish, buttered.
Break bread into pieces, place in bowl.
Pour milk over, stir, leave for 30 minutes till well soaked.
Add melted butter, sugar, mixed spice and egg.
Beat with a fork till no lumps remain then stir in fruit and rind.
Put in dish and sprinkle with nutmeg.
Bake for about one and a quarter hours.
Nice hot with custard.
Also nice cold.
8 oz bread brown or white (225g) - cut off crusts
Half pint milk (275 ml)
2 oz butter, melted (50g)
3 oz soft brown sugar (75g) - or white if needs be
2 level teaspoons mixed spice
1 egg beaten
6 oz mixed fruit (175g)
Grated rind of half an orange
Freshly grated nutmeg
Pre-heat oven to Gas 4, 350F (180C)
A 2 - 2 and a half pint (1.25-1.5 litre) baking dish, buttered.
Break bread into pieces, place in bowl.
Pour milk over, stir, leave for 30 minutes till well soaked.
Add melted butter, sugar, mixed spice and egg.
Beat with a fork till no lumps remain then stir in fruit and rind.
Put in dish and sprinkle with nutmeg.
Bake for about one and a quarter hours.
Nice hot with custard.
Also nice cold.
Sunday, 10 May 2009
Morsels
Dear Diary,
The tulip photo was taken by M. The tulips are from my garden and they are in a vase with a few sprigs of my ribes sanguinem - flowering redcurrant.
And now a poem:
I am posting a recipe today that is so easy to make and really delicious. Great for days like today when I had nothing planned and nothing much in the fridge.
And it’s cheap too!.
Onion, bacon and potato hotpot
(I won’t give any measures, I just adapt it to however many people I am feeding).
Peel and slice up some potatoes, red ones or any variety that have a good flavour.
Slice up some onions.
Cut up some back bacon with scissors into bite-sized pieces.
Chuck it all in a casserole/gratin dish and mix up together.
Pour in a carton of cream. I used Elmlea which is only slightly healthier.
Add enough milk to make enough ‘sauce’ to just coat/nearly cover the ingredients.
Add loads of grated cheese and stir in some mustard powder.
Give it all a good shake.
Cover with lid or foil.
Bake for one hour covered at Gas no. 6
Bake for one hour uncovered at about 4.
Don’t let it dry out, check occasionally, add more milk/cream if it does.
It is done when the potatoes are cooked. It may take longer depending on the thickness of the potatoes.
You can make this by adding home made cheese sauce but to save time today I just slung in cream and milk and grated cheese.
You can also save cooking time by gently frying the onions and/or parboiling the potatoes and very gently frying the bacon first but I think it always tastes even better if all is cooked from ‘raw’. It is the sort of dish that you can leave and go work in the garden then come in (exhausted) and just cook some green veg. to go with it. Cabbage is lovely in the winter or broccoli and cauliflower which is what we had today.
We also had Bread Pudding today, another family favourite. I once worked with a woman who called it Irish Wedding Cake! All I can say is it might be cheaper but in my opinion it tastes much, much nicer than wedding cake. It is something I was given as a child but the recipe I use now is dear old St Delia’s and if anyone would like it let me know. It is great for using up leftover bread.
I'll finish with another wee poem.
Anonymous
Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait
When you have only two pennies left in the world, buy a loaf of bread with one and a lily with the other.
Chinese Proverb
Chinese Proverb
And now a poem:
The Back of the Refrigerator
It’s like the subway
In the middle of rush hour
Where some year old mayonnaise
Nudges yesterday’s tuna
For a place in this coveted no-man’s-land
Where leftovers reign supreme
And for this food
It’s the end of the line.
Ellen Fuchs
It’s like the subway
In the middle of rush hour
Where some year old mayonnaise
Nudges yesterday’s tuna
For a place in this coveted no-man’s-land
Where leftovers reign supreme
And for this food
It’s the end of the line.
Ellen Fuchs
I am posting a recipe today that is so easy to make and really delicious. Great for days like today when I had nothing planned and nothing much in the fridge.
And it’s cheap too!.
Onion, bacon and potato hotpot
(I won’t give any measures, I just adapt it to however many people I am feeding).
Peel and slice up some potatoes, red ones or any variety that have a good flavour.
Slice up some onions.
Cut up some back bacon with scissors into bite-sized pieces.
Chuck it all in a casserole/gratin dish and mix up together.
Pour in a carton of cream. I used Elmlea which is only slightly healthier.
Add enough milk to make enough ‘sauce’ to just coat/nearly cover the ingredients.
Add loads of grated cheese and stir in some mustard powder.
Give it all a good shake.
Cover with lid or foil.
Bake for one hour covered at Gas no. 6
Bake for one hour uncovered at about 4.
Don’t let it dry out, check occasionally, add more milk/cream if it does.
It is done when the potatoes are cooked. It may take longer depending on the thickness of the potatoes.
You can make this by adding home made cheese sauce but to save time today I just slung in cream and milk and grated cheese.
You can also save cooking time by gently frying the onions and/or parboiling the potatoes and very gently frying the bacon first but I think it always tastes even better if all is cooked from ‘raw’. It is the sort of dish that you can leave and go work in the garden then come in (exhausted) and just cook some green veg. to go with it. Cabbage is lovely in the winter or broccoli and cauliflower which is what we had today.
We also had Bread Pudding today, another family favourite. I once worked with a woman who called it Irish Wedding Cake! All I can say is it might be cheaper but in my opinion it tastes much, much nicer than wedding cake. It is something I was given as a child but the recipe I use now is dear old St Delia’s and if anyone would like it let me know. It is great for using up leftover bread.
I'll finish with another wee poem.
The Cabbage and the Rose
I wonder if the cabbage knows
He is less lovely than the Rose;
Or does he squat in smug content,
A source of noble nourishment;
Or if he pities for her sins
The Rose who has no vitamins;
Or if the one thing his green heart knows --
That self-same fire that warms the Rose?
I wonder if the cabbage knows
He is less lovely than the Rose;
Or does he squat in smug content,
A source of noble nourishment;
Or if he pities for her sins
The Rose who has no vitamins;
Or if the one thing his green heart knows --
That self-same fire that warms the Rose?
Anonymous
Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait
Friday, 8 May 2009
A Lazy Day
Boreas 1903
John Williams Waterhouse
1849-1917
I just love this painting
Laziness is nothing more than the habit of resting before you get tired.
Jules Renard
1864-1910
Jules Renard
1864-1910
I have had a really lazy day today. It started well with a teeny lazy lie-in and then at breakfast-time I had a surprise visit from my favourite daughter, always a delight to see her. After she left I had a little potter in the garden, refilled the bird, squirrel and pheasant feeders, washed Tonto (my car, don’t ask) just because I felt like it, this chore doesn’t happen often but it had reached the stage of dirtiness where I was beginning to feel ashamed. Then M and I took a trip to Hay which is always pleasurable for a bibliophile. Our dentist is in Hay and M had an appointment; it’s a long drive but I never mind as the scenery along the Wye is so beautiful.
Earlier this week a friend C was telling me about an Arvon writing course she had attended recently and she spoke of a young poet called Clare Pollard who was ‘teaching’ there . C had been quite impressed by her writing. I searched the library catalogue to see if we had any of her books in the county but there was nothing. Today I was in a bookshop in Hay and what should I be led to but a slim volume of Clare Pollard’s poems. Synchronicity, that ‘window into the divine’ at work once more.
(I bought the book for said friend).
Here is a poem by said poet.
For My Future Daughter
Try not to think too deeply,
try not to think too well.
Heaven is in small details,
labyrinths lead to hell.
Take comfort from the squirrel,
take comfort from the moon —
like a hot-buttered crumpet,
a kind face in your room.
And if you are now older
take comfort in his smell,
the fact he's cooked you dinner,
the fact he treats you well.
Try not to think too deeply.
You never can be good.
You'll never find a home that
is not marked with some blood.
And sorry that I brought you
to a world where that's true.
The Protestants hate Catholics.
The Arabs hate the Jews,
and half the world hates you, dear.
But I loved your warm head
before I'd even planned you.
I pictured you in bed
and kissed that absent soft-spot,
and though I am not there,
shut your eyes, squeeze my hand tight,
and though I won't be there
in some way I'll be there, dear.
That is how we persist.
My sweet thing, do forgive me
for selfishness. I kiss
you wherever you are now
and hope you're glad of life —
despite the violent weather,
despite the sudden knife —
and that you love that one gift,
that rare thrill of I am
as death pans out around you.
Hope that you do not damn
this mother who loved life so,
she hoped she'd live within
you, after: ball your fist, dear,
and feel your nails dig in.
Clare Pollard
I found a book on roses in Hay too which I hope will make a perfect gift for another dear friend. Here is a picture I found within it.
It is The Shrine by John William Waterhouse 1895. It is in the Christopher Wood Gallery, London.
I also bought a lovely book (for myself) on a favourite place of mine - Dublin. (Well you can’t go to Hay and not buy a book or two can you?) The Hay Festival is coming up soon and my daughter and I are deciding who we would like to go and see, always a hard choice that one.
The rest of today I have lazed about on the sofa, just reading and watching TV. Such decadence… but I have to work on Saturdays so I don’t feel guilty for being idle on a Friday. My body was telling me to rest and just for once I was not arguing.
That’s all for now,
An early night, a bit more reading,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
Momentous Occasions
Dear Diary,
I am struggling to write a poem, never a good idea, a poem usually flies in and calls me to write, beginning with a line or two, coming as a flash from who-knows-where. They call it the well of imagination don‘t they?
Our writing group homework this month is to write about a ‘momentous occasion’ and the subject has been mulling around in my head because I know what I want to write but the words won’t come; it’s as if the occasions I have chosen as subject matter are so momentous they have been filed away in the hard drive of my being as a video recording. I heard the other day that those moments we all recollect - times like when Kennedy was assassinated, John Lennon shot, Princess Diana died etc - we all remember exactly where we were when we heard the news and when we recall it to mind we see the scene again; who else was there, what we said etc as there is a special part of our brains that stores all these little details. I am always taken back to the spot, the event is replayed before my eyes and I can give the commentary word for word.
I want to write about holding my new babies, both of them; it would be disloyal to say the first was more ‘important’ as both events have equal measure of emotion. The same feeling comes when you hold a new grandchild. These occasions are my most momentous in the sense that they are joyful but the word joyful is somehow inadequate as an adjective - there is no word to describe the extreme happiness on these birth-days. Perhaps that is why I find it hard to write a poem about it as there are no words fit for purpose. For it is but a moment... but the joy, the bliss, the feeling of fulfilment lasts a lifetime and beyond and cannot be distilled into an instant.
There are so many momentous occasions in life - births, deaths, achievements of varying kinds, meetings of soul mates, falling in love. Seeing a ghost. I may dig out the blog I wrote some time ago about my experience of the paranormal. Finding my family and my roots was also momentous, something particular to me and those like me who have grown up without a sense of identity for a great part of their lives.
Of course not all momentous occasions are good ones.
There are bad moments of course, some so bad that I shall not ever consign them to paper as I do not want to give them energy. As the cliché goes ‘into each life some rain must fall’ - well I have had more than some - I have had torrents!
I decided to take another tack on the subject and write about moments as an abstract concept and while driving to work one morning this week I became inspired and had practically a whole poem come to me. I vowed to write the lines down when I reached the library but after opening up and the arrival of a borrower, all was lost. It still nags at me now because I was pleased with some of the lines that had flown into my head.
Some folks write on trains; is there something about passive movement through space, combined with solitude that sometimes stimulates creativity?
Changing the subject now.
We have two cock pheasants living on our little holding of land, they are both quite tame - one we call Hopalong as he is lame on one leg and the other is Buck (Buck Jones?), I looked out of the window the other day and saw Buck up on the bird feeding station, feeding from a seed-feeder! I took a photo through the window but it has not come out very clearly as the window was dirty (No, surely not?). Also the seed-feeder was near-empty so all in all it does not make for a good picture. (Note to self - clean window, fill feeder, watch and wait).
Sammy Squirrel is a regular now outside the kitchen window and he nibbles the nuts on both feeding stations in the back and the front gardens. The housemartins haven’t arrived yet and I live in fear that they will not return as each year their numbers diminish. We are having the cottage re-painted this year so I hope that won’t upset them.
Everything in the garden is bursting into life, including the weeds. I have never seen so many dandelions as I have this year - someone said that this heralds a hot summer. I am torn between leaving them as their bright yellow flowers are cheering, especially on the roadside verges but they would take over a garden given half a chance so I hack them off with the hoe. I am like a fellow blogger who goes by the name of Perpetual Weeder, it is a job that never ends - is it just us? I refuse to use chemicals so everything has to be dug up by hand and my body suffers the next day if I overdo it (and I am always prone to overdoing it). Buttercups are coming up too; I love their sunny yellowness but have to be ruthless with these plants though I do leave a few clumps around as they as so pretty. If only they could contain themselves and not creep around trying to take over the whole show.
Time for Blessings I think.
Blossoms which are everywhere.
Inspiration - when it comes.
Treasured Moments stored in my memory.
Bluebell woods, pure heaven, I saw my first one this year in the Brecon Beacons yesterday.
New Life in all its forms.
I’ll sign off now,
Have a good day and may it be filled with the very best kind of moments,
Cait
I am struggling to write a poem, never a good idea, a poem usually flies in and calls me to write, beginning with a line or two, coming as a flash from who-knows-where. They call it the well of imagination don‘t they?
Our writing group homework this month is to write about a ‘momentous occasion’ and the subject has been mulling around in my head because I know what I want to write but the words won’t come; it’s as if the occasions I have chosen as subject matter are so momentous they have been filed away in the hard drive of my being as a video recording. I heard the other day that those moments we all recollect - times like when Kennedy was assassinated, John Lennon shot, Princess Diana died etc - we all remember exactly where we were when we heard the news and when we recall it to mind we see the scene again; who else was there, what we said etc as there is a special part of our brains that stores all these little details. I am always taken back to the spot, the event is replayed before my eyes and I can give the commentary word for word.
I want to write about holding my new babies, both of them; it would be disloyal to say the first was more ‘important’ as both events have equal measure of emotion. The same feeling comes when you hold a new grandchild. These occasions are my most momentous in the sense that they are joyful but the word joyful is somehow inadequate as an adjective - there is no word to describe the extreme happiness on these birth-days. Perhaps that is why I find it hard to write a poem about it as there are no words fit for purpose. For it is but a moment... but the joy, the bliss, the feeling of fulfilment lasts a lifetime and beyond and cannot be distilled into an instant.
There are so many momentous occasions in life - births, deaths, achievements of varying kinds, meetings of soul mates, falling in love. Seeing a ghost. I may dig out the blog I wrote some time ago about my experience of the paranormal. Finding my family and my roots was also momentous, something particular to me and those like me who have grown up without a sense of identity for a great part of their lives.
Of course not all momentous occasions are good ones.
There are bad moments of course, some so bad that I shall not ever consign them to paper as I do not want to give them energy. As the cliché goes ‘into each life some rain must fall’ - well I have had more than some - I have had torrents!
I decided to take another tack on the subject and write about moments as an abstract concept and while driving to work one morning this week I became inspired and had practically a whole poem come to me. I vowed to write the lines down when I reached the library but after opening up and the arrival of a borrower, all was lost. It still nags at me now because I was pleased with some of the lines that had flown into my head.
Some folks write on trains; is there something about passive movement through space, combined with solitude that sometimes stimulates creativity?
Changing the subject now.
We have two cock pheasants living on our little holding of land, they are both quite tame - one we call Hopalong as he is lame on one leg and the other is Buck (Buck Jones?), I looked out of the window the other day and saw Buck up on the bird feeding station, feeding from a seed-feeder! I took a photo through the window but it has not come out very clearly as the window was dirty (No, surely not?). Also the seed-feeder was near-empty so all in all it does not make for a good picture. (Note to self - clean window, fill feeder, watch and wait).
Sammy Squirrel is a regular now outside the kitchen window and he nibbles the nuts on both feeding stations in the back and the front gardens. The housemartins haven’t arrived yet and I live in fear that they will not return as each year their numbers diminish. We are having the cottage re-painted this year so I hope that won’t upset them.
Everything in the garden is bursting into life, including the weeds. I have never seen so many dandelions as I have this year - someone said that this heralds a hot summer. I am torn between leaving them as their bright yellow flowers are cheering, especially on the roadside verges but they would take over a garden given half a chance so I hack them off with the hoe. I am like a fellow blogger who goes by the name of Perpetual Weeder, it is a job that never ends - is it just us? I refuse to use chemicals so everything has to be dug up by hand and my body suffers the next day if I overdo it (and I am always prone to overdoing it). Buttercups are coming up too; I love their sunny yellowness but have to be ruthless with these plants though I do leave a few clumps around as they as so pretty. If only they could contain themselves and not creep around trying to take over the whole show.
Time for Blessings I think.
Blossoms which are everywhere.
Inspiration - when it comes.
Treasured Moments stored in my memory.
Bluebell woods, pure heaven, I saw my first one this year in the Brecon Beacons yesterday.
New Life in all its forms.
I’ll sign off now,
Have a good day and may it be filled with the very best kind of moments,
Cait
Sunday, 3 May 2009
A Short Break
Dear Diary.
I am enjoying
A not-coffee break. I have given up coffee, chocolate and alcohol to try and reduce my migraine- triggers. I sometimes wonder if life is worth living.
I am drinking
A giant midnight blue mugful of ginseng, gingko and lemon-grass tea. It is meant to give me get up and go.
(I have only just sat down but never mind.).
I am eating
Nothing as I had a proper Sunday morning breakfast - a fry-up of eggs, bacon and tomatoes at 11.30 am!
I am wearing
Gardening jeans and a purple top. Purple is a special colour don’t you know?
I am looking out the window at
Sheep and lambs, the river and new mown grass (cannot call our grass a lawn by any stretch of the imagination).
Who is by my side?
Only Molly the cat who is sound asleep in her basket. The dogs are outside sunning themselves.
I have been
Weeding which is my perpetual pastime at this time of year. I never use chemicals so it is hard work. Satisfying when it is done though.
(Why are my eyes so often drawn to only the weeds and not to the blossom in the garden?).
After this I am going to
Go out in the garden with my wee camera and take some pictures of
Blossom.
I would rather be
Writing or just lounging.
I am thinking about
The Duchess, the DVD I watched last night. I recommend it highly if you haven’t seen it. I thought it was a beautiful production and couldn’t help thinking of the life of Princess Diana throughout the film which tells the story of the life of a Duchess of Devonshire. I shall say no more, I don’t want to spoil it for you.
My sister C who lives in Sussex has been on my mind also our mother and other relatives who have passed into Spirit.
I am also thinking of fresh air and how I love it so. The pure Welsh mountain air is like wine.
Dinner tonight?
Good question..
I am looking forward to
Sitting in the weed-free garden with a Good Book but I don’t think that will ever happen do you?
Hoping to
Win the lottery so a friend and I can open a Dog and Donkey sanctuary. No luck this week.
Music playing?
None as I am ‘not stopping’. I can hear the sounds of snooker in the room below as M is watching it on TV. I actually watched some myself last night and learned how it works, hope I don't get hooked!
Well I must go as the urge to get up and go has come upon me, the herbal tea must have worked its magic. I am off on a blossom hunt; watch this space for pics!
Bye for now,
Cait
I am enjoying
A not-coffee break. I have given up coffee, chocolate and alcohol to try and reduce my migraine- triggers. I sometimes wonder if life is worth living.
I am drinking
A giant midnight blue mugful of ginseng, gingko and lemon-grass tea. It is meant to give me get up and go.
(I have only just sat down but never mind.).
I am eating
Nothing as I had a proper Sunday morning breakfast - a fry-up of eggs, bacon and tomatoes at 11.30 am!
I am wearing
Gardening jeans and a purple top. Purple is a special colour don’t you know?
I am looking out the window at
Sheep and lambs, the river and new mown grass (cannot call our grass a lawn by any stretch of the imagination).
Who is by my side?
Only Molly the cat who is sound asleep in her basket. The dogs are outside sunning themselves.
I have been
Weeding which is my perpetual pastime at this time of year. I never use chemicals so it is hard work. Satisfying when it is done though.
(Why are my eyes so often drawn to only the weeds and not to the blossom in the garden?).
After this I am going to
Go out in the garden with my wee camera and take some pictures of
Blossom.
I would rather be
Writing or just lounging.
I am thinking about
The Duchess, the DVD I watched last night. I recommend it highly if you haven’t seen it. I thought it was a beautiful production and couldn’t help thinking of the life of Princess Diana throughout the film which tells the story of the life of a Duchess of Devonshire. I shall say no more, I don’t want to spoil it for you.
My sister C who lives in Sussex has been on my mind also our mother and other relatives who have passed into Spirit.
I am also thinking of fresh air and how I love it so. The pure Welsh mountain air is like wine.
Dinner tonight?
Good question..
I am looking forward to
Sitting in the weed-free garden with a Good Book but I don’t think that will ever happen do you?
Hoping to
Win the lottery so a friend and I can open a Dog and Donkey sanctuary. No luck this week.
Music playing?
None as I am ‘not stopping’. I can hear the sounds of snooker in the room below as M is watching it on TV. I actually watched some myself last night and learned how it works, hope I don't get hooked!
Well I must go as the urge to get up and go has come upon me, the herbal tea must have worked its magic. I am off on a blossom hunt; watch this space for pics!
Bye for now,
Cait
Friday, 1 May 2009
A Poet's Passing
Dear Diary,
It is a coincidence that I am posting about another female poet today and one who, some years ago, was once in the running for the position of Poet Laureate but was unsuccessful.
U A Fanthorpe passed away this week at the age of 79 and I am therefore posting this again in her memory. This has always been one of my favourite poems and its theme is one close to my heart, namely the needless and soul-destroying academic 'dissection' of pieces of literature.
It features another one of my favourite wordsmiths, Laurie Lee.
Dear Mr Lee,
Mr Smart says it’s rude to call you Laurie, but that’s
how I think of you, having lived with you
really all year), Dear Mr Lee
(Laurie) I just want you to know
I used to hate English, and Mr Smart
is roughly my least favourite person,
and as for Shakespeare (we’re doing him too)
I think he’s a national disaster, with all those jokes
that Mr Smart has to explain why they’re jokes,
and even then no one thinks they’re funny,
And T. Hughes and P. Larkin and that lot
in our anthology, not exactly a laugh a minute,
pretty gloomy really, so that’s why
I wanted to say Dear Laurie (sorry) your book’s
the one that made up for the others, if you
could see my copy you’d know it’s lived
with me, stained with Coke and Kitkat
and when I had a cold, and I often
take you to bed with me to cheer me up
so Dear Laurie, I want to say sorry,
I didn’t want to write a character-sketch
of your mother under headings, it seemed
wrong somehow when you’d made her so lovely,
and I didn’t much like those questions
about social welfare in the rural community
and the seasons as perceived by an adolescent,
I didn’t think you’d want your book
read that way, but bits of it I know by heart,
and I wish I had your uncles and your half-sisters
and lived in Slad, though Mr Smart says your view
of the class struggle is naïve, and the examiners
won’t be impressed by me knowing so much by heart,
they’ll be looking for terse and cogent answers
to their questions, but I’m not much good at terse and cogent,
I’d just like to be like you, not mind about being poor,
see everything bright and strange, the way you do,
and I’ve got the next one out of the Public Library,
about Spain, and I asked Mum about learning
to play the fiddle, but Mr Smart says Spain isn’t
like that any more, it’s all Timeshare villas
and Torremolinos, and how old were you
when you became a poet? (Mr Smart says for anyone
with my punctuation to consider poetry as a career
is enough to make the angels weep).
PS Dear Laurie, please don’t feel guilty for
me failing the exam, it wasn’t your fault,
it was mine, and Shakespeare’s
and maybe Mr Smart’s, I still love Cider
it hasn’t made any difference.
U A Fanthorpe
It is a coincidence that I am posting about another female poet today and one who, some years ago, was once in the running for the position of Poet Laureate but was unsuccessful.
U A Fanthorpe passed away this week at the age of 79 and I am therefore posting this again in her memory. This has always been one of my favourite poems and its theme is one close to my heart, namely the needless and soul-destroying academic 'dissection' of pieces of literature.
It features another one of my favourite wordsmiths, Laurie Lee.
Dear Mr Lee,
Mr Smart says it’s rude to call you Laurie, but that’s
how I think of you, having lived with you
really all year), Dear Mr Lee
(Laurie) I just want you to know
I used to hate English, and Mr Smart
is roughly my least favourite person,
and as for Shakespeare (we’re doing him too)
I think he’s a national disaster, with all those jokes
that Mr Smart has to explain why they’re jokes,
and even then no one thinks they’re funny,
And T. Hughes and P. Larkin and that lot
in our anthology, not exactly a laugh a minute,
pretty gloomy really, so that’s why
I wanted to say Dear Laurie (sorry) your book’s
the one that made up for the others, if you
could see my copy you’d know it’s lived
with me, stained with Coke and Kitkat
and when I had a cold, and I often
take you to bed with me to cheer me up
so Dear Laurie, I want to say sorry,
I didn’t want to write a character-sketch
of your mother under headings, it seemed
wrong somehow when you’d made her so lovely,
and I didn’t much like those questions
about social welfare in the rural community
and the seasons as perceived by an adolescent,
I didn’t think you’d want your book
read that way, but bits of it I know by heart,
and I wish I had your uncles and your half-sisters
and lived in Slad, though Mr Smart says your view
of the class struggle is naïve, and the examiners
won’t be impressed by me knowing so much by heart,
they’ll be looking for terse and cogent answers
to their questions, but I’m not much good at terse and cogent,
I’d just like to be like you, not mind about being poor,
see everything bright and strange, the way you do,
and I’ve got the next one out of the Public Library,
about Spain, and I asked Mum about learning
to play the fiddle, but Mr Smart says Spain isn’t
like that any more, it’s all Timeshare villas
and Torremolinos, and how old were you
when you became a poet? (Mr Smart says for anyone
with my punctuation to consider poetry as a career
is enough to make the angels weep).
PS Dear Laurie, please don’t feel guilty for
me failing the exam, it wasn’t your fault,
it was mine, and Shakespeare’s
and maybe Mr Smart’s, I still love Cider
it hasn’t made any difference.
U A Fanthorpe
The First of May
Dear Diary,
It’s May Day!
A little poem for you.
May Day
I will start with a wee poem,
Why not?
A new day,
A new month.
A new Poet Laurate.
A woman!
Carol Ann Duffy,
Congratulations!
I am posting below two of my favourite poems by Carol Ann Duffy. I understand that Carol Ann's mother is Irish and her grandparents come from Carlow and Hackestown.
I always imagine that In Your Mind is written about Ireland but I am probably wrong…perhaps someone will enlighten me?
In Your Mind
The other country, is it anticipated or half-remembered?
Its language is muffled by the rain which falls all afternoon
one autumn in England, and in your mind
you put aside your work and head for the airport
with a credit card and a warm coat you will leave
on the plane. The past fades like newsprint in the sun.
You know people there. Their faces are photographs
on the wrong side of your eyes. A beautiful boy
in the bar on the harbour serves you a drink – what? –
asks you if men could possibly land on the moon.
A moon like an orange drawn by a child. No.
Never. You watch it peel itself into the sea.
Sleep. The rasp of carpentry wakes you. On the wall,
a painting lost for thirty years renders the room yours.
Of course. You go to your job, right at the old hotel, left,
then left again. You love this job. Apt sounds
mark the passing of the hours. Seagulls. Bells. A flute
practising scales. You swap a coin for a fish on the way home.
Then suddenly you are lost but not lost, dawdling
on the blue bridge, watching six swans vanish
under your feet. The certainty of place turns on the lights
all over town, turns up the scent on the air. For a moment
you are there, in the other country, knowing its name.
And then a desk. A newspaper. A window. English rain.
Carol Ann Duffy
Prayer
Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims1 sung by a tree, a sudden gift.
Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.
Pray for us now. 2 Grade I piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child's name as though they named their loss.
Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer -
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.
Carol Ann Duffy
Bye for now,
Enjoy the month,
Go mbeannai Dia Duit,
Cait
Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen”
Leonardo Da Vinci
1452-1519
Leonardo Da Vinci
1452-1519
It’s May Day!
A little poem for you.
May Day
I will start with a wee poem,
Why not?
A new day,
A new month.
A new Poet Laurate.
A woman!
Carol Ann Duffy,
Congratulations!
I am posting below two of my favourite poems by Carol Ann Duffy. I understand that Carol Ann's mother is Irish and her grandparents come from Carlow and Hackestown.
I always imagine that In Your Mind is written about Ireland but I am probably wrong…perhaps someone will enlighten me?
In Your Mind
The other country, is it anticipated or half-remembered?
Its language is muffled by the rain which falls all afternoon
one autumn in England, and in your mind
you put aside your work and head for the airport
with a credit card and a warm coat you will leave
on the plane. The past fades like newsprint in the sun.
You know people there. Their faces are photographs
on the wrong side of your eyes. A beautiful boy
in the bar on the harbour serves you a drink – what? –
asks you if men could possibly land on the moon.
A moon like an orange drawn by a child. No.
Never. You watch it peel itself into the sea.
Sleep. The rasp of carpentry wakes you. On the wall,
a painting lost for thirty years renders the room yours.
Of course. You go to your job, right at the old hotel, left,
then left again. You love this job. Apt sounds
mark the passing of the hours. Seagulls. Bells. A flute
practising scales. You swap a coin for a fish on the way home.
Then suddenly you are lost but not lost, dawdling
on the blue bridge, watching six swans vanish
under your feet. The certainty of place turns on the lights
all over town, turns up the scent on the air. For a moment
you are there, in the other country, knowing its name.
And then a desk. A newspaper. A window. English rain.
Carol Ann Duffy
Prayer
Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims1 sung by a tree, a sudden gift.
Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.
Pray for us now. 2 Grade I piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child's name as though they named their loss.
Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer -
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.
Carol Ann Duffy
Bye for now,
Enjoy the month,
Go mbeannai Dia Duit,
Cait
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
A Meme
Dear Diary.
I promised I would do it so here goes.
I’ll try and be brief, you have probably read this one as it has been tackled by others so many times before.
What are my current obsessions?
Photography is my latest craze and I have opened another blog for some pics.
My others you know about. Poetry, books, music, Ireland…….
Which item of clothing am I wearing most?
Jeans I suppose and scarves and shawls but to be honest (as they say in Wales) I am bored with all of my clothes.
What’s for dinner?
Roast chicken (lemony and garlicky). Got the recipe from Nigel Slater’s Appetite, a great cookbook.
Roast potatoes, stuffing, broccoli, carrots.
Delia’s toffee pudding.
Last thing I bought?
A photography book!
What am I listening to?
A friend sent me a song on the subject of watching clouds as we both love this pastime. The song is sung by Abby Dobson., an Australian singer.
What would I say to the person who inspired me to do this post?
Willow, your blog is fantastic!
Favourite holiday destination?
Ireland
A canal boat holiday in France maybe, or Ireland or the UK.
Anywhere I would like to visit before I die?
New England
New York
Reading right now?
One of Us - A fabulous novel by Melissa Benn who is the daughter of my hero Tony Benn.
Guilty pleasure?
Buying a magazine occasionally. No delete that, they are always a disappointment.
Buying books?
First Spring thing?
Picking snowdrops from my garden.
Best thing I ate or drank lately?
Butterscotch cake made by M.
Which Spring flower am I most anxious to see?
Snowdrops, bluebells.
Care to share some wisdom?
Only kindness matters.
Is there a television programme that I enjoy at the moment?
All the Small Things
That’s all folks and if you’ve got this far then thanks for reading..
I am tagging Milla and anyone else who fancies having a go.
(Remove one question and add one of your own making)
Bye for now,
Cait
I promised I would do it so here goes.
I’ll try and be brief, you have probably read this one as it has been tackled by others so many times before.
What are my current obsessions?
Photography is my latest craze and I have opened another blog for some pics.
My others you know about. Poetry, books, music, Ireland…….
Which item of clothing am I wearing most?
Jeans I suppose and scarves and shawls but to be honest (as they say in Wales) I am bored with all of my clothes.
What’s for dinner?
Roast chicken (lemony and garlicky). Got the recipe from Nigel Slater’s Appetite, a great cookbook.
Roast potatoes, stuffing, broccoli, carrots.
Delia’s toffee pudding.
Last thing I bought?
A photography book!
What am I listening to?
A friend sent me a song on the subject of watching clouds as we both love this pastime. The song is sung by Abby Dobson., an Australian singer.
What would I say to the person who inspired me to do this post?
Willow, your blog is fantastic!
Favourite holiday destination?
Ireland
A canal boat holiday in France maybe, or Ireland or the UK.
Anywhere I would like to visit before I die?
New England
New York
Reading right now?
One of Us - A fabulous novel by Melissa Benn who is the daughter of my hero Tony Benn.
Guilty pleasure?
Buying a magazine occasionally. No delete that, they are always a disappointment.
Buying books?
First Spring thing?
Picking snowdrops from my garden.
Best thing I ate or drank lately?
Butterscotch cake made by M.
Which Spring flower am I most anxious to see?
Snowdrops, bluebells.
Care to share some wisdom?
Only kindness matters.
Is there a television programme that I enjoy at the moment?
All the Small Things
That’s all folks and if you’ve got this far then thanks for reading..
I am tagging Milla and anyone else who fancies having a go.
(Remove one question and add one of your own making)
Bye for now,
Cait
Just a poem for now, back soon
Out of Hiding
Someone said my name in the garden,
while I grew smaller
in the spreading shadow of the peonies,
grew larger by my absence to another,
grew older among the ants, ancient
under the opening heads of the flowers,
new to myself, and stranger.
When I heard my name again, it sounded far,
like the name of the child next door,
or a favorite cousin visiting for the summer,
while the quiet seemed my true name,
a near and inaudible singing
born of hidden ground.
Quiet to quiet, I called back.
And the birds declared my whereabouts all morning.
Li-Young Lee
Friday, 17 April 2009
If you love poetry
Achill Head - Paul Henry
Dear Diary,
Below is a piece taken from a blog I read, it is about a journalist's interview with an American poet. I hope she won’t mind me repeating it here but I thought others might like the last line.
*
This is the extract.
I can't tell you what we talked about; I need to save that for my story. But I will share his last quote, since it was so lovely. I said, Why poetry? Why not prose? And he answered immediately; he said,
Why dancing? Why not just walk around?
*
Then quite by chance I received this poem in an email tonight, also on the theme of poetry. So I thought I would share this with you also. Pablo Neruda is a favourite poet of mine.
Poetry
And it was at that age... Poetry arrived in search of me.
I don't know, I don't know where it came from,
from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices,
they were not words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone,
there I was without a face and it touched me.
I did not know what to say,
my mouth had no way with names
my eyes were blind, and something started in my soul, fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering that fire
and I wrote the first faint line, faint, without substance,
pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open,
planets, palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated, riddled with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void,
likeness, image of mystery,
I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.
Pablo Neruda
1904-1973
That's all for now,
Cait
A little award ceremony
Dear Diary,
I must thank the very kind blogger at Third-Storey Window for giving me the Premio Splashdown award in the form of the little picture below. It was a complete surprise to me. ( I am very much into angels but have never been called one before!).
Third-Storey Window is a favourite blog of mine - a real haven for bibliophiles like me. Go visit - you can spend ages there - so much to enjoy.
I would like to pass this award on to other 'angels' in cyberspace:
Cowgirl because she is an inspiration and is touched by angels for sure. There are beautiful photos of New Zealand to see and great writing. Do go over and visit.
I like to visit The Keeping Room because it has everything I love therein. The room is so cosy and welcoming, there are beautiful photos, so much to read and there is poetry too. An harmonious place to linger.
Three Dog Blog is another much-loved haunt of mine as the writings here are superb and it is crammed full of gems to inspire me. One not to miss. (I am a dog lover but you don't have to be to enjoy it).
Last but not least I must mention Camilla and Edward, the quality of the writing here is just outstanding, it is a magical, beautiful blog, a treat for the senses. A must-read.
There are others I could mention but I had better stop at four. Aren’t we blessed to have so many wonderful ‘angelic’ blogs to read?
Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait,
I must thank the very kind blogger at Third-Storey Window for giving me the Premio Splashdown award in the form of the little picture below. It was a complete surprise to me. ( I am very much into angels but have never been called one before!).
Third-Storey Window is a favourite blog of mine - a real haven for bibliophiles like me. Go visit - you can spend ages there - so much to enjoy.
I would like to pass this award on to other 'angels' in cyberspace:
Cowgirl because she is an inspiration and is touched by angels for sure. There are beautiful photos of New Zealand to see and great writing. Do go over and visit.
I like to visit The Keeping Room because it has everything I love therein. The room is so cosy and welcoming, there are beautiful photos, so much to read and there is poetry too. An harmonious place to linger.
Three Dog Blog is another much-loved haunt of mine as the writings here are superb and it is crammed full of gems to inspire me. One not to miss. (I am a dog lover but you don't have to be to enjoy it).
Last but not least I must mention Camilla and Edward, the quality of the writing here is just outstanding, it is a magical, beautiful blog, a treat for the senses. A must-read.
There are others I could mention but I had better stop at four. Aren’t we blessed to have so many wonderful ‘angelic’ blogs to read?
Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait,
Sunday, 12 April 2009
Easter Sunday
Easter Sunday
An Easter Sunday morning walk beside the precious mountain stream
amongst the carpets of sweet celandine and purple violets at their edge.
Peeping shyly, hiding, coy and timid in their beauty.
While clumps of primroses, so full and brightly yellow are
not the least bit bashful of their hue as they
compete with golden daffodils along the river’s bank.
While all around is greening and every plant and shrub is budding, simply bursting into life.
And all the while the river sings her song
and birds join in the chorus as she flows.
But I detect a brightness in their tune,
a tinkling sound of joyfulness is in their melody,
as if they too can tell it’s Spring and
they can also see and feel God’s beauty in our midst.
Cait O’Connor
Friday, 10 April 2009
The Butterfly's Tale
A glasswing butterfly
This is homework for my writing group. I had to write something incorporating these seven words - we each chose one at random from the dictionary:chance, butterfly, responsible, drab, firefly, tube, fastidious
The Butterfly’s Tale
(A very short story)
"Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you"
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Along with the hordes, an unusual butterfly flew in the just-opened carriage door of the London tube. A very rare irridescent glasswing butterfly that shone like sunlight on stained glass in colours of blue, green, rusty gold and white. Its effect amongst we travellers was like that of a rainbow on a dullish day.
Enlightened onlookers in the carriage suspected it to be a just-passed soul fluttering by, as they do, to comfort a grieving loved one.
(I knew better).
One lucky lady found a seat. If I was kind I would say she was nondescript but if I was honest I would say she was prim and proper looking, glasses perched on the edge of her nose, sad-eyed and clothes far too drab (a librarian?).
A man stood near to her and looked around with the air of someone who thought himself a wee bit superior. If I was kind I would say he was clean and smartly turned out but if I am to be honest he seemed to me dull and far too fastidious for his own good (an accountant?).
The atmosphere, which had previously been cheerless and dark, grew brighter as glowing sparks from the butterfly started to burn as it landed on the windowpane between the dull accountant and the sad librarian. Their eyes were drawn to it and then to each other and, as they say in books, a smile passed between them.
(We psychic ones call it energy).
I knew a passion was ignited in that moment and perhaps (as I have the Gift) only I saw it, but the butterfly was slowly undergoing a metamorphosis and its sparks became flames.
The creature had become a firefly.
(My spell had worked).
And then I too had a flash, a flash of the fortune teller, the true sign of a witch,
(It happens a lot).
In their future lives together as man and wife the dull but now happy accountant and the sad but now fulfilled librarian would describe how they met as pure Chance and Chance alone was responsible.
(But as I told you, I know better).
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