Philip Pullman's Speech

Leave the libraries alone. You don’t understand their value. Blog False Economy


This is something that should be read by all who love books, all who love libraries.

Read and pass it on if you are moved by Philip Pullman's heartfelt speech.

Hope

Hope -  The artist is George Frederick Watts RA

1817-1904

This is Barack Obama's favourite painting and I have to say I love it very much too.

Hope




Hope lives in silence,

his face so often obscured

in low-slung shadows, esconced in sunbeams.

Such peace; like a silent order, save for birdsong

and its new day’s heartfelt repetitions.

Yesterday a white down feather lay upon a loved one’s shoulder,

while a black cat slinked, ghost-like, past French windows in our view;

(today, two magpies graze the garden).

Late, summer-scented, sudden and secret, a swift rain shower descends,

falling vertically, innocently unaware, unabashed by the sunlight

which is understated; warm but not yet bright.

Verging on unnoticed, to me it is a treasure,

unfolding a promise of persistence.

Positivity comes as its gift, unwrapping itself

in an August rainbow, just for you and me,

something you might dream of in some future winter.



Cait O’Connor

Jorg Luis Borges, the Argentine poet.........

You've probably seen on the Google home page that it is his 112th birthday today;  here is one of his quotes and a sweetish poem. I think I have blogged a poem by him in a previous post but my Google (blog) Search button is not working for me. Perhaps some kind soul could check and see if it works for you? My new computer has a mind of it's own, has teamed up with Google Blogger and both seem intent on forbidding.

Anyone else hate Windows 7?

The truth is that we live out our lives putting off all that can be put off; perhaps we all know deep down that we are immortal and that sooner or later all men will do and know all things.

Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986), Argentinian author. "Funes the Memorious," Labyrinths (1964).

Anyone else had that feeling?

Here is the poem. 

Instants



If I could live again my life,

In the next - I'll try,

- to make more mistakes,

I won't try to be so perfect,

I'll be more relaxed,

I'll be more full - than I am now,

In fact, I'll take fewer things seriously,

I'll be less hygienic,

I'll take more risks,

I'll take more trips,

I'll watch more sunsets,

I'll climb more mountains,

I'll swim more rivers,

I'll go to more places - I've never been,

I'll eat more ice creams and less (lime) beans,

I'll have more real problems - and less imaginary

ones,

I was one of those people who live

prudent and prolific lives -

each minute of his life,

Of course that I had moments of joy - but,

if I could go back I'll try to have only good moments,
If you don't know - thats what life is made of,

Don't lose the now!
I was one of those who never goes anywhere

without a thermometer,

without a hot-water bottle,

and without an umberella and without a parachute,
If I could live again - I will travel light,

If I could live again - I'll try to work bare feet

at the beginning of spring till

the end of autumn,

I'll ride more carts,

I'll watch more sunrises and play with more children,

If I have the life to live - but now I am 85,

- and I know that I am dying ...



Jorge Luis Borges

Anyone else think this poem reminds them of another one?

Where has all the good news gone?

Where has all the good news gone?




It’s the shy but gifted child at the back of the classroom

who was cradled in compromise,

knows the truth, has all the answers

but simply cannot raise her hand.

It’s what God would bring, or the angels,

but the mouths of the media,

brought up on the bad

are too often gagged or censored.

It blows in on the wind sometimes, unbidden;

and before we have time to prepare, it will circle a room

looking for the best place to land.

It hovers; rearranging, repositioning,

raising energies, brightening auras.

refuting all that’s gone before.

Exploding, it exposes our cynicism,

despairing of our apathy,

knowing it will lead to anarchy.

Wanting to embrace you, it will instead shake you,

will move you and change you.

It’s what we should all try to seek

every damned minute.

It’s in this poem trying to speak.

You may have given up on it.

But you deserve it.

You deserve it.



Cait O’Connor

High Haf

Picture by Gayle Murphy

 

High Haf




You deceived me with your promises

of bright, warm days and long, light nights.

How could you.

We were to fly among the hills

and walk through new warm sea;

instead I emerge like a pit pony

into the coal-black afternoon.

You have done this before,

but I am soft and need your touch

yet you tease me with trailers of might be

you advertise so well it is a pity

you have nothing to sell.

You are the summer love:

Transient, naïve and remembered

with distorted fondness.



Christopher Challener

10 metaphors for a Friday

10 metaphors for a Friday

Rosebuds sigh pure innocence

Extroversion, the ever open door

Patience is a collared dove

Summer, a smile

Autumn, first chill

Winter, a death

Spring, the rebirth

Seasons fit my moods.

Days are lifetimes.

Tears are a well

Cait O’Connor



For a brilliant article on the riots go to Peter Oborne's article in the Telegraph.



Just for Once

Dingle Cottage by renowned artist Ellen Lefrak

Just for Once

Just for once let me reveal what holds me here in this cottage, once a blacksmith’s home and now my would-be hermit’s abode where I live, dream and write in such sweet seclusion.

It is a cerise and blue sunrise that calls me, drawing me from my bed to meet the day anew while all is fresh and free of Man’s contamination. All is still quiet, there are no jarring sounds, no ringing phone, no bad news on the radio; none of modern life’s stressful interruptions.

Just for once the cottage wakes on a summer morning clean and bright and smiling broadly. Each of its little corners warm from the rays of the sun and all the surfaces shining having been polished to a fault. There are jugs of roses and sweet peas, both scented, new novels in piles, their worlds waiting to be lost in The crystals hanging in the windows reflect the sun and cast rainbows round the room (we call them fairies or angels ); there are the cherished little treasures hanging from brass hooks on ancient oak beams, beams which once framed the finest British sailing ships of old. What stories could they tell?

The white cat is home from a night’s hunting, she lies on a windowsill; birdwatching is her favourite pastime. The two dogs mill about, eager to go outside, their excitement at the thought of tasting the new day is contagious. I don outdoor shoes and throw on a cape over my night-wear. No-one will see me thus attired. I venture out.

As I stand and watch the river I cannot keep from singing. The river plays its melodies and little white horses race across stones. There is much life in our river.

It is not only the fish who jump. My heart does too as it remembers I have long days ahead that are filled with blank pages. I cannot help but twirl but it is a secret dance for with all the world seemingly asleep, only the earliest of birds can see me in my nightgown at the water’s edge, a grey haired old diva dancing for joy.

This new day has begun.

Let me not be too afraid to say that just for once, all is well.



Cait O’Connor

Percy Wakes Me

The greatest love is a mother's; then a dog's; then a sweetheart's.

Polish Proverb

If I lived in a big enough house this is (one of) the breeds of dog I would like to own, it is of course an Irish Wolfhound. Like Finn, our much loved lurcher, they are very loyal and affectionate.  Unfortunately I couldn't fit one into my wee cottage.

And talking of dogs, I promised you another favourite poem from the Mary Oliver book.

Here it is:

Percy Wakes Me


Percy wakes me and I am not ready...


Now he's eager for action:  a walk, then breakfast....

He is sitting on the kitchen counter where he is not supposed to be.

How wonderful you are, I say. How clever, if you needed me, to wake me.

He thought he would hear a lecture and deeply  his eyes begin to shine.

He tumbles onto the couch for more compliments.

He squirms and squeals; he has done something that he needed and now he hears that it's okay.

I scratch his ears, I turn him over and touch him everywhere.  He is

wild with the okayness of it.  Then we walk, then he has breakfast, and he is happy.

This is a poem about Percy.

This is a poem about more than Percy.

Think about it.



Mary Oliver

Birdwatching

Birdwatching

Martins, luck-bringing eave-dwellers,

diminished in number

are heralding summer again.

A gang of sparrows,

grown in size and confidence

play back my London childhood.

From its woodland hide

the jay ventures out,

predatory in coloured robes.

No longer so rare,

the red kite looks down;

buzzards driven far abroad.

Elegant in flight,

statuesque in my river,

the heron stands in silence.

Robin, my steadfast friend

companionable all the year

is sociable, yet always stands apart.

Lone pheasant, mate-less

escapee from death

is safe within my garden.

Dippers in their secret home

from generations past

still bring their gift of constancy.

Akin to angels and patient,

harmonious to a fault,

the gentle dove will wait.

Would hell be a birdless garden?

No birdsong

no angels in its wake;

Nature’s avian summer gone awry.

Cait O’Connor

Next poem

Foxgloves

Rebecca, our first-born,now thirty-nine

flies in to check that I am well again

and spots beside the bed the photograph

I took of you when you were carrying her

six months gone in your purple polo-neck

and blue smock, and laughing, I remember,

because I have decorated with sea pinks

your black abundant hair, and given you

foxgloves to hold as though to welcome her

to the strand at Inch and the Kerry hills.

Can you go on smiling from your dune-throne

with your hair and hands full of summer flowers?

Because the marram grass is damp and sandy

I have spread a yellow oilskin under you.

Michael Longley

A Hundred Doors

Pics and a poem

Most of the shadows of this life are caused by standing in one's own sunshine

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Here is the second of the favourite poems I promised you.

How I Go to the Woods

Ordinarily I go to the woods alone, with not a single friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable.


I don't really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours.

Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unbearable sound of the roses singing.

If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much.



Mary Oliver
Swan

Summertime

Dear Diary,

Those who wish to sing will always find a song

Swedish Proverb

I am sorry I have been absent for so long; I am going to try and be around more. Life has the habit of getting in the way of writing and it takes up too much time and why does time go so much more quickly nowadays?

In spite of life all is well here in my little Welsh heaven; even the fish are jumping but I cannot lie and say the cotton is high. Cotton grows wild in my spiritual home across the water, up on the bogs but not around here in my little Welsh valley.

(I just love that song Summertime, perhaps I will post it for you?)

My thoughts are on all things avian this morning as our writing group ‘homework’ is to write a poem with the bird theme. I have many written in the past but had better not cheat and pull one out - instead I must try to produce something new.

My thoughts are very often on our winged neighbours but especially so at this time of year when we feel outnumbererd by the birds and the beasts who share our abode. There are birds a-plenty, I have never known so many which is very encouraging after the Big Freeze of last winter when we had temperatures of minus sixteen for many days and many of their precious little lives were lost.

So the list of birds species in the garden grows ever-longer and they all seem to take it in turns to visit the feeders, it is as if they have set ‘appointments’. Some breeds will mix happily side by side – the doves living up to their name being the gentlest and most harmonious. Some visit en famille, the woodpeckers and the nuthatches for example and their wee ones wait to be fed by their parents, their feathers quivering in anticipation, which is such a joy to watch. We have a real gang of sparrows now (we had none to speak of before) and that is also good news as they are supposed to be in decline. Sparrows were the only birds I knew really when I was growing up in London.

Feeding the birds (and the gate-crashing squirrels) may be draining our purses but is at the same time filling our hearts with gladness as we watch them from the kitchen, bedroom and parlour windows –and surely gladness is worth more than money anyway? Just one of the few things remaining that cannot (yet) be taxed or measured only in financial terms?

Before I go I must mention a couple of poetry books which I have recently enjoyed. The American poet Mary Oliver first, she is one of my very favourite poets and her book Swan is fantastic, so good I am going to have to buy a copy. I have picked four favourites to share with you but there will be just one today.

Here is a taster and as avian poems go this one is hard to beat.



The Swan

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?


Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -


An armful of white blossoms,


A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned


into the bondage of its wings; a snow bank, a bank of lilies,


Biting the air with its black beak?


Did you hear it, fluting and whistling


A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall


Knifing down the black ledges?


And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -


A white cross streaming across the sky, its feet


Like black leaves, its wings like the stretching light of the river?


And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?


And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?


And have you changed your life?


Mary Oliver



Books are like buses. You don’t see one you want and then three appear altogether. The other book I love is the Irish poet Michael Longley’s A Hundred Doors which a friend kindly lent me recently. I have favourites among them to share with you and will do so very soon.

Finally the great poet Graham Clifford has an excellent book out called Welcome Back to the Country. I have favourites there that I would love to let you taste in a future blog.

Shall I leave you with a song?

 
 
Bye for now,
Cait

Josephine Hart RIP

Writer Josephine Hart who died this week.

Josephine Hart's last message: 'Without reading I would have found life less bearable'

Dear Diary,

I am sorry I have not been here for so long.  I've certainly not given up this blog but just lately life has taken over a little.  I hope to be present again from now on and just had to pay tribute today to a fine writer who moved on from this world this past week.

I have copied a newspaper article from the net and below that I add some quotes.

Novelist Josephine Hart gave a powerful endorsement of the Evening Standard's campaign against illiteracy days before her death.

The writer and "visionary" poetry campaigner lived her life cherishing the power and beauty of words, and said she was delighted by the Standard's "wonderful campaign" highlighting the shocking number of children unable to read.

In a statement dictated from her hospital bed, she said: "Without reading, and for me especially poetry, I would have found life less comprehensible, less bearable, and infinitely less enjoyable. It has never let me down."

Today tributes poured in for a woman revered for her brilliance as a writer, intellect and determination to encourage children to develop an understanding of the great poets.

For two years she kept secret that she was battling primary peritoneal cancer. Even her agent Ed Victor did not know until the day before her death yesterday. He told the Standard: "She wrote one of the most stunning, dazzling, moving, powerful first novels of the last half-century.

"She wrote because she needed to write and she wrote what she wanted to write. I think her passion for literature and her passion for poetry burned with the purest flame."

She attended a Poetry Week rehearsal at the Donmar on Monday but was unable to see the sell-out shows. Lady Antonia Fraser said: "Josephine Hart was beautiful in everything she did (including how she looked) but above all there was her passionate love of beauty in language, especially poetry."

Born in Ireland, she drummed into her two sons the need to "grab life by the throat" after losing two brothers and a sister by the time she was 17.

Married to Lord Saatchi, her first novel, Damage, sold more than one million copies. It was translated into 27 languages. Jeremy Irons starred in the film version.
Here are some quotes by her:

Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive.

 Josephine Hart (Damage)


 There is an internal landscape, a geography of the soul; we search for its outlines all our lives. Those who are lucky enough to find it ease like water over a stone, onto its fluid contours, and are home. Some find it in the place of their birth; others may leave a seaside town, parched, and find themselves refreshed in the desert. There are those born in rolling countryside who are really only at ease in the intense and busy loneliness of the city. For some, the search is for the imprint of another; a child or a mother, a grandfather or a brother, a lover, a husband, a wife, or a foe. We may go through our lives happy or unhappy, successful or unfulfilled, loved or unloved, without ever standing cold with the shock of recognition, without ever feeling the agony as the twisted iron in our soul unlocks itself and we slip at last into place.


— Josephine Hart


 Memory is never pure. And recollection is always coloured by the life lived since.


 Those who do not have imaginary conversations do not love.


I always recognize the forces that will shape my life. I let them do their work. Sometimes they tear through my life like a hurricane. Sometimes they simply shift the ground under me, so that I stand on different earth, and something or someone has been swallowed up. I steady myself, in the earthquate. I lie down, and let the hurricane pass over me. I never fight. Afterwards I look around me, and I say, 'Ah, so this at least is left for me. And that dear person has also survived.' I quietly inscribe on the stone tablet of my heart the name which has gone forever. The inscription is a thing of agony. Then I start on my way again.


 We learn from tragedy. Slowly.


They say that childhood forms us, that those early influences are the key to everything. Is the peace of the soul so easily won? Simply the inevitable result of a happy childhood. What makes childhood happy? Parental harmony? Good health? Security? Might not a happy childhood be the worst possible preparation for life? Like leading a lamb to the slaughter.


Lucky people should hide. Pray the days of wrath do not visit their home.



For why trap what is already trapped? It is only in flight that we know the freedom of the bird



Rest in Peace Josephine
You are free to fly now.


Bye for now,
Cait.

Humans and Avians

Dear Diary,

Just a quick post tonight.  My time is being taken up in the garden just lately. I am a fair weather gardener and the weather has been very fair so….out I have been.

I  haven’t seen any otters since the last time (see previous post) but I did see two wild ducks swimming in the river this morning which was exciting.  I stood stock still for about ten minutes on the bank and they didn’t notice me there.  Usually the ducks fly off if they catch sight of humans.  They spent a long time swimming up and down as if they were looking round our little bit of river; I got the (probably stupid) feeling that they were ‘house-hunting’ and I prayed they would like our little piece of heaven for their home.  They both ducked under the water in the end and disappeared - I like to think they went behind the old tree stump and a huge mess of branches that sits on the bank and that they are setting up home there or have done so already.  I will keep you posted.

Talking of posts I just have to post this poem for you from the new Neil Astley Bloodaxe poetry anthology Being Human.  I borrowed it from the library, it’s brand new and I am the first to borrow it but  will no doubt end up buying a copy. I already own and love Staying Alive and Being Alive.   I've only read a few pages of this one so far but have fallen in love with one poem.  I wonder if you will like it too?  It is funny (sorry that was unintentional but Funny happens to be the title) how poems still often translate so beautifully into English.  It must depend a lot on the skill of the translator I guess.   It’s funny too that the subject matter of the poem is also avian.  I shall have to read more by this poet.

Here it is.

(There is no punctuation)


Funny


What's it like to be a human
the bird asked

I myself don't know
it's being held prisoner by your skin
while reaching infinity
being a captive of your scrap of time
while touching eternity
being hopelessly uncertain
and helplessly hopeful
being a needle of frost
and a handful of heat
breathing in the air
and choking wordlessly
it's being on fire
with a nest made of ashes
eating bread
while filling up on hunger
it's dying without love
it's loving through death

That's funny said the bird
and flew effortlessly up into the air


 Anna Kamienska



Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Claire Cavanagh

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Nature news

Otter Swimming

paulamayberyartgallery.com

Dear Diary,

I had a wonderful experience yesterday evening, one you get not too many times in a lifetime - I saw an otter close up in our river in the daylight.  I had been out picking a few daffodils for the parlour and was pruning a few wee bits and pieces as  I made my way back indoors.  I decided to throw the very tiny clippings into the river and as I did so, on the opposite bank I spied an otter ducking and diving.   I stood still and watched it swim upstream and out of sight.  I flew excitedly indoors to tell M and as we looked out of the window a heron landed in the very same spot in the river where the otter had been.  The heron is here a lot, he is the most patient and stealthy bird as he makes his way upstream on the lookout for fish.  Every year a parent heron will bring a young one to the river, obviously teaching it how to catch fish.

I have seen otters before in the moonlight, I hear them regularly on my nightly walks and there is always otter spraint on our banks. I blogged about otters many times but I have never seen one up close in the daylight before though I have seen mink and polecats.  M has glimpsed otters in the early evening diving near our little bridge, he was struck by how huge they are, especially the dogs (males).

Tonight I decided to sit by the river and stage an otter- watch.  I have just been out at the same time as I saw the otter yesterday which was 7.30 pm.  I sat by the river partially hidden by a laurel bush but with a clear view of the river.

We have a dippers’ nest just upstream under the road bridge and  I had a very clear view of that, there is much activity there -  I believe there may be young ones in the wooden nest box.  Dippers  have nested here for generations, I  have read about them in a book written by someone who grew up here.  We are very lucky to be able to watch them in such close proximity, they are used to us and even tolerate the dogs being near them on the river ‘beach’.

I sat by the river for quite a while, all was quiet apart from the dippers flying downstream to fish and then returning to the nest, the occasional car passing by and various birds singing in the trees.  I decided to go out later when dusk is starting to descend. 

As soon as I came indoors I looked out of the cottage window and saw an unusually large bird, but not as big as a buzzard on  the little bridge so I got my binoculars out to see what it was. I think it was a kestrel and as I called M to show him, it swooped down onto the surface of the river in an attempt to catch something - obviously one of my beloved dippers.  Luckily he missed -  I hope that the dipper dove down deep into the river.  This  kestrel must have seen me go into the cottage before deciding to swoop on his prey!

So it is all happening here on the wildlife stage.  I often think that I would love to set up an infra-red night camera but they are quite expensive.

I will report back as soon as there is more news on the nature front.

Bye for now,

Cait

Positives and Revisitings

Dear Diary,

I have just heard of three recent deaths in the local area, two of which were young people, it is so sad.  Round here everyone knows everyone so any death touches the whole community.  Bad news doesn’t seem right on such a beautiful morning.  Why do such sad things have to happen and why in threes?  I can only believe they have all gone to a better place, a cliché I know but I am sure it is true.

Just for today as we say in Reiki circles I will try and dwell on the positives here on Earth.  It is a beautiful spring day and I will not tarry long as the outdoors is calling me.  I have already been out to my local garage, they did a small job on the exhaust pipe of my car and have not charged me a penny; this is the  third time they have done this sort of thing.  Isn’t it wonderful that in today’s Rip-Off Britain there are still some folk left who are not out to fleece you.  A good start to the day.

I have just re-read Colm Toibin’s Brooklyn for my book club, it was such a joy.  I am not one to re-read books very often but Toibin’s way with storytelling just flows, his writing is superb.   If you haven’t read him yet please do.  He is one of my favourite writers; I admit that so many of my faves are Irish authors, it is not bias, it is just that the Irish love words so much and weave them so well. I am now re-reading another - Annie Dunne by Sebastian Barry.  I almost bathe in his prose; I just have to stop and go back to re-read his words, they are so poetic. 

Talking of writing I have set up a blog for our writing group members as a place to post our homework and leave each other comments.  Just because I like a change I have ventured into Wordpress (ssssshhhhhh don’t tell Blogger) but although it all seems very professional I am a real Wordpress virgin still finding my way on there.  We are starting to post all our old bits of ‘homework’ and it struck me how many pieces of work are there which proves that the group is worthwhile and does indeed spur us on to write.  The blog will remain firmly private, open only to members.

I am still tired from the clocks springing forward. I can’t go to bed on time,  I can’t get up in the morning and I look like death warmed up.  I am on the genealogy trail once more, not my family but someone else’s - she has a close relative with a bit of a mysterious past.  It’s a case of burning the midnight oil with this one,  I think I should have been a detective.  My daughter is on the case too; perhaps we should set up in business…….

I received two lovely cards yesterday.  One was this picture by Gu We, a new-to-me artist, isn't it lovely when you discover a new one? I have posted one of his pics as my new header above........

and one by John Shannon, a tree-free card not this one but the one I received I can't find online.

What else am I looking forward to today on this day-off  work day? 

A CD soon arriving in the post by Gurrumul, so haunting, it reaches deep into my soul.  I have posted this before but it must be a time for revisiting,






Spending some time in the garden in the sunshine.  I have treated myself to a new garden bench - my present very cheap one is starting to crumble and the new one should be delivered soon so when I am tired from gardening I can try it out.

Reading more Annie Dunne of course, also in the sunshine, if it lasts.

Watching the birds nesting from my window;  several species are busy at the moment and I shall need to get the binoculars out.

Visiting my daughter and granddaughters later (I have to keep them supplied with reading matter).

I had better go,
Enjoy your moments today.
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Christy Moore - Magdalen Laundries

Words by Joni Mitchell

Magdalene Laundries

Turning the Corner

Turning the Corner

As she settles in for sleep she remembers the words of the clairvoyant as she scried in her crystal ball.
She told her she could see barriers around her heart, shutting out her need for love……….

Even in a dream it takes her by surprise,

such an old but pretty gate, quite small,

wreathed in scrolls of heavy iron,

their Celtic spiral patterns painted black as night.

The gate is tightly shut but able to be opened

if she would only try.

Belief helps her open it,

trust takes her through it,

relief is there to greet her at the other side

where she feels strangely safe.

On a bright pathway

strewn with coloured blossoms

fear takes its flight,

till she feels strangely light.

As she turns the corner

she does not look back

but only forward, led by hope 

to a place where peace can take her hand

and bring to her a heart where love lies,

between the arms of stillness and serenity.

Cait O’Connor

Too much light and shade perhaps

 Dear Diary,

I am a little out of sync. today as I hate it when the clocks change, it affects me for weeks.  I shall be 'one hour out'  for too long a while and then when I am fully adjusted they will change the damned things back again.  Why can't they leave them alone?

I love daydreaming and my (new) beautiful header pic was topping an article in Saturday's Guardian so I thought I would post it here.  It got me dreaming about dreaming..... I do a lot of it: staring into space etc. I have always done this and I also love studying clouds by day and the skies at night and the river as it flows.  Birdwatching takes up much time here too.  I suppose it's meditation.

Has anyone else been watching the fantastic Danish crime serial The Killing?  It has been unmissable; the best thing on TV as far as I am concerned and though it has been dark, in more ways than one, it has really brightened Saturday nights TV-wise.  Everyone is saying that it puts British drama in the shade. (Too many mixed-up light and shade references here, sorry).  It was the last episode in the current series last night but still left me with much to think about.  I had to read something 'light' (sorry I am at it again) in bed before going to sleep because I think I would have been kept awake still wondering or perhaps I would have had bad dreams.   I had better not give anything away in case you haven't seen it and you watch it in the future but it did fiercely bring home to me how one killing can affect the lives of so many.  Can ruin the lives of so many.  That of course applies not only to murder but also to war.  Are the two (too) closely related I wonder?

To lighten the tone here is the best Dreamy song I know, written by Fleetwood Mac's Stevie Nicks who by chance also featured in the Guardian yesterday.  I was planning to feature a piece of music by The Shadows as Jet Harris died recently, God rest him, I shall do that another day.





I'm off to take some air now; unfortunately the sun hasn't got his hat on yet, unlike yesterday when he paraded all day and all was bright!

But I must eave you with a poem by the great Wallace Stevens.

Looking Across the Fields and Watching the Birds Fly

Among the more irritating minor ideas Of Mr. Homburg during his visits home To Concord, at the edge of things, was this: To think away the grass, the trees, the clouds, Not to transform them into other things, Is only what the sun does every day, Until we say to ourselves that there may be A pensive nature, a mechanical And slightly detestable operandum, free From man's ghost, larger and yet a little like, Without his literature and without his gods . . . No doubt we live beyond ourselves in air, In an element that does not do for us, so well, that which we do for ourselves, too big, A thing not planned for imagery or belief, Not one of the masculine myths we used to make, A transparency through which the swallow weaves, Without any form or any sense of form, What we know in what we see, what we feel in what We hear, what we are, beyond mystic disputation, In the tumult of integrations out of the sky, And what we think, a breathing like the wind, A moving part of a motion, a discovery Part of a discovery, a change part of a change, A sharing of colour and being part of it. The afternoon is visibly a source, Too wide, too irised, to be more than calm, Too much like thinking to be less than thought, Obscurest parent, obscurest patriarch, A daily majesty of meditation, That comes and goes in silences of its own. We think, then as the sun shines or does not. We think as wind skitters on a pond in a field Or we put mantles on our words because The same wind, rising and rising, makes a sound Like the last muting of winter as it ends. A new scholar replacing an older one reflects A moment on this fantasia. He seeks For a human that can be accounted for. The spirit comes from the body of the world, Or so Mr. Homburg thought: the body of a world Whose blunt laws make an affectation of mind, The mannerism of nature caught in a glass And there become a spirit's mannerism, A glass as warm with things going as far as they can. Wallace Stevens

Happy Sunday to you all,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait