Raglan Road

This is my choice for 'R'.  There were lots to choose from but my love of poetry won out.
It is a fusion of a much-loved poem by a much-loved poet -  put to music and sung with raw emotion by a fine singer, Luke Kelly -  God rest his soul.  I hope you enjoy it too.

Raglan Road

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue; I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way, And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day. On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge, The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay - O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away. I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say. With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay - When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.  Patrick Kavanagh

Que Sera

Up to 'Q' now, nearly finished the alphabet!

I have had a comment saying I seem to be avoiding 'proper blogging' by posting these songs but the majority of people who comment seem to be enjoying them. For me it's a case of having started (the alphabet) so I shall finish but I shall try and do a bit of a blog alongside the song when I have the time. It does actually take a lot of time searching for songs, re-listening to them and deciding on a favourite; any journey into nostalgia can while away the hours whether it is going through old photos (another job waiting for me and I have chestfuls to sort) or listening to old songs again. And they do all seem to be old songs, why is that? Is there no contemporary music with esteem worthy of mention? There is of course and I would love to post some - any suggestions would be very welcome.

The garden has been calling me too and a myriad of other things fight for my attention on my days off. I do long to write my more usual type of blogs again with pictures, poems, photos and of course blessings and I do apologise for their absence. I shall try and make up for it in future posts.

Well Q is a bit of a cop-out I guess. The song does remind me of my childhood but I can't say I love it. I couldn't find anything else, though I expect someone will come up with one and I shall kick myself for not thinking of it.

Here it is anyway, it's a cheerful song for sure so sing along do, I bet you know all the words..  A friend told me only this week  that scientists have recently discovered the benefits to our health of singing and humming - apparently they do wonderful things to the brain and help with problems like anxiety and depression. There does seem to be an upsurge in interest in singing lately.  (I sing all the time but only when there is no-one around.  How about you?).

Enjoy!



Bye for now,
Cait

Love Songs

I spent days thinking I would never find a 'P' song and now I have three! I am posting two of them simply because I know a lot of people dislike Celine Dion but the first is The Power of Love Personally I love her voice and have asked to be able to sing with such power in my next life, that's all, it would do me. I defy anyone to say she cannot sing!

The Eric Clapton song, the very gentle Please Be With Me is an old favourite of mine from one of my favourite albums 461 Ocean Boulevard. It takes me back but it remains a very beautiful song. I hope you enjoy it.

Going back to powerful voices simply raw with emotion. The third song? An absolute classic, it's
Piece of My Heart by Janis Joplin. I haven't posted it but if anyone wants me to I will.

So it's all about love folks - as most songs seem to be: the striving for, the celebration of, or the grieving over its loss.

Enjoy.

(Any suggestions for 'Q'?)




Please Be With Me

Oh my word, what does it mean?
Is it love or is it me
That makes me change so suddenly?
Looking out, feeling free.

Sit here lying in my bed,
Wondering what it was I'd said
That made me think I'd lost my head,
When I knew I lost my heart instead.

Won't you please read my signs, be a gypsy.
Tell me what I hope to find deep within me.
Because you can find my mind, please be with me.

Of all the better things I've heard,
Loving you has made the words
And all the rest seem so absurd,
'Cause in the end it all comes out unsure.

Eric Clapton

On a Bus to St Cloud

On a bus to St. Cloud, Minnesota
I thought I saw you there
With the snow falling down around you
Like a silent prayer
And once on a street in New York City
With the jazz and the sin in the air
And once on a cold L.A. freeway
Going nowhere
And it's strange, but it's true
I was sure it was you
Just a face in the crowd
On a bus to St. Cloud

In a church in downtown New Orleans
I got down on my knees and prayed
And I wept in the arms of Jesus
For the choice you made
We were just gettin' to the good part
Just gettin' past the mystery
Oh, and it's just like you, it's just like you
To disagree
And it's strange but it's true
You just slipped out of view
Like a face in the crowd
On a bus to St. Cloud

And you chase me like a shadow
And you haunt me like a ghost
And I hate you some, and I love you some
But I miss you most...

On a bus to St. Cloud, Minnesota
I thought I saw you there
With the snow falling down around you
Like a silent prayer


Trisha Yearwood

Here sung by Gretchen Peters.
Enjoy:

Nothing Compares to You

The Man With the Child in His Eyes

It's Lola and Layla!

I have taken the liberty of posting two songs for the letter 'L'. One is especially for Frances in New York but I love it too and it certainly takes me back.


LOLA

I met her in a club down in old Soho Where you drink champagne and it tastes just like cherry-cola Coca-Cola] C-O-L-A cola She walked up to me and she asked me to dance I asked her her name and in a DARK BROWN voice she said Lola L-O-L-A Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola Well I'm not the world's most physical guy But when she squeezed me tight she nearly broke my spine Oh my Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola Well I'm not dumb but I can't understand Why she walked like a woman and talked like a man Oh my Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola Well we drank champagne and danced all night Under electric candlelight She picked me up and sat me on her knee And said little boy won't you come home with me Well I'm not the world's most passionate guy But when I looked in her eyes well I almost fell for my Lola Lo-lo-lo-lo Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola I pushed her away I walked to the door I fell to the floor I got down on my knees Well I looked at her and she at me Well that's the way that I want it to stay And I'll always want it to be that way for my Lola Lo-lo-lo-lo Lola Girls will be boys and boys will be girls It's a mixed up muddled up shook up world except for Lola Lo-lo-lo-lo Lola Well I'd left home just a week before And I'd never ever kissed a woman before But Lola smiled and took me by the hand And said little boy I'm gonna make you a man Well I'm not the world's most masculine man But I know what I am and IN BED I'm a man And so is Lola Lo-lo-lo-lo Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola

Enjoy!







I am a huge Clapton fan and this song means a lot to me.

LAYLA


What'll you do when you get lonely
And nobody's waiting by your side?
You've been running and hiding much too long.
You know it's just your foolish pride.

Layla, you've got me on my knees.
Layla, I'm begging, darling please.
Layla, darling won't you ease my worried mind.

I tried to give you consolation
When your old man had let you down.
Like a fool, I fell in love with you,
Turned my whole world upside down.

Let's make the best of the situation
Before I finally go insane.
Please don't say we'll never find a way
And tell me all my love's in vain.

Kathy's Song

This song, 'K' in my alphabet of songs, is from one of the first LP's I ever bought and is one of my favourite Paul Simon songs. He wrote it for Kathleen Mary (which happens to be my name!) who was a girl he met at his first ever gig in England, in Brentwood in Essex. They had a relationship and she went to the USA with him but then returned to England.

Kathy's Song

I hear the drizzle of the rain
Like a memory it falls
Soft and warm continuing
Tapping on my roof and walls.

And from the shelter of my mind
Through the window of my eyes
I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets
To England where my heart lies.

My mind's distracted and diffused
My thoughts are many miles away
They lie with you when you're asleep
And kiss you when you start your day.

And a song I was writing is left undone
I don't know why I spend my time
Writing songs I can't believe
With words that tear and strain to rhyme.

And so you see I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs
The only truth I know is you.

And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I.


Paul Simon

Joan of Arc

'J' was a problem at first. Then I remembered Jealous Guy and the gorgeous Brian Ferry and also Joe Cocker's version. But then I suddenly remembered Joan of Arc - I just hope you can stand a bit more from the genius Leonard Cohen who is one of my favourite poets.

I used to own the tape that this is from and I would play it over and over; now I have the CD and still love it. I love Song of Bernadette too but that might come later, you never know.

I have 'K' all lined up, I can't wait to post that one!

Enjoy!

Joan of Arc

Now the flames they followed Joan of Arc As she came riding through the dark; No moon to keep her armour bright, No man to get her through this very smoky night. She said, I’m tired of the war, I want the kind of work I had before, A wedding dress or something white To wear upon my swollen appetite. Well, I’m glad to hear you talk this way, You know I’ve watched you riding every day And something in me yearns to win Such a cold and lonesome heroine. And who are you? she sternly spoke To the one beneath the smoke. Why, I’m fire, he replied, And I love your solitude, I love your pride. Then fire, make your body cold, I’m going to give you mine to hold, Saying this she climbed inside To be his one, to be his only bride. And deep into his fiery heart He took the dust of Joan of Arc, And high above the wedding guests He hung the ashes of her wedding dress. It was deep into his fiery heart He took the dust of Joan of Arc, And then she clearly understood If he was fire, oh then she must be wood. I saw her wince, I saw her cry, I saw the glory in her eye. Myself I long for love and light, But must it come so cruel, and oh so bright?

I want to know what love is

It's 'I' time.  I  didn't look elsewhere, it has to be this one.

I just love this song, it would be one of my Desert Island Discs.  I know it is really sad but it touches me somewhere deep within which is what music or any form of art should do, don't you think?

I hope you enjoy it too.

'H' for Hallelujah

It has to be Hallelujah for 'H'. I also like Alison Crowe's version of the song but Leonard Cohen (whose words I adore) surely owns it.


Hallelujah


Now I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you
To a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Now maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Is how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
And it's not complaint you hear tonight
And it's not some pilgrim who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Good Vibrations

I'm on a roll now and already have 'H' lined up.
I must contain myself.
Tell me if you like this one.

The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

This is 'F' in my Alphabet of Songs.

Roberta Flack owns this song as far as I am concerned, there is no contest.

Just listen.

The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and stars were the gifts you gave
To the dark and the empty skies, my love,
To the dark and the empty skies.

The first time ever I kissed your mouth
And felt your heart beat close to mine
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That was there at my command, my love
That was there at my command.

And the first time ever I lay with you
I felt your heart so close to mine
And I knew our joy would fill the earth
And last till the end of time my love
It would last till the end of time my love

The first time ever I saw your face, your face,
your face, your face

Ewan McCall

Everytime We Say Goodbye

It's 'E' time for the Alphabet of Songs. It was hard to whittle it down as there were so many good ones.

For example:

Everybody Hurts by REM
Every Day by Buddy Holly
Everything I do, I do it for you by Bryan Adams

Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles
Every breath you take by The Police

and more. When I get to 'Z' (which may be a challenge?) I think I will have to start all over again as there are so many lovely songs out there.

This beautiful song sung by Ella Fitzgerald was Cottage Garden's choice and I must admit I love it too. I always find partings hard, even day to day 'leavings' and this song resonates with me somewhere deep within. I am no fan of goodbyes.

I listened to many versions on YouTube and I stumbled upon a version by Robbie Williams, I am a fan of his and am including it here too.

Enjoy.









Goodbye,
Cait.

Don't let the sun catch you crying

I have not blogged for many days; I apologise. I seem to have been busy with life, the good weather has filled me with energy bringing about a need to spring clean and de-clutter (yet again) and it has also drawn me outside which is not a bad thing. I am continuing my Alphabet of Songs now.

The letter 'D' has been a hard one and in the end I have chosen a song I loved when I was very young. I still love it and think it is underrated. Hope you love it too.

Any ideas for 'E' would be welcomed as I only have one or two ideas so far.

Don't let the sun catch you crying.
Bye for now,
Cait.

Democracy



Someone said there could be a Hung Parliament.
Someone else said ‘Who shall we string up first?’
The warmonger Blair or the liars,
the money-grabbers or the thieves,
the gamblers or the swindlers,
the bleeders or the cheats?

The con-men in the background? Men in black?
Spin-artists, brain-washers and blackmailers?
Or the handful of token females who crept around or simpered
with those feeble and spineless Yes-Men in their wake,
eyes only on a place in some future Cabinet?

To whom shall we grant a pardon?
Who shall we parade and proudly honour
for their brave forthrightness and their honesty?
(Answers on a postcard please, but don’t all rush).

Or shall I see you at the polling station,
an eager pencil in your hand,
itching just to make your little mark
to the Left or to the Right
or even in some real or just-imagined,
one-time-believed-in-and-hoped-for Middle Way?

As if there was a choice.

As if you had a voice.

Democracy?

They’re having a laugh aren’t they?



Cait O’Connor

Doves' resurrection

Doves’ resurrection


A pair of collared doves are nesting in the pine again;
one of the giants, a Scottish one of three,
planted ages past in someone’s sweet sad memory.
In only days gone past I have watched these birds
courting and cavorting at the river’s edge
but it is Nature’s mating dance and I can only peek.
I lay hidden now, a secret within my own nest,
peering outward through the tiny cottage window.
I see them later, landing on the branches,
creeping stealthily amongst the fronds of green,
seemingly safe and protected, (I hope all will be well).
They know not that I am there each morning
like a spy, watching, waiting for what might be new life signs.
And I wonder on this Easter Day
as I lie low - what looks in on me?
And I pray for resurrection for this world.


Cait O’Connor

Alphabet of Songs 'C'

Dear Diary,

Well it is time for ‘C’.

I had suggestions from Pamela for Caledonia which I am ashamed to say I had never heard before but as I am Irish not Scottish I feel I cannot pick that one and she and another also suggested Catch the Wind by Donovan (I love that one).

I had a great Kinks song suggested too (Come Dancing) and another song I had never heard of called Calling All Angels.

I love Candy by the fantastic Paolo Nutini (and my son sings it beautifully too).

A dear friend suggested California Dreaming, oh it is so hard to choose.

I came up with Candle in the Wind as I an a fan of Elton and especially Bernie Taupin's lyrics but it’s a bit ‘obvious’ I suppose. I like La Cienega smiled too by Ryan Adams but I guess that is an ’L’ not a ‘C’.

I asked M for a suggestion last night and straightaway he suggested this song which I adore.

Can’t Help Falling in Love with You!
(Where did that come from?).

(I was worried the song starts with an ‘I’ but it doesn’t).

There are three cracking versions on YouTube in my opinion:

Elvis of course - the song IS Elvis’s really don’t you think?

Celine Dion - I had never heard her sing it before and I was blown away by her unique rendition. I have already asked in my next life to have a really lovely singing voice and to possess the power that Celine has in her voice.

Finally I stumbled upon Andrea Bocelli’s version. I already LOVE this man’s voice and I must admit that only this version brought a tear to my eye.

So I am posting all three and would love you to vote for your favourite. Or do tell me if you have any other ‘C’ suggestions.

(Sorry about the big gaps between videos, had a bit of trouble posting).


















































Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Alphabet of Songs 'B'

Dear Diary,

Here is the next song as promised in my last post. I did like the suggestions given, Bird on a Wire, Beautiful Day and Blackbird but in the end I picked a very old favourite of mine.

Well I promised a ‘B’ and there are two in this one. Another beautiful song with great lyrics sung by the great singer, Emmylou Harris. Boulder to Birmingham.

The lyrics follow below.





Boulder to Birmingham


I don't want to hear a love song
I got on this airplane just to fly
And I know there's life below
But all that it can show me
Is the prairie and the sky
And I don't want to hear a sad story
Full of heartbreak and desire
The last time I felt like this
It was in the wilderness and the canyon was on fire
And I stood on the mountain in the night and I watched it burn
I watched it burn, I watched it burn.
I would rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham
I would hold my life in his saving grace.
I would walk all the way from Boulder to Birmingham
If I thought I could see, I could see your face.
Well you really got me this time
And the hardest part is knowing I'll survive.
I have come to listen for the sound
Of the trucks as they move down
Out on ninety five
And pretend that it's the ocean
coming down to wash me clean, to wash me clean
Baby do you know what I mean
I would rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham
I would hold my life in his saving grace.
I would walk all the way from Boulder to Birmingham
If I thought I could see, I could see your face.

I hope you liked 'B'.

Any suggestions for a 'C' song?

Let me know.
Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Angel of the morning

Dear Diary,

I have just borrowed a book from the library, it is Time Out’s 1000 songs to change your life.  I am going to blog some of my favourite songs that jump out at me, maybe one each day, from A-Z and today I am starting with the letter ‘A’.  This first one is an all-time big favourite song of mine from way back, it is Angel Of The Morning, sung here by Juice Newton, I hope you enjoy the video. There were several good versions of the song by different artists on YouTube but after much deliberation I eventually picked this one.

I have been feeling a need for flowers lately, haven’t we all?  This video has some beautiful close-ups of all different kinds which  I hope will make for you a visual as well as an audible delight.  The song may be a tribute to a one-night stand but I think it is such a beautiful piece of music.

Angel of the Morning

There'll be no strings to bind your hands
Not if my love can't bind your heart
And there's no need to take a stand
For it was I who chose to start
I see no need to take me home
I'm old enough to face the dawn

Just call me angel of the morning, angel
Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby
Just call me angel of the morning, angel
Then slowly turn away from me

Maybe the sun's light will be dim
It won't matter anyhow
If morning's echo says we've sinned
Well, it was what I wanted now
And if we're victims of the night I
won't be blinded by the light

Just call me angel of the morning, angel
Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby
Just call me angel of the morning, angel
Then slowly turn away from me

I won't beg you to stay with me
Through the tears of the day
Of the years, baby

Just call me angel of the morning, angel
Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby
Just call me angel of the morning, angel


Then slowly turn away from me

Chip Taylor

Bet you can’t wait to see what the letter B will bring.  Any suggestions?

Bye for now,
Cait.

Nightfall

Nightfall


I shall burst if I don’t write a poem

but all too soon the day will waver,
night will quickly fall and the hours will darkly pass
and though my bed is calling I am far too wide awake
and cannot fall or even falter as it beckons.
As I undress, sparks fly off me in the dark and they dissolve.
I wonder where they go and start to dream…

I shall burst if I don’t write a poem


My unwritten words are electron-charged,
such is their yearning to be borne.
There are whirling echoes in each conscious moment
as the questions swirl around inside my head.
Are the ways of night just an ending to a day?
Is slumber a kind of journey to another realm?
Or is it all Just a Dream?
Is our dream-life Life itself and daytime our life’s dreaming?
Do I dream you and you dream me?
Is it all about the waking or the sleeping?
The thinking or the scheming?
Is it all about writing, dreaming or just being?

I shall burst if I don’t write a poem.


Cait O’Connor

Saturday Poem

Moles



Humans, like frozen driftwood, have been in disarray
but it is a good year for the snowdrops
which have blossomed and have thrived amongst the snow,
bringing only joy; a sign of spring, a flash of hope,
a fillip for our jaded, over-wintered souls.
Beneath my frozen ground are really far too many moles;
furry illegal immigrants with their really tiny hearts
that are surely gentle and as soft as their coats.
I cherish them, ignoring their giant hills of dark black earth
which cover nearly all the garden and beyond.
Pitying their homelessness, their temporary state,
I treat them just as guests,
for like all vagrants they must be forever on the move
and are always made unwelcome in our cruelly human world.
They seem to be just pausing for a while and taking stock,
gaining some ground, but always losing more,
quietly hidden and hurting no-one.

Cait O'Connor

Fun on Friday

Dear Diary,

It's Friday so time for a bit of fun. I was going to do a serious blog but that can wait. I have just done some skool homework for Purplecoo and so I am posting it here. Why don't you have ago too and let me know if you do.

My favourite time of the day or night is evening, night, bedtime. I am NOT a morning person.

Favourite day of the week is Sunday.

My favourite month of the year is May.

The worst meal anyone could put in front of me is a mix of avocado, aubergines and anchovies with olives.

Today I must do.... Spring cleaning!

If I had to spend an hour locked in a lift I'd like to be with.... (would you change this if it was four hours? No. Tony Benn,.

If you looked in my loft you'd find... I haven’t got a loft.

One drink for the rest of your life - what would it be? (you can have water also) - Cranberry juice.

The colour I think I look best in is... Blues

I wish I knew..... The meaning of life

My favourite song of all time is ...... I can’t choose just one, sorry. Imagine by John Lennon would be a good anthem.

Have you ever had a lucky find? What was it? - I traced my (late) father on the net, would that count? Have never found anything tangible.

My favourite precious stone is..... Rose quartz and amethyst.

My 4 grandparents names were.....Daniel and Catherine, Thomas and Gladys and my 8 great-grandparents names were.... Mary Ann and Henry, Thomas and Ellen, John and Bridget and Stephen and Ellen.

My homework idea to use is... Write your own manifesto for the forthcoming election. And we can see who would get the most votes.

My quick dessert recipe is.... Something with raspberries, digestive biscuits, brown sugar/cinnamon and cream.

On my bedside wooden chair which serves as a table are books, books and more books. A few favourite poetry books. A book clip on type light which is fantastic - I highly recommend it. Always a notebook and pen, tissues.

In a perfect world I'd have a .... self-cleaning house, a non-ageing/getting ill body.

I'm looking forward to .... Every day.

Favourite chore/most hated chore? - I was only talking about this yesterday. Cleaning the fridge and the oven. I love hanging out washing, lighting fires, opening windows to let bad energies out and good ones in…….

St Patrick's Day

A traditional Irish blessing

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

May God be with you and bless you:
May you see your children's children.
May you be poor in misfortune,
Rich in blessings.
May you know nothing but happiness
From this day forward.

May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home
And may the hand of a friend always be near.

May green be the grass you walk on,
May blue be the skies above you,
May pure be the joys that surround you,
May true be the hearts that love you.


Before I go

here

just for me

a favourite song from a favourite singer.

Enjoy.

Signs of Spring?

Dear Diary,

Happy Mother's Day

I carry from my mother's womb a fanatic's heart.

 William Butler Yeats

This could be the first day of Spring.  The wind has lessened and has lost its cruel bite and the Sun has such warmth in it.  I have been doing a spot of spring cleaning indoors and a bit of sweeping outdoors so I am feeling pretty smug now but a wee bit worn out.  Time for a quick blog before I cook,

Blessings have been absent far too long.  Well not absent but have not been noted here.  Here are five just for today.

Sunshine, spring weather. 
Goes without saying really, I am rather repeating myself.

Free logs.  Our local forestry angel felled a dying ash tree for us and we now have plenty of free wood.  The tree was right on the edge of the riverbank and was leaning rather -  so much so that had it fallen it could have blocked the flow of the river.  Not a nice thought should it flood again.  Nothing pleases me more than the sight of a load of new logs and free ones are even more pleasing to behold.

I bought myself a bunch of daffodils on Friday for 99p.  I have them on my desk and they are so cheering, they were only in bud but have opened now into those lovely big old--fashioned blooms.  At work I have on the counter a little pot of miniature ones, narcissi probably and I noticed that one or two have twin flowers on one stem - I have never seem that before.

Ireland won the rugby yesterday!  Sorry Wales.

*

Having read two really good novels recently I am seeking suggestions for a good novel to read..  I have tried one or two but they have not gripped me.  Any suggestions welcome.  I need a good book to live in.

I have rediscovered Delia Smith lately.  In the absence of a mother to do so, Delia did rather teach me to cook  many years ago and I am still impressed by her.  I call her St Delia.    Her recipes never fail and always taste delicious.  I dip into her website when I am brain dead and can’t think of what to eat or what to cook. She has many wonderful suggestions and recipes for almost everything you can think of.  The site comes in handy when I am doing a shopping list.

Talking of shopping I have a bit of a wish list.  I am coveting a carpet bag even though I already have one and I am wanting to buy tops of  (tiny) floral prints _ I am sure it is the need for spring flowers manifesting itself.  I am also wanting to fill the cottage with scent, it may have to be candles instead of flowers.  I guess I just can‘t wait for summer.

I watched a good film last night.  Disney for grown ups really.  It was ‘Up’ and was really enjoyable, if you haven’t seen it try and catch it because it is really one for oldies.  Quite moving and works on several levels if you get me.  I have The Hurt Locker to watch next, that will be a different film altogether. 

Well that’s all for now, I have to go and cook.

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

. 

Letter to Jack Frost

Dear Jack.

You looked so cool in your white suit and in the beginning I must admit that you bewitched me with your wintry charms.

Your ways with magic led me down paths to cosiness and sweet hibernation,

I watched you endlessly from my windows and lost myself in your beauty.

I believed your promises of snow-to-come and you did not let me down.
And I revelled in the blizzards and snowed-in days of laziness cut off from humankind with only dogs, books and warm log fires for company and hot soups, stews and toddies. 
(ah the toddies…).

In truth though you are a cruelly harsh and unforgiving guest who has stayed too long.
(Why do you stay so long?)

The ground you whitened is so hard and there is just no release from your stone-like icy clutch.  Beloved birds have perished at your feet, as have frogs and toads, the young, the old. 

Faded away to sleep in a long, long cold. 

Depression is rife, there is some sort of epidemic in these parts.
It is a blight of the blues where only sadness rules.

I am sated now, you have worn me down, tired me out with your coldness
You have frozen me so that I am chilled through down to the very bone,
chilled and dulled, but I really should have known that was always your intention.
 Just to freeze.

On top of everything I am now poverty-stricken, (sky-high bills for fuel) and worn out with fetching and carrying all those logs to burn, ashes to empty, hearths to clean.

Your hoarfrost images of beauty will stay an imprint  in my memory; those trees and fields in all their splendour, I hope they come again.

But now a new love beckons; she is called Spring and she is warm and forgiving. Her charms will beat yours hands down.  They are endless.

So am I fickle?  Yes maybe I am. 
But all my passion for you is spent.

I am bored with the ways of Winter.

This is goodbye.

Trelystan

The church at Trelystan

Friday was a day for much looked forward to meet-up of a dozen Purplecoo folk and began with a nice lunch around a huge circular table in a pleasant pub in Shropshire followed by a visit to the nearby little church of St Mary's in Trelystan which sits alone on a hill, beside two ancient yews in the middle of a field and with views to die for.

I shall remember this day for its sunshine, its wealth of snowdrops, its icy wind and the lovely warmth from the people I met for the very first time after having only known them over the Internet.

There are a couple more photos on my photo blog.

The Lost Children

Dear Diary,

I was going to post just a poem, a picture, a song and a  thought for the day.

I was going to have a little rant about the media’s obsession with so called celebrity’s divorces.

Other things are on my mind. 

On this days of apologies there will be a lot of tears being shed all over the world.  My thoughts are of all lost children wherever they are.

I copied this from a CBS website.  I make no apologies.   Their story needs to be told.


Feb. 3, 2002
The Lost Children

It's a mind-boggling story, one that sounds more like a bad movie than reality. But it happened. In the two decades after World War II, 10,000 English children were sent to Australia, reports 60 Minutes II Correspondent Bob Simon. Many were mistreated and abused. All were lied to.


The story begins in Britain after World War II - a nation victorious but battered, broke, and burdened by overflowing children's homes. Many of the kids were put there by families too poor to raise them. What happened next is almost unfathomable in civilized countries or in modern times.
The British government, in collaboration with churches and charities, developed a secret plan to clear out these children's homes; a plan which has only recently been uncovered. The kids were told that they would be adopted by loving families in Australia. And they were shipped off by the thousands. It was as simple as that.

The first ship to sail in 1947 was the SS Asturias. Cargo: 147 boys and girls. John Hennessy, 11 years old at the time, was one of those children. Only a few weeks before it sailed, some priests and bureaucrats showed up at his children's institution in England. They were rounding up kids to go to Australia.

"We thought Australia was down the street or it was around the corner," says Hennessy. "How did we know it was on the other side of the world? Well, anyway, they, they came with the stories, you know, that there's fruits there, plenty of fruits."

Like many children, Mary Molloy didn't quite grasp what was being proposed: "I just thought, you know, we're going away for a while."

All across Britain, at children's homes and institutions, kids were being told the same thing: you're going to a new land, a new life, a new family. Many were illegitimate children. Many were dropped off by single mothers who'd fallen on hard times.

But that's not what the kids were told. Tony Jones, who at the time was in a boys' home in Malvern, England, was told that his parents had died: "They said, 'You're an orphan now.' And I was an orphan."

That's what they told all the kids, that they were orphans. That there was nobody for them in Britain.

Over the next 20 years, 10,000 children, somas young as 3, none older than 15, would depart unaccompanied for their new homes in Australia.

Six weeks and 12,000 miles later, the children arrived at the Fremantle docks in Western Australia. They looked around for the fruit trees, the kangaroos, the adoptive families they were told would be waiting for them. But there was none of that here. There was something quite different.

Not long after they disembarked, they received a lecture from a man in black, the archbishop of Perth.

Hennessy remembers the man's speech: "He said, 'We welcome you to Australia. We need you for white stock.' Because at this stage, the 'white Australia' policy was on. And we didn't know that we were part of the scheme to - to populate Australia with the - the white people. And the archbishop says, 'The reason why we do [is] because we are terrified of the Asian hordes!' Course, we didn't understand that."

These children were a commodity to a continent that was terrified of being overwhelmed by Asia. They had, in essence, been exported by a nation that had a surplus of white people.

Afterwards, the children's fingerprints were taken and they were herded into lines. Says Hennessy: "They grabbed the girls from their brothers. Brothers from their sisters, screaming. And I can still hear the screams today."

These children, who'd been plucked from institutions in Britain, were now trucked to all over Australia. Where? To institutions. No parents were waiting for them - just picks and shovels.

John Hennessy was sent to a place called Bindoon, an institution run by the Christian Brothers, an order of Catholic monks 60 miles from civilization in the sweltering bushland of Western Australia. Bindoon was a home and school for boys. But this was no Boys Town, and education was not the priority.

The priority was construction. Brother Francis Keaney, an imposing, white-haired Irishman who ran the place, was obsessed with building the largest Catholic institution in Western Australia. He used his charges as labor. From sunrise to sunset, the boys built Brother Keaney's shrine, with no shoes, and no questions asked.

Bindoon is a real school now, an agricultural college. But it's still run by the Christian Brothers. And old boys are not welcome, particularly not when they're accompanied by newsmen. When Bob Simon went back with Hennessy, who helped build Bindoon, they were kicked off the premises. The Christian Brothers are not eager to showcase their past as users and abusers of child labor.

"They got us dirt cheap," says Norman Johnston, another boy who helped build Bindoon. "We might as well have been slaves. And, you know, we endured all of that when we didn't have to."

For these children, there was nowhere to run. At the Fairbridge institution, sponsored by the Church of England, Tony Jones tried to escape whenever he could. He once made it as far as the docks where the children had first arrived.

Says ones: "I got down to the beach. I remember looking all over the ocean, and I asked this couple, 'Which way is England?' If there was land all the way across, I would have walked there. I would have walked there."

The food at the institutions seemed to have been cooked up in a Dickens novel. At Bindoon, the boys were so hungry one Sunday, 12-year-old John Hennessy led a raid on the vineyard out back. They enjoyed their grapes, but after mass the next morning, Brother Keaney was in a rage. He'd learned of the raid, and he called out for his leading suspect.

Then the man whipped him. "He stripped me naked," he says. "In front of 50 boys, put me across the chair and nearly flogged me to death. I've-I've-I've got medical advice that that's where I got the stutter from." He had never stuttered before that day, and has ever since.

The children say that floggings and beatings were part of a daily routine. The nightly routine with the Christian Brothers included priestly visits to the children's beds. The brothers were taking away boys who were less than 10 years old.

Hugh McConnell was 9 years old. One night, a bad storm hit Castledare, his children's home run by the Christian Brothers. Terrified that the world was coming to an end, Hugh ran outside and hid under a tree, where a Christian Brother found him. The man invited McConnell into his bed, where the boy fell asleep quickly. Later that night, the priest raped him.

There was no one to go to. Certainly not the Australian government, which was the legal guardian of the children. "The state supposedly were to be looking after us," says Johnston. "In the nine years I was institutionalized in Australia, I have never been spoken to by a child welfare officer. These Christian Brothers had us for what they wanted in those institutions. And they did with us what they would."

The head of the Christian Brothers in Western Australia, Tony Shanahan, admits that there was abuse, but he also suggests that some of the stories may have been exaggerated. A British government inquiry last year was more critical, saying that what happened at institutions run by the Christian Brothers in Western Australia was of "a quite exceptional depravity."

In 1993, the Christian Brothers, responding to a lawsuit, officially apologized to the child migrants and paid reparations totalling $2.5 million dollars to 250 who'd been abused at their institutions. The girls, who'd been sent to different places, suffered very little sexual abuse compared to the boys, but many were beaten, and all were exploited as free labour.

The shipments of both boys and girls stopped suddenly in 1967. The British simply didn't have any more children available for export.

But the 10,000 already in Australia? Only five - not 5,000 - were ever adopted. Few had birth certificates or documents of any kind. It seems their motherland wanted them to disappear without a trace.

Mary Molloy grew up in an institution outside Sydney. When she graduated into the real world and applied for a passport, she was in for a surprise.

"The only way I could get a passport was to become a naturalized Australian," says Molloy. "I thought I was. Now, to me, that was crazy. I've been out here since I was 9. I was brought out here. And yet, I wasn't acknowledged as an Australian. And yet, according to Britain, I didn't live there anymore. So, where was I?"

For decades, Britain was able to forget about the children it threw away. For decades, the children believed what they were told, that they were orphans.

But just a few years ago, these lost children - now lost adults scattered all over Australia - were stunned to learn that none of this was true. They weren't orphans at all.

The governments of Great Britain and Australia, the Catholic Church and the Church of England had not only exploited and abused these 10,000. They had conned the kids for 50 years.


Not only had these lost children been shipped 12,000 miles from Britain to the bottom of the world. Not only had they been exploited and abused. They had been deceived.

They weren't orphans. They had families back in Britain, families which had dropped them off at institutions with every intention of getting them back.

When Tony Jones discovered that his mother was still alive in England, he was shocked: "All them years, and they didn't even tell me I had a family?" he says.

Too poor to care for him, Maud Jones had placed Tony in a children's home in England after she divorced his father. She never gave consent for Tony to be shipped to Australia. She was never even asked.

It took Jones months to save enough money to return home to see his mom. Their reunion was set for the middle of January 1993. But she died just two weeks before that.

Jones went back for the funeral. "I saw my mother in the coffin," he says. "It's the most heartbreaking time of my life. And they knew she was alive. They knew. Bastards."

When he was a boy, the Church of England told him his parents were dead. That was a lie. When he grew up, the British and Australian governments told him his records didn't exist. That was another lie. And Tony Jones was far from alone.

That was the conclusion reached by Margaret Humphreys, an English social worker who began lifting the lid on this sordid chapter in Britain's history.

Humphreys stumbled upon the story accidentally when one of her clients insisted that her younger brother had been put on a boat to Australia as a child. Humphreys set up an organization called the Child Migrants Trust to help the children find their birth certificates, their parents and their past.

The trust bought copies of every birth, marriage and death certificate in England dating back to 1890, a total of more than 100 million documents on microfilm.

It was the database for a desperate search. Of the 10,000 child migrants, Humphreys and her staff could find only one who was actually an orphan. Month after month, year after year, they found more and more parents alive in Britain.

"The astonishing thing was that they had no idea that their children had been sent to Australia," says Humphreys. "They had not signed any papers for adoption or migration. And for most of them, they had gone back to collect, to reclaim, their children - to bring them home."

"They went to bring them back home to their families - to be told, and given explanations like, your son or daughter's been placed with a very loving family in England. They're very happy. We're not going to disturb them now. You did your best for them. Goodbye," she says.

As a child, Mary Molloy had also been told her mother was dead. But Humphreys and her team couldn't find a death certificate for her mother, May Fitzgerald. They continued searching, and last December, Humphreys flew to Sydney to give Molloy some startling news. Her mother was alive.

Molloy was ecstatic. "It's incredible. I mean, everything's based on a lie, right from the beginning. It's just one lousy lie," says Molloy, breaking down as she says it.

Her mother had been lied to by the priests. As a single mother, . Fitzgerald had placed her daughter in a Catholic children's home. A year later, she told the home she wanted Mary back, but was informed that her daughter was being adopted. Fitzgerald fired off a telegram telling the priests to stop the adoption, but was told it was too late.

A few weeks ago, Mary Molloy packed for an improbable journey back in time. For nearly a half century, ever since she had been put on a boat to Australia, she had thought of herself as a war orphan. Now it was time for Molloy to be a child again, and for 80-year-old May Fitzgerald to be a mother again.

Accompanied by her daughter Beverly and family friends, Molloy left Sydney for a 22-hour trip to Dublin to meet her mom.

Can you call it lucky to meet your mother when you're 55 years old? In terms of these child migrants, the answer is yes. In terms of the 10,000, Molloy was one of the lucky few.

Humphreys says that many thousands of these "orphans" have not yet found their parents. And as both parents and children age, time is running out.

Help from the Australian government hasn't been forthcoming. The nation that so desperately wanted white stock has never offered the mildest mea culpa for its treatment of the children.

When Philip Ruddock, the Australian minister of immigration, is asked why the Australian government hasn't apologized, "I don't know what we would be necessarily apologizing for," he says.

"What we sought to do in Australia was to provide an environment in which young people who were brought here and chosen by a government abroad were given opportunities for a new life. And many have had that opportunity," he says.

Ruddock says that he isn't sure that the horrible stories he's heard are really true.

As for Great Britain, the country that deported its kids in the first place, there has been a vast silence ever since the children sailed off.

Humphreys says she finds that people are not interested. "They didn't help, and they didn't want to know," she says. "You see, these children left our shores, and it was almost as if they left our consciousness. They'd gone.""

Who in the British government knew the children were being shipped to Australia? David Hinchcliffe, a member of Parliament and the leader of a British government inquiry into the scheme, believes that many high-level officials - including the prime minister, the archbishops, possibly even the queen - probably knew about the scheme.

So if the prime minister knew, and Parliament knew, and if the queen knew, one would've expected something resembling an official apology to the thousands of abandoned children. But in fact, no one in Downing Street, or in thHouse of Commons or for that matter at Buckingham Palace has apologized.

The best the British could come up with after 50 years was to acknowledge in 2000 that the scheme was misguided. It also set up a travel fund for the children to return home for family reunions.

But as of yet, no money has been made available. That's why 60 Minutes II paid Mary Molloy's airfare so she could be united with her mother in Ireland.

Their meeting was deeply emotional. As they met, Fitzgerald was overwhelmed: "Oh God. Oh God. I never forget you. Never. I always knew some day you'd come back. I don't want ever to let you go now….You're just the same as I thought you'd be. I'd know you if I met you in the street. I'd know you were mine."

Around the age of 50 many lose our parents and become orphans. In Molloy's case, that natural order was reversed. And she will stay in her mother's arms happily for a while, until she contemplates what could have been, the enormity of what was taken away.

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Jewels

Dear Diary,

She came with her cushion
to the cliffs. She sat
strained in the wind
in a pink old-fashioned hat.

Alice Oswald

What have you found today?

So far I have found sunshine even though it is still very cold outside and there is such a cruel and biting wind but I have tasted the sweetness that is warm friendship which is a blessing in itself. I even found it in the early hours when I logged on to Purplecoo - there are usually folk around to chat to on there when one is suffering from insomnia. Some members are from across the globe and I had a wee chat with a few online friends and even learned that New York was snow-covered and also heard some nice soothing music which was just what I needed.

Who was the writer who said friends are the jewels I keep inside my head? I heard these lines on the radio recently, it may have been on Poetry Please on dear old Radio 4. That radio station is like a true friend don’t you think? I can’t imagine life without it. As someone said to me recently they could live with out TV but they couldn’t cope without the radio. I agreed. Then this morning I heard by email from another dear friend and also from my sister and then I spoke to my daughter on the phone. Small things make such a difference.

But there is another find and it still only mid-morning! I am so pleased to have found this new poem. I borrowed the book from the library because I always check out all their new poetry acquisitions and I pounced on this one as Alice Oswald is one of my favourite poets. It is a beautiful book.

Weeds and Wild Flowers
Poems by Alice Oswald
Etchings by Jessica Greenman.

Thrift is one of my much-loved plants, I love its shade of dusky pink and its air of sweet delicacy but also admire its toughness and persistence; its habit of flourishing in the most dry and unpromising situations.


Thrift


Born by the sea.
Used to its no-hope moan.
Forty or thereabouts.
Lived on her own.

Heaved a small sigh.
With a handful of stone
to get started,
she saved up for the rain.

She came with her cushion
to the cliffs. She sat
strained in the wind
in a pink old-fashioned hat.

No prospect
but the plunge of the beach.
All except nodding,
no speech.

But she worked she worked
to the factory rhythm
of the sea’s boredom.
Its bouts of atheism.

And by the weekend
set up a stall
of paper flowers.
And sold them all.

So she made substance out of
lack of substance.
Hard of hearing,
She thrived on silence.

Alice Oswald

Do you ever read a poem or a piece of prose and the words strike such a cord that you think Oh I wish I had written that, do you ever feel that those words were within you somewhere and that someone else has somehow resurrected them? Could it be linked to the idea of there being a Universal Consciousness? I think it might. Do you even understand what I am trying to say, probably not as I am not explaining myself very well.

I am only half way through the book so there are sure to be more gems within it; the etchings are pretty too, I am fan of etchings.

That’s all so far, I shall return to you if more bounty is uncovered as the day passes.

I hope you find some pieces of treasure today, do let me know if you do.

Take care,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

The F-Word

Dear Diary

Mind is the master power that moulds and makes,
And we are Mind, and evermore we take
The tool of thought, and shaping what we will,
Bring forth a thousand joys, a thousand ills,
We think in secret, and it comes to pass -
Our world is but our looking glass.

James Allen

Flip It.

I read a bit about this book in Amazon’s Bestsellers recently.

I read about it; haven’t actually even seen it and we don’t have it in the library but I like the ideas contained within it. The F word has been running in my brain since I discovered it. No not that F word even though I have had cause to use that one this weekend but am unable to blog about it here. I can’t blog about it but I have thought about it and maybe this book’s philosophy has reminded me of what I believe anyway and it has spurred me on in a direction that perhaps I should have taken long ago.

But hey ho, I can’t help but be happy today, it is a Sunday and there is something about this day that always puts me in a happy frame. Even if it’s a bit damp and cloudy and not very warm, the snowdrops are out and Spring can’t be too far away. There are buds-a-plenty in the garden, the daffodils are rising, the snow has gone and the birds are at ease once again.

I digress..

Flipping, now that used to be a teeny bit of a swear word in my youth. Probably like feckin it was a more acceptable word to band about than the unspoken F word . Funny how words can carry so much emotion, a good thing though or I wouldn’t love poetry so much.

So it’s all down to turning negatives into positives and how we should and could do that to make life better. Simple when you say it like that but not always easy in practice. But I am thinking of it and making lists helps. Write down all the negatives in your life at the moment and then re-write them (and the script) in a positive light. Ask yourself open ended questions that invite a positive proactive response, it is quite fun when you start. One door closes another one opens, that sort of thing. You may find it nauseating, you may not. But the Greek word crisis means opportunity and that is how I like to see it.

Before I go here is a poem, totally unrelated but I like it. It somehow suit’s a Sunday.

The Superwoman


What will the superwoman be, of whom we sing -
She who is coming over the dim border
Of Far To-morrow, after earth’s disorder
Is tidied up by Time? What will she bring
To make life better on tempestuous earth?
How will her worth
Be greater than her forbears? What new power
Within her being will burst into flower?
She will bring beauty, not the transient dower
Of adolescence which departs with youth -
But beauty based on knowledge of the truth
Of its eternal message and the source
Of all its potent force.
Her outer being by the inner thought
Shall into lasting loveliness be wrought.
She will bring virtue; but it will not be
The pale, white blossom of cold chastity
Which hides a barren heart. She will be human -
Not saint or angel, but the superwoman -
Mother and mate and friend of superman.
She will bring strength to aid the larger Plan,
Wisdom and strength and sweetness all combined,
Drawn from the Cosmic Mind -
Wisdom to act, strength to attain,
And sweetness that finds growth in joy or pain.
She will bring that large virtue, self-control,
And cherish it as her supremest treasure.
Not at the call of sense or for man’s pleasure
Will she invite from space an embryo soul,
To live on earth again in mortal fashion,
Unless love stirs her with divinest passion.
To motherhood she will bring common sense -
That most uncommon virtue. She will give
Love that is more than she-wolf violence
(Which slaughters others that its own may live).
Love that will help each little tendril mind
To grow and climb;
Love that will know the lordliest use of Time
In training human egos to be kind.
She will be formed to guide, but not to lead -
Leaders are ever lonely - and her sphere
Will be that of the comrade and the mate,
Loved, loving, and with insight fine and clear,
Which casts its searchlight on the course of fate,
And to the leaders says, ‘Proceed’ or ‘Wait.’
And best of all, she will bring holy faith
To penetrate the shadowy world of death,
And show the road beyond it, bright and broad,
That leads straight up to God.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Well that’s enough for today, I have a lunch to cook, a log- fire to sit by, a Sunday paper to read and more writing tasks await.

I hope you have a great Sunday!
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait