The Model

 

The Model


She is no soft-soap Cinderella,
invites abound, she wades in wealth.
Kohled eyes cast far and wide,
she slinks the thin and hungry cat’s way.
She can be the red-hot hunter, breathing fire
or coolly chic, script-prepared and fine-tuned gazing.
She can be a vision in deep plum,
in a wistful, warming, dream of a dress
in the prettiest print that is paisley,
its precious patterns framed in silver
amidst leaves of russet-gold.

Amethysts adorn a neck that is pure grace,
real pearls dropping from beneath her tiny ears.
Jewels of the moodiest blue in her ruby skirts,
her shawls are shady purple, red and ochre
and ballet pumps of velvet glitter at her feet.
Effortless in cable knits or clumpy-booted
in a cool cowl neck, a bow-neck knit
or a blouse of the daintiest, delicate lace.

Today she is fine art of the purest kind,
with red-haired-ringlets falling on her face
but whether she is almost naked,
wears a top hat with tight jeans,
some pull-ons or a wedding gown.
she is always the fashion model.
who always acts and always twirls
who always stares
who always softly smiles.

Cait O’Connor

Dear John

 John Lennon would have been 70 tomorrow had he lived.

God bless you John.
Yoko is to call for peace in your name.
Peace,
Imagine.

National Poetry Day

I have to post a poem today don't I?  It's National Poetry Day so I thought I would show you the second prize in the Mslexia competition,  (the first prize-winner is in yesterday's post).  This one  is also a wonderful poem and was written by Stephanie Norgate.

The Table

It was the round world of tea.
It had a pedestal foot of mock walnut.
It had been pulled under the bramley
on the lawn which became lawnless
where cow parsley and dock held
the grasses in their sway. It was
a plate of drips from the apple twigs.

Like Hardy’s clocks and carpets and chairs,
it was out on the lawn all day and then for years.
It was a flat world of peeling veneer
near the safe hedge of elders and elms.
It offered nasturtium salads and peppery remarks,
flawed like the internal specking
of the Bramleys, with their sepia stains.

Among the campions and apple blossom,
it glowered and mouldered and glowed,
a greening pool in a green light suspended
among nettles, its circle just visible
shadowed by the pink gold towers of dock.
When we slapped down cards, the green world
trembled and wobbled on its carved stem.

I want to lean my head on the ribboning surface,
and ask, Grandad what do you hear?
I want to unfreeze his ear from the trench
and see him listen again to the shelling of beans,
the downy shucks’ light fall on the table.
I want the people back who stood between me
and death with their unlocked doors.

Table, float them back to me
up the slope from the stream, through
the hogweed, past the bare bean poles,
till they’re back under the bramley with you.
Let your curved drawer stick as it used to,
the handle gripped in their tired hands,
then wrenched open and free.

Stephanie Norgate

 

Poetry

Alphonse Mucha 1860-1939

A Poem I Must Share

Every now and then I read a poem that is outstanding and this is one of them, it was written by Margaret Livingston and won First Prize in Mslexia's Women's Poetry Competition 2010; the judge was poet Vicki Feaver.   

Since reading it last night I have been thinking of it all day  -  there are several lines in this very moving poem that are truly brilliant.  See if you agree.

The Widower and his clothes 

 

The winter after
the weather organised his clothes.
He took to moors and beaches
and tentative horizons
that juggled sun and blizzards
on the ocean’s edge.
He took to rocks,
and sturdier boots,
and ditches where the rain
lay muttering with the moss
and dark newts lived a definite life
that made him feel unformed.
He looked to trees
their roots, like talons, holding on,
and found a heavier coat
that made his back seem real
and his arms more able
to push him through the day.
He wrapped a scarf
around his mouth to keep
his language warm, his words
in hibernation, while he
lingered on the hillside
where the frost was yet to melt.
The weather chose his clothes
that careful chrysalis, in which his heart
adjusted to the qualities of snow,
until the winter nuzzles into spring
and his fingers, in their gloves,
begin to think of touch.

Margaret Livingston

Just a song

 I haven' t posted a song for ages and sometimes only music will do, it's that kind of evening I am afraid, there is damn all on TV and I have been so enjoying listening to my music collection.  I remembered how much I love the talent and voice of this artist, Tori Amos.

A Glimpse into my Morning

Dear Diary,

Photo by John Ellis

Waste no opportunities.
  This is called following the light
Tao

The last few days of September have been so cold and there have even been some overnight frosts. I was hoping to delay lighting the woodburner until October but alas - no such luck.  Thankfully we had its chimney swept last week.  Now I must accept that wearing several layers of clothes will be the norm with a fleece on top for good measure.  Such is my life up in the hills!  We are trying to avoid putting any radiators on yet as it is so expensive and I never want to see such a high leccy bill again as the one we had last winter - and we are not the only ones. 

After a tasty breakfast of two boiled eggs and Marmite soldiers made with M’s gorgeous wholemeal bread I head out on my morning walk.  It is a still and quiet morning; gone are the roars of the Sunday bikers who always blight my weekends especially if there is a fatality or serious accident as there so often is in this dear country. There was an accident on Saturday.  Why do they, or more to the point why are they allowed to go so fast?

It is comfortably cool now after a morning which began with a hint of a frost and there is just the softest, lightest touch of rain when I take the dogs for their morning walk in the field.  Finn is sometimes reluctant to cross the wooden bridge now; he has grown a little anxious in his old age and being arthritic of leg he may well be fearful of slipping and falling into the river, who can blame him for being dog-sensible?  I sometimes take him the long way round on the lead but today I walk across the bridge with  him and he seems happy to do so, perhaps he feels safer with me on the end of his lead.  The sheep are as placid as ever and do not stir when they see us approaching, they are not frightened of the dogs and the dogs ignore them thoroughly as they have been very well-trained.  All sheep are standing except one who lies still just watching - there is always an individualist, thank God - while the rest just casually survey our movements from a distance and only edge slowly out of our way if we come too far into the section of the field where they are grazing. 

There are blessings to note, as ever.  The sound of birdsong for one and  the accompanying music  of the river running.  The sight of the river is beautiful too, it has a black sheen like treacle as it forms mini-waterfalls over the stones which flow downstream and give birth to baby rivulets.   Kitty always goes down the bank to drink from the river and sometimes goes in for a paddle, not today though.
 
M is indoors painting the study walls pretty pink, I am finding the white walls cold and draining and for once the paint does not smell which is a blessing.  Molly the cat is unimpressed though, the study is her ‘bedroom’ and being a proper nocturnal cat it is where she spends a good part of the day.  The cottage interior seems dark lately but I must get used to this as the days shorten and winter draws ever nearer.  There are still plenty of flowers in the garden to brighten it though - cosmos, roses, sedum, rudbeckia and other daisy type flowers. The buddleiae are in flower, better late than never.  Butterflies are still plentiful  too as are the wasps and the bees.

I am soon going to plant more bulbs and  woodland plants mainly beneath my Sitka Spruce pine trees now that M has tidied up their low-hanging branches and I am keen to plant lots of cyclamen, more bluebells, daffodils etc.   Already a mystery yellow flower has appeared and I have yet to name it.

A dear friend recently likened autumn to a terminal illness - death being winter I suppose and it is a fact that seasonal depression is such a serious sadness, indeed an illness for so many folk.  But I feel that autumn breaks us in to Winter everso gently and there are so many blessings of the season in its wake - along with the beauty of the autumn colours there is less weeding and grass cutting!  There used to be better TV programmes to look forward to but I have yet to discover them.

I am still getting over a cold, I can’t stop coughing and spluttering so am looking forward to cooching up with The Girl who Played with Fire, that one should definitely warm me up!  I have just finished The Marriage Bed by Regina McBride because of the Great Blasket Island connection that was an enjoyable read.  Our book group is reading People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks for October - I really loved her book March so am looking forward to that one.  Also on the go is The Glass Room by Simon Mawer which is another great read - I had better get on with it…..

So many books, too  little time.

Before I go here are just a few of my


Thoughts on Autumn


I have prayed for an Indian summer and I swear I caught just the occasional glimpse of her as she slowly crept across the mountain.  Autumn still works hard at wooing but her temper flares, she can be kind but she can be wild and wanton, throwing in all directions the placement that was summer.

But there is such consolation in her colours.  As they fall, as her leaves blow across the sun-brightened sky
their scents are all around, both underfoot and in the air carried on drifts of bonfire smoke or in a shower of rain. She can break us in gently for the harshness that will undoubtedly come, the coldness which we shall hopefully endure but her stay is all too brief, like Life She will not linger long.  So take all her glory into your soul.

Autumn is dressed in a richness of red, gold and ochre.  Loath to leave now, the leaves hang heavy but cling on as if life is so dear which it surely is.  I will not hang or huddle, instead I wrap her around me for all too soon she will be gone as Winter creeps in even more stealthily to undermine her foundations.

Autumn is a promise asking little in return.  As we part I look forward for Spring waits and is not too far behind, on Winter’s tail. But we should look for delight in the dark times too.  Sleep awhile, a little more, just like the squirrel.  There will be days when the sun can still be flirtatious in her moods.
Comforting us too, she lifts our spirits and we prepare again for rebirth amongst the season’s fadings.


Cait O’Connor

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Images and a few words

Dear Diary,

It has been too long since my last post, many apologies.

Of course I have excuses but won't list them, far too boring.  Just call them Life which we all understand because we all suffer from its many humdrum lamentations.

I picked up a copy of Country Life the other day in the library and was delighted to find a piece on Alan Cotton, one of my favourite artists (see above and my header pic).  I saw that he has an exhibition at Messum's,  8. Cork Street, West London from 15th September to 2nd October.  I also learned that he is a knife-painter (no he doesn't paint knives but he paints with knives) and that his paintings are influenced not only by my beloved west of Ireland but also by many other (warmer) climes.  There is a new book out by Jenny Pery, Alan Cotton: Giving Life a Shape.

Before I go,

I will leave you with a little poem.

Ange passe



I found them the day after the autumn solstice
in my favourite spot beneath the willow.
beside the stream
where birds and hedgehogs feed,
otters play and the fox and badger roam at night.
A place that is sacred and silent
on early morning strolls or night-time meditations.
Beneath my feet
lay a carpet of white feathers
(I felt the usual rush of love);
wondered had there been a party
on that warm September night?
I stood quite still and stared in wonder at the sight.
Was this a blessing of sweet angels at my feet,
gathered for the celebration of the season?
I still felt their presence and sensed there had been
much merriment, for joy hung in the air
and crowds of goodbye kisses were still blowing in the breeze.


Cait O'Connor

Heart-Lifters

Dear Diary,

Roald Dahl writing in his shed

I haven’t posted any blessings for ages but here are a few heart-lifters, reasons to be cheerful this week.

There is a new biography out of my favourite children’s author, it is called Storyteller The Life of Roald Dahl by Donald Shurrock  and it’s being read on BBC Radio 4 each morning which is a treat for me as I am not working this week.  One of the wonderful things Dahl wanted to do was to instil in children not just the love of his books but also the habit of reading as well . Well he certainly succeeded, his books remain as popular as ever and children do seem to get into the habit of reading once they have eagerly devoured all his titles. 

I am reading another good book, it’s The Glass Room by Simon Mawer, it was recommended to me by my daughter and is also the Purplecoo book club choice for autumn.   I also have Kate Atkinson’s new one Started Early Took my Dog and the wonderful Fay Weldon’s Kehua  and Patrick Gale’s The Whole Day Through to look forward to.  Much reading ahead! 

I’ve bought a selection of bulbs for the garden,  two lots of tulips in the shades of pale pink and deep burgundy, giant purple alliums and smaller varieties of allium in different colours,  I’ve also bought crocuses and snakes head fritillaries, irises and a few species of narcissi.  I was also tempted by some bluey-purple heathers and another shrub. a dark misty blue Caryopteris.  Continuing the blue theme I would like to get some more bluebell bulbs soon.   There is something comforting about planting bulbs in the autumn, it sort of brings spring nearer into view, something to imagine and look forward to; the excitement of seeing those first bulbs coming into flower.  I have a fair number of snowdrops but may buy a few more, they are the very first signs of spring, they cheer so just when we need uplifting from the depths of winter.

I visited the local garden centre this week very early in the morning on my way home from an early appointment in Hay.  It is an excellent place, somewhere I love going to and I was (almost) the only customer -  it was quite magical wandering among the just- freshly-watered plants so early in the day, I always feel better just for being amongst plants and I was starting to feel very happy and relaxed.  I was suddenly heartened to hear a bird singing its heart out, just for the joy of singing, as they do…. and I came across a little robin perched above me amongst the displays, he was not afraid of me at all and carried on singing away.  Isn’t it funny how little things like that can lift one’s heart and stay in the memory?

I have been working on a family search for a friend and have been quite successful so far and quite by chance found (in Ireland) a bit of a link between us, that was a big surprise. This is the second time this sort of thing has happened to me and it makes me wonder if there is something bigger than us at work in the universe, (well of course there is isn’t there?).

What else has lifted my heart?  The weather has been kind, warm and sunny with only the odd shower.  Family members have been visiting from Norfolk and it is always a pleasure to be in their company.

I have been brushing up my French in anticipation of a visit to Brittany at some stage on the genealogy trail.  I must put a plug in for the language audiotapes of Michel Thomas; this man is a genius at making learning a language a real doddle.  He teaches other languages as well.  A borrower recommended him to me, a friend had recommended him to her and now I pass it on to you.  Word of mouth (or in this case blog) is the best way to spread good things.

There is so much that is going bad in this country at the moment, so much incompetence surrounds us that I have turned into a proper Grumpy Old Woman so it is even more important to seek out the good.

Thank God for music, M is playing some great stuff (very loudly!) downstairs as I write this.  Luckily we have understanding neighbours who love music as much as we do.

Thank God for poetry,  I have Philip Larkin’s Whitsun Weddings by my bedside.  I will leave you with one.

Days

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.

Philip Larkin


And here’s another of Larkin’s  that I love.


Dublinesque


Down stucco sidestreets,
Where light is pewter
And afternoon mist
Brings lights on in shops
Above race-guides and rosaries,
A funeral passes.

The hearse is ahead,
But after there follows
A troop of streetwalkers
In wide flowered hats,
Leg-of-mutton sleeves,
And ankle-length dresses.

There is an air of great friendliness,
As if they were honouring
One they were fond of;
Some caper a few steps,
Skirts held skilfully
(Someone claps time),

And of great sadness also.
As they wend away
A voice is heard singing
Of Kitty, or Katy,
As if the name meant once
All love, all beauty.

Philip Larkin


Bye for now,
Happy Days,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

A Fable For Our Times

The Ant Story : Working Life

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A friend emailed this to me yesterday, I think it should be set in stone.

Migration

Just a poem today.

Migration/Safe Home

I am often kneeling, not exactly praying
but usually dreamily weeding,
revelling in the sometimes rare delights
of another British summer
but I always 'sense' you are coming;
just minutes before you arrive
I get one of my 'flashes', it is always a thrill.
Then you swoop in succession, one by one,
over the river, into the garden
making straight for the cottage eaves.

Late in August someone said you'd gone,
they saw you all lined up, prepared to fly.

Please don’t let it be so.
I didn’t see you. Could they have been wrong?
It is too soon.

Did you leave while I was sleeping,
away from home or simply unaware?
Were you lured away like I sometimes am,
by the call of a moon?
(Do you also have affinity with stars
or was a new love dawning?)
Was it second sight, by the signs of a storm
by the fall of a leaf, or a magnetic pull
from our own Mother Earth?
Was it by whispered warning, fear of flood
or tempest, hurricane or some such tortuous weather?
Whatever it was my heart and head are hurting
as I am left alone now and never got the chance to say
‘Safe Home.‘.

I lie, bereft now, looking out on vacant nests
containing only ghost-like memories of love and sound
under quietitude and lonely, empty eaves.
You and your new broods have fled together,
heading back to somewhere vast and unbeknown to me,
to a place that must be warmer, wider and more welcoming.
Off, in high tumultuous clouds across the wildest oceans
on such precious, fragile, tiny wings you fly.
Far, far away into the hinterland.


Cait O'Connor

 Safe Home

Connemara Blues

Dear Diary,

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

John Keats

I’ve changed my header picture today, I hope you like it?  It’s where I would like to be today.….in a Connemara early morning amongst all its blueness, walking with Kitty my collie by the waterside.  I remember the first time I visited Connemara on a camping holiday as a teenager and falling in love with its complete ‘unspoiltness‘, with the ponies, the coastline, the wildness and its green marble.  I remember camping there again by the sea in my twenties and bathing in the sea -  hidden amongst the rocks we found a sheltered pool, the soap wouldn’t lather but we managed to get clean.  A precious memory. Those were the days when you could strike camp almost anywhere, we travelled all round Ireland and hardly ever went to proper sites.  It rained a lot of course and I remember moving the tent round as the wind changed direction so many times. 

I love the blues in Alan Cotton’s painting, blue is such a healing colour and I have an affinity with this shade., it is after all the same blue that is found in many a colleen’s eyes.   This blue in Irish eyes has a strong gene connected to it and it has been passed down to my daughter and to all her daughters as well; people have commented on it.

It is a quiet morning here, very still and gentle with not a breath of wind -  there is a steady rain falling but it is warm one and I have just been out to feed the birds so they are happy.   My plants are enjoying the recent rainfall and have put on quite a spurt in growth which is good.

A borrower has seen a hummingbird hawkmoth locally, it has been visiting her buddleia shrub so that is exciting; we managed to identify it from a book in the library.  I’ve never seen or heard one myself. .. yet.

Talking of moths, I am not sure if I have ever mentioned The Behaviour of Moths by Poppy Adams.  I can highly recommend this novel, give it a try, you don’t have to have an interest in the moth species, I promise.

And talking of books I have to quickly read the memoir, The Very Thought of You by Rosie Alison for our Purplecoo book group.  I have avoided it because I am not in the mood for its subject matter but I must show willing and give an opinion.

A poetry book beckons too as Jo Shapcott has a new volume of poetry out called Mutability (great title).
Here is a taste of it.

Procedure

This tea, this cup of tea, made of leaves,
made of the leaves of herbs and absolute
almond blossom, this tea, is the interpreter
of almond, liquid touchstone which lets us
scent its true taste at last and with a bump
in my case, takes me back to the yellow time
of trouble with blood tests, and cellular
madness, and my presence required
on the slab for surgery, and all that mess
I don't want to comb through here because
it seems, honestly, a trifle now that steam
and scent and strength and steep and infusion
say thank you thank you thank you for the then, and now
Jo Shapcott


I am so enjoying Vexed a  black comedy on TV, on BBC2 on Sunday nights - at last I have found a comedy that actually makes me laugh and smile all the way through, I suspect I may be in a minority here, it is quite dark, very un-politically correct but so very funny.  Some say the acting is bad and the humour cruel but I don’t think they ‘get it’ and personally I think the acting is excellent.  I have yet to read a good review of it but that worries me not a bit, it is my kind of humour.

But I shall end as I began with Connemara and a poem by dear old WBY.

The Fisherman

Although I can see him still—
The freckled man who goes
To a gray place on a hill
In gray Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies—
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.   
All day I'd looked in the face   
What I had hoped it would be   
To write for my own race   
And the reality:   
The living men that I hate,   
The dead man that I loved,   
The craven man in his seat,  
The insolent unreproved—
And no knave brought to book   
Who has won a drunken cheer—
The witty man and his joke  
Aimed at the commonest ear,   
The clever man who cries  
The catch cries of the clown, 
The beating down of the wise  
And great Art beaten down.
Maybe a twelve-month since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face
And gray Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark with froth,
And the down turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream—
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;  
And cried,
“Before I am old  
I shall have written him one   
Poem maybe as cold   
And passionate as the dawn.”
William Butler Yeats

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Ramblings

Dear Diary,

If I am walking with two men each of them will serve as my teacher.

I will pick out the good points of the one

and imitate them

and the bad points of the other

and correct them in myself.

Confucius (c551-478 BC)

I have to post a blog but today’s will be a mish-mash.  Just ramblings, a poem I like, a song, a picture, a quotation....

It’s Wednesday,  a no-work day and today it’s also an unexpectedly free-from-any plans-or-commitments- day, I love those kind of days best but I can’t  make up my mind what to do and the weather can’t either - whether to behave like it is still summer -  or push on with the beginnings of autumn.  The ‘A’ word is on everyone’s lips and in everyone’s writings at the moment, there is definitely something autumnal in the air.  I am a great lover of autumn but even I don’t want her to appear in August for God‘s sake.  I adore Indian summers and we had a great one last year - September and October were lovely.  Today we have had a heavy shower mid-morning and now the sun keeps peeping out and then disappearing again.  But they do say that rain is liquid sunshine don’t they?   I don’t know whether to potter in the garden or stay in and chase a few dead folk on the Ancestry site, something I love to do.

On Monday it was decidedly chilly when I woke up and so I dressed  accordingly, resigning myself to the fact that summer had passed.  We had things to do in Carmarthen and while we were there the temperature reached 27 degrees (!) but  when we arrived back at home it was very much cooler.  It is strange how the temperatures are varying so much at the moment, even within this little country.

I have the DVD of Dragon Tattoo to watch tonight so am looking forward to that.  Also have  the DVD of The Reader with Kate Winslet, somehow I missed seeing that film but a friend has recommended it.

I am now reading Ellis Island by Kate Kerrigan, it was one of the TV Book Club choices on Channel 4, I’m finding it a light but enjoyable read that obviously has resonance for me and my family.  I love the short chapters which are just right when I’m feeling tired and not up to long spells of concentration.

Waiting on my bedside table are In the Kitchen by Monica Ali, a recommendation from a borrower and The Betrayal by Helen Dunmore.  Before I start one of those I have to get back to Rose Tremain’s Trespass which I have started  (it’s very good)  (I always have more than one book on the go).

So I may just curl up after lunch with a book, I am feeling kind of lazy today.  I always feel guilty reading in the daytime, I see it as a night-time things, how weird I am.  Talking of weird  M has hoovered downstairs this morning for some reason - I felt his forehead, no signs of a fever. I should have caught it on camera for you.

I promised a poem, here is one by a poet I admire, Joan McBreen.

Loss

Loss is a handkerchief on blackthorn touched with frost,
the imprint of your feet on sands you have crossed.

Loss is many stations where you waved in the rain,
the spring and summer you will not see again.

Loss is the mother calling the boy who does not reply,
is forked lightning in a summer sky.

Loss is the last page of each book loved,
is in the bedroom curtains that have not moved.

Loss is the black gabardine never returned,
it has no colour – that too is learned.

Loss is a silence you cannot forget,
is tobacco smoke recalled in the lilac garden where we met.


Joan McBreen


David Gray's new CD came out yesterday which is very exciting!   It has a lovely title -  ‘Foundling’ which reminds me I am meant to be visiting the Foundling Museum in London soon.  Would you like to hear the new single from the album?  A Moment Changes Everything - how true that can be.

Bye for now,
Cait

The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo

Dear Diary,

I have just finished reading The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, our book group’s choice for September which was picked by two of our members,  I had never got round to trying it - it was always out (!) and I was getting mixed reports from borrowers who returned the book to the library (but they were mostly very positive).

Before I picked up the Tattoo I had just finished Joseph O'Connor's Ghostlight (and I want to slip in a quick but huge recommendation for this one as his writing is just superb) but the Larsson book couldn't be more different, genre-wise.

I don’t usually go for crime fiction,  mysteries, thrillers, violence or very ‘explicit’ material and would normally avoid them like the plague. This book was all of those but much, much more and it would be fair to say that I cannot recommend it highly enough.  It took a little while to get into as I struggled a bit with its ‘Swedishness’ but I persevered (I had to) and once I was in I was well and truly hooked.   It gripped me so much that whenever I had to put it down I couldn’t wait to get back to it.  The author must have had an amazing gift for writing this sort of book, he certainly had the experience and the knowledge of the world he wrote about.   I won’t give much away in case you haven’t read it but I will say that it is tragic that Stieg Larsson died so suddenly just after handing the three books in to his publisher.  He wrote about the dark side of Swedish life and although he and his partner were said to be receiving constant death threats from extreme racist and far right-wing groups, it appears to be generally accepted that he died of a heart attack after climbing very many stairs (the lift was out of order) to hand in his finished books.

Dragon Tattoo is the first in a trilogy, namely the Millennium Trilogy and the next two titles are The Girl Who Played with Fire and The Girl who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest but you really can read the first as a ‘stand-alone’ title as it ends ‘properly’ with only the characters carrying on into the next books.  I have been told by some people that the first one is not the best so I am really looking forward to numbers 2 & 3 and also to seeing the films.   Dragon Tattoo is out on DVD (I have ordered it from the library) and I believe the second is to be released in cinemas soon.

That’s all for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

PS What are you reading?

Beginnings

I am Eve your mother and I am evolution.
Set a seed in me or about me and it will grow
with just pure belief and hardly any effort
conception can occur.
In your beginnings was a word
and for me the word was pain.
Beginnings can be slow and hesitant,
there is always a weakness born of fragility
and though your own true origins
for decades were withheld from you,
I have to say you come from fertile stock.
Baby seedlings sprout
and so quickly
plants become giants,
for they are our familiars.

Whatever they may be,
seeds of change
seeds of knowledge
or even the seeds of your dreams,
each journey began with me.

In this, your human race.
you think you have striven to learn,
progress, improve, make sense of things;

(Who are you kidding?
can you count the ways you’ve grown?).

for where lies the harvest of your fruitfulness
from my own fecundity?

In essence, do you learn from any of your soul's beginnings?

I think not.

And there’s the pity of it

Cait O’Connor

92

Top of the Hill

Henry, Grace

c.1920

Grace Henry (1868-1953) was born Emily Grace Mitchell in Aberdeen . She studied in Brussels and Paris , where she met the Irish painter, Paul Henry. They married in London in 1903, and after some years in England, moved to Achill Island in 1912. 

Grace Henry’s Top of the Hill, injected with reds and yellows, demonstrates a different interpretation to Paul Henry’s depictions of Achill life. In contrast to The Old Woman, the women in this painting appear less burdened. For a few moments, business is suspended as they enjoy the happy coincidence that finds all three assembled on the top of the hill at the same time – a chance to gossip in peace.

Dear Diary,

 How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were? 

Satchel Paige

There is no such thing as a coincidence, only synchronicity.  So I will start with a new discovery, hot off the press, only just unearthed (thank you dear Internet).  I had intended to put up a pic of Paul Henry's The Old Woman. I never knew Paul Henry's wife Grace was also a painter.  Can you see the similarity in style?  I am excited by this and shall be off later to seek out more such delights as the one above.  Ironically the subject is women gossiping and my post today is on a similar theme.  Not exactly gossiping but definitely three women and a man having a middle of the night chat,

I woke to a bit of a grey day and have to keep telling myself it is only August.  Still it isn’t raining so I may be able to potter in the garden this afternoon.  There is not enough colour there though, never is at this time of year so I may call at a garden centre this week to pick up some autumny flowering specimens - I was getting a few ideas in the Guardian at the weekend.

I have a poem-in-progress which I am going to post today purely to tell you how it came about.  Most poems I write just develop from a line, a word, a seed of an idea or they come to me from who knows where.  This one developed/is developing from a four-way online conversation in the wee small hours recently when I was suffering a bout of insomnia.  The chat was between two people in the UK (one was me obviously) and two in the USA.  I am in a social networking site - I hate that phrase, much prefer group of like-minded friends and no it is not Facebook,  Facebook and I don’t really gel, I don’t know why.

I digress.

We were discussing a 92 year old woman known to the other UK person, I won’t go into details as it is private stuff but it got me thinking and  a dear online friend in the USA used a word which also got me thinking. I returned to bed after an hour of chatting and sipping blueberry tea to relax me - both worked and I was soon asleep.  The next morning, while still in bed I wrote a draft of a poem.

Ninety-two


A child again, in plaits again,
her ringlet-curls have turned to silver-white.
She’s ninety-two and nearly blind of eye,
can hardly see to read or even write.
But she has seen so many  moons
and ridden far too many storms
but settled now with much-loved cat,
a crossword, cocoa and a comfy chair
still nurtures poems in her mind.
She eats and drinks too little, sleeps a lot,
her life has reached the winter Sunday time.
Now everything is fading day by day:
her body’s clock, her strength, her sight, her memory,
her hearing and her hope sometimes
but never does her love or strength of will.
Not done it all but seen it all
she’s fairly snug and safe and (mostly) free of pain.
The hearth contains her world now and the fire her memories,
a wealth therein of earthly dreams, some lost and unfulfilled
but only precious joyous ones are dancing in its flames.
Though many friends have passed her by, gone on ahead,
she sees no sense in being sad or drifting in their wake
but wonders far too often which season’s solstice is to be her very last.
Along with recollections of her past and thoughts of future family,
she feels within her own dried-up and long-forgotten womb
the sudden quickening of death, a line break in a life,
But she is poised, rehearsed and well-prepared for casting-off;
she knows that death, like birth, is just one process leading to the next.
Eternity is beckoning and here is just a stopping-place along the way.

.
Cait O’Connor

That’s all for now,
Life beckons,
Cait

PS How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?

Song for a Sunday

 Mrs McGrath.

Just a song for a Sunday from the excellent Bob Springsteen Seeger Sessions, an uplifting CD if ever there was one. Play it if ever that black dog creeps in and he will soon be banished.  Not this one though, it is an anti-war song and they never disappear, I wish wars would though.


Mrs. McGrath," the sergeant said,
"Would you like a soldier
of your son, Ted?
With a scarlet cloak and a fine cocked hat,
Mrs. McGrath wouldn't you like that?"

Mrs. McGrath lived on the shore
And after seven years or more
she spied a ship come into the bay
with her son from far away

"Oh, Captain dear, where have you been.
Have you been out sailin' on the Mediteren'.
Have you any news of my son Ted.
Is he livin' or is he dead?"

Now came Ted without any legs
And in their place two wooden pegs
She kissed him a dozen times or two
Saying "My God Ted is it you?"

"Now were you drunk or were you blind
When you left your two fine legs behind?
Or was it walking upon the sea
That wore your two fine legs away?"

"No I wasn't drunk and I wasn't blind
When I left my two fine legs behind.
a cannon ball on the fifth of May
Tore my two fine legs away."

"Now Teddy boy," the widow cried
"Your two fine legs was your mother's pride
Them stumps of a tree won't do at all
Why didn't you run from the cannon ball?"

All foreign wars, I do proclaim
Live on blood and a mother's pain
I'd rather have my son as he used to be
than the king of America and his whole navy

Calling Writers

My local writing group, the Irfon Valley Writers are running a creative writing competition which will be judged by the well known poet Ruth Bidgood. 

We are trying to raise funds for promotion of the arts for the children and young people in our area so please have a go and submit an entry if you can, it doesn't cost much to enter for adults and is free for under 16's.

The subject is one close to everybody's heart - it is 'Home' and is in line with this year's National Poetry Day theme.  Entries can be in short story form or a poem.

Details about how to enter and  the rules are on the right of this post.

I do hope you will have a go, there are so many excellent writers out there!.

 Good luck!

Cait.

Artist - Liz Ryan

Colours

In honour and in memory of such a treasured art,
I try my hand, I paint in oils, I sketch in pastels’ harmonies,.
I bathe in abstract colour-blocks, I swim in primaries,
I make escape in water-coloured dreams.

The pictures of my life show many hues.
My Irish blood is always rustic red,
my melancholy Celtic soul is muted blue,
the green folk, those who dwell amongst my kin
are strongly balanced, simply steadfast, made secure,
so all who dance among their calming verdancy
will feel at home, serene and sure.

There have to be some yellows, just to please
as, tinged with joyfulness, they dazzle;
and browns so warm they're silky smooth like chocolate
but sometimes turn the darkest grey,
like sludge, become immutable.

Angelic children bring a lightness in their wake,
they shine with brightness, energy and verve.
I paint them rainbowed, decked with crystals, indigoed,
for only they can lift my spirits high enough to fly
upon their favoured guardian angels’ wings.

They take me to a special place where I can find
that poet’s Irish peace which comes and drops so slow
and soothes the feeble, hopeless efforts
of a would-be artist’s, wild, enchanted heart.


Cait O’Connor

Mini Monet

Dear Diary,

Colour is my day-long obsession, joy and torment.

Claude Monet

I wish I was artistic, I can't even draw stick men properly.  I appreciate all things arty but have no ability in that direction, I often look at my favourites, the Irish artist Paul Henry's paintings and try to imagine how he has created the clouds for example and think I may have a go one day.  I am often tempted to try abstract paintings in blocks of colour as sometimes I feel the need - perhaps I am in need of the qualities of particular colours in my life at certain times.  I do believe in colour therapy, I always wear red shoes, it's an energy thing!

I love impressionist paintings and I have to thank a fellow blogger, Bouddica for introducing me to the boy they are calling Britian’s Mini Monet.

 Kieron Williamson is just seven years old and here are some examples of his work.  When I first saw them all I could say was ‘Wow’.  They are amazing in the true sense of the word because they have been created by a child but they would be outstanding even if an adult had painted them.  Kieron lives in Norfolk which is a part of the UK that has influenced many painters, perhaps it is something to do with the vast skies and the quality of the light there.  But Kieron has surely been born with a precious gift.

This is the young lad's website:

http://kieronwilliamson.com


If you were a colour, what would you be?

That's all,
Bye for now,
Cait

Where are you poem?

Dear Diary

I so want to write a poem. I looked hard to find the poem deep inside but I found nothing but jumble; something needs to be born but is not yet conceived.   I am too much of me and of our fast failing world with all its frantic whirring.  My list of things to do today is frozen on my brain which is like a computer screen that just won’t clear.  Where are you poem?  I know you are there somewhere deep; hiding, crouching low but with your words bound tight like a plant neatly entwined, severely choked by bindweed, a flower so delicate looking but deceptively murderous in its habit.

Last night at midnight I sat upon the window’s seat in my bedroom, the still-close-to-full moon was shining across the river - it was so bright that I had taken it for a light glowing somewhere.  I was hypnotised; I should be used to it by now and even though this time there was no life to be seen moving in the water, only the waves and ripples of the mountain’s stream which glinted and danced as they flowed over the stones, I was still entranced.   I should really have gone out into the garden but was already in my pyjamas.
No excuse that as I do actually own a dressing gown. I should have taken my camera out (note to self - never put off what must be done until tomorrow, only ever put off what can be put off).

I’ll leave you with a poem anyway, one so good that I wish I had written it!  It's  a translation from the Welsh and is still amazing .  I  attended one of her workshops once and happen to know  that she is a Welsh speaker and one of Wales’ top poets.   I hope you like the poem too.

I hope you liked American Tune in my previous post.  In my next post I will tell you why I posted it.

Anyway here is Coupling, a poem about love.


Coupling



Life is a house in ruins. And we mean to fix it up
and make it snug. With our hands we knock it into shape
to the very top. Till beneath this we fasten a roofbeam
that will watch the coming and going of our skyless life,
two crooked segments. They are fitted together,
timbers in concord. Smooth beams, and wide.
Two in touch. That's the craft we nurture in folding
doubled flesh on a frame. Conjoining the smooth couplings
that sometimes arch into one. Aslant above a cold world,
hollow wood wafting passion. Then stock still for a time.
And how clear cut the roof, creaking love at times,
as it chides the worm to keep off and await its turn.

Menna Elfyn

English translation by Joseph Clancy

Bye for now,
Cait