The Road Not Taken

Woodland Faery by Robin Pushe’e

(www.fairy-art.net)

This faery pic reminds me of my youngest granddaughter.

This video below is for Tracy Golightly-Garcia (whose blog is a lovely place to visit by the way); it is the poem that she would choose to take to her Desert Island.  (see previous posts).

 I love the name Golightly by the way...... and it's also a great way to travel...down any road. 

 I have posted this poem before; it is much-loved by so many.

Enjoy.

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;	5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,	10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.	15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

Innisfree

This poem is for Foxglove Lane on her Desert Island  (Foxglove Lane has to be my favourite blog title and it's a wonderful place to visit too which lives up to its name).

I have posted this one before as the poem is one of my much-loved, in fact I chose it as my all time favourite many, many moons ago when I worked in a different library and we each had to choose one for National Poetry Day.

The story goes that while walking down Fleet Street in London one day, Yeats was trying to cross a road, wishing for seclusion and this poem was the result.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; 
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, 
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

W B Yeats

Poem in October

This poem is for Mark as he chose it for his Desert Island. (see previous post).

My favourite lines?

   And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
     Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
             Through the parables
                Of sunlight
        And the legends of the green chapels

 A great choice. I shall post others' favorites soon.

POEM IN OCTOBER

        It was my thirtieth year to heaven
     Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
        And the mussel pooled and the heron
                Priested shore
           The morning beckon
     With water praying and call of seagull and rook
     And the knock of sailing boats on the webbed wall
           Myself to set foot
                That second
        In the still sleeping town and set forth.

        My birthday began with the water-
     Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
        Above the farms and the white horses
                And I rose
            In a rainy autumn
     And walked abroad in shower of all my days
     High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
            Over the border
                And the gates
        Of the town closed as the town awoke.

        A springful of larks in a rolling
     Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
        Blackbirds and the sun of October
                Summery
            On the hill's shoulder,
     Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
     Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
            To the rain wringing
                Wind blow cold
        In the wood faraway under me.

        Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
     And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
        With its horns through mist and the castle
                Brown as owls
             But all the gardens
     Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
     Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
             There could I marvel
                My birthday
        Away but the weather turned around.

        It turned away from the blithe country
     And down the other air and the blue altered sky
        Streamed again a wonder of summer
                With apples
             Pears and red currants
     And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
     Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
             Through the parables
                Of sunlight
        And the legends of the green chapels

        And the twice told fields of infancy
     That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
        These were the woods the river and the sea
                Where a boy
             In the listening
     Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
     To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
             And the mystery
                Sang alive
        Still in the water and singing birds.

        And there could I marvel my birthday
     Away but the weather turned around. And the true
        Joy of the long dead child sang burning
                In the sun.
             It was my thirtieth
        Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
        Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
             O may my heart's truth
                Still be sung
        On this high hill in a year's turning.

Dylan Thomas 

Let me know your choice and I will try and post it for you.

When You Are Old

Dear Diary,

I listened to one of my favourite BBC Radio 4 repeats this morning, the perennial programme that is Desert Island Discs (may it never end or be taken off the airways). The subject was the Irishwoman, Anna Scher and she chose one or two 'musical' records which brought back memories. But best of all was this poem she chose which I would also pick as a poem to keep if I was ever cast away. The BBC played a recording of it by T P McKenna which brought tears to my eyes;I had never heard it before. I couldn't find a copy of that version to share with you but I found this recording on YouTube which I hope you like.




Is there a poem you would take to your Desert Island?
One of your own or one written by another?
Or both?

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Home

.

Where thou art, that is home

Emily Dickinson

Plainsong

Stop. Along this path, in phrases of light

trees sing their leaves.  No Midas touch

has turned the wood to gold this year

when you pass by, suddenly sad, straining

to remember something you're sure you knew


Listening.  The words you have for things die

in your heart, but grasses are plainsong

patiently chanting the circles you cannot repeat

or understand.  This is your homeland,

Lost One, Stranger who speaks with tears.


It is almost impossible to be here and yet

you kneel, no-one's child, absolved by the sun

through the branches of a wood, distantly

the evening bell reminding you, Home, Home

Home, and the stone in your palm telling the time.







Carol Anne Duffy

Meditation

Whisper of the Muse -  Julia Margaret Cameron

A photograph is a secret about a secret.  The more it tells you the less you know.

Diane Arbus

Meditation

Away from human noise, the cough, the sniff, the clearing of the throat.

The ticking of the ever-present clock.

Depart from the mind, a sometimes lifeless place, where all is brash,

bereft and Belsen-like, where no birds sing at all.

Seek out the spell, or speak a heartfelt prayer for long-forgotten love.

Until then, listen less, relax and go towards the far and distant place called home,

to the heartbeat of the womb, to past times, rhythmical and raw,

to a land where birdsong resonated with the silver bells of angels.

Now at last all is quiet.

Peace.  Like a cathedral.

Cait O’Connor

Family Silver

Dear Diary,

A quick blog today, it is Saturday and as I am off sick from work I am enjoying being home and having a normal weekend which is quite novel for me.  The weather is fine, quite warm and dry but the soil is still too wet to plant bulbs. I bought tulips, daffodils and alliums ages ago but since then the soil has been either frozen or over-wet. Never mind, I am not up to gardening at the moment and M will have to do the work, hopefully tomorrow when the soil may be that bit drier; if the weather forecasters are right we are in for a dry spell.

I have just enjoyed a wee stroll outside in the field with the dogs, the colours all around  are still achingly beautiful ; I love autumn so and especially on days like this.  It is a complete contrast to yesterday which was grey, extremely so and wet with it.

Today I am posting some pics of photos by the wonderful photographer Julia Margaret Cameron. I caught a bit of the TV programme ‘Flog it’ yesterday and saw that a Berkshire grammar school had sold off one of her photos.  The photograph (a gift to the school) sold at auction for £8,000.

The photograph is one of Sir John Herschel, a German-born British astronomer, technical expert, and a composer. Herschel became most famous for the discovery of Uranus in addition to two of its major moons.

In a recent recording of the ever popular BBC series of 'Flog It!' at Henley Town Hall, the stand-out item of the day was a photograph of scientist and astronomer Sir John Herschel taken by Julia Margaret Cameron, one of the preeminent photographers of the 19th century.  Researchers are to investigate the history of the photograph, which could fetch thousands when it is flogged off at Cameo Auctioneers, near Reading.

Apparently the photo had been on the school office wall for years. This angered me, firstly because it had been a gift to the school and if it was in the office it was depriving the school children of the gift of seeing it,   And selling it in the current climate any money they make is soon to be worth less with inflation but worst of all, should one really sell something that was a gift to the school?  It smacks of selling off the family silver to me and resounds with the current crime that is closing public libraries.

Paul Martin the rather nice antique expert on Flog It admitted that Julia Margaret Cameron was his favourite photographer, I have always loved her work too.  Surely our schools are not that hard up that they have to stoop to these measures to raise funds and if they are there is indeed something very wrong with our society.
I am sure it would never happen in Ireland. 
Rant over.
I hope you enjoy the photos.

Bye for now,
Enjoy the weekend!
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

A Winter Walk Has Warmed my Heart

Something that has moved me today.

Has anything moved you

or left you cold?

Recession

Modern capitalism needs men who cooperate smoothly and in large numbers; who want to consume more and more; and whose tastes are standardized and can be easily influenced and anticipated ... what is the outcome? Modern man is alienated from himself, from his fellow man and from nature.

Erich Fromm

Wisdom for the Soul

Autumn’s recession

Multitudes of leaves today are drifting overhead,

as atmospheric pressure rises in its wicked worldlike way

En masse they hover, swirling, helpless, carried on the wind

and too soon reach the highway, so alive with all its busyness.

The strong survive, the others chance to fate

and play a game of Russian Roulette as they cross

as the slowest  in their weaker currency of air

soon trip, with many bound to fall.

These scrape across the tarmac noisily and become too quickly crushed,

while the others, high flyers in the land of leafdom,

still soar with ease and they can only laugh,

as they coolly reach the other side

to land upon a listening bank of green that wears a welcome smile.

Secure, untouchable, as they always were

when fixed so high upon the branches in their tree;

those lucky leaves whose hue is painted  precious gold,

will live entirely free of penalty or pain of death

or such an  undeserv`ed poverty.

Cait O’Connor

Kitty

Dear Diary,

I'll start with one of my favourite quotations on the subject of success and which has nothing to do with the acquisition of money.

To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

I have been enjoying listening to Irish radio a lot recently and it is great to get a feel of what is going on in my spiritual home even though I can't actually live there. Living in the wild hills of Wales as I do, I find that I can get a better reception for Irish radio than for British and it is very easy just to switch over the wavelengths from Radio 4 so that it will go straight onto RTE.  I love Radio 4 of course, couldn't live without it to be honest -  but if I fancy a change or there is a programme I don't enjoy I switch over.  I do enjoy the laid back Irish way of broadcasting. Nothing and no-one is rushed, conversations seem to go on for ever but are never boring, there is no sense of urgency or clock-watching, all is intelligent and covered in depth and there is of course much attention to all things literary, political, local, personal, sporting etc.  As a broadcaster on Radio 4 said recently (she also admitted listening to Irish radio at home! - people always sound as if they have just wandered into a pub or something and it is all so relaxed.  I listen to the Today programme on Radio 4 every morning but lately it is driving me mad the way everything is so much more 'rushed' (especially the weather!)  and the way the interviewers interrupt so much (not John Humphreys but Sara someoneorother does this a lot. 

Continuing the Irish theme here is a poem from the wonderful Irish poetry publisher Salmon, the book is A Journey in Poetry 1981-2007 and the poem is about a border collie (the poet is American).  

There is a photo of my border collie above; her name is Kitty not Kilty Sue but I have to admit that when she was young she did have a very slight  tendency to behave a bit like Kilty Sue.  She is a reformed character now though and perfectly well-behaved though I sometimes think she too has the look of of a slightly retarded devil-dog (or as I say probably an inbred one!).

Kilty Sue

Instincts jammed by lack of sheep

in this region, she attends to babies, ducklings-

anything small and in need of care.

A border collie whose eyes, opposite

shades of brown, offer the look

of a slightly retarded devil-dog.  And

if you must know, she bites people:

my brother presumably because he was mean

to me at a younger age; the UPS man

because he carried a package too quickly towards

my pregnant sister; my mother-in-law, I suppose,

to keep in shape.  And various relatives

and strangers – Kilty Sue reminds them

of the precise location of the Achilles tendon.

Mind you, she never actually rips it out,

but merely offers a sharp touch.  Like a pin-prick,

only deeper, her bites spring out

from a sudden vortex of silence.  When Kilty Sue howls –

in a voice high and piercing as a drunken soprano,

and you wish your ears would just drop off and die –

you are safe.  She is  protecting you.

Marck L Beggs

Bye for now,

Go mbeannai Dia duit,

Cait

Butterflies and Hibernation

Nothing changes until you do.

Anon

Dear Diary,

I love this painting.

Blue Morpho butterfly

Martin Johnson

http://www.paintinghere.com/

I read an interesting blog post about butterflies here and it coincided with me already having decided to write today about two Red Admirals that are hibernating in my bedroom of all places. We lived in an old Welsh farmhouse before we lived here in our little riverside cottage and the odd Red Admiral would often appear flying around inside that home during the winter. The first time one appeared coincided with a family bereavement and I was convinced it was their spirit – they are reputed to be spirits of the dead if they are indoors – perhaps they are, who knows?

As I lay in bed the other morning I looked up to the beams in the corner of my little bedroom and saw an unusual sight, not one but two butterflies cwched up closely on the beam together (Welsh word meaning snuggled). The following morning one had moved a little bit lower down (had they fallen out?) but lo and behold by the evening the other one had moved down to join the other and they were close again. Could they wake up and go back to sleep? I have no idea how hibernation works but it often appeals to me in the depth of Winter, usually in December around Christmas time……..(bah Humbug)….

I researched online what I should do if I find a butterfly hibernating in the house and it seemed to say that I should move it outside to somewhere ‘safe’ where birds can’t find it, not too cold, not too warm, it all sounded rather impossible to me so for now I am leaving them. One site suggested making up some nectar (?) and feeding them before I put them outside to sustain them through the cold weather. And apparently when they do wake they will be hungry and there will be no food for them in the cottage. I think when they wake I will put them outside then; I hope I am doing the best thing.

I grew up in South London and don’t remember seeing many butterflies to be honest but I always had the impression that butterflies only lived for two days, where that came from I don’t know but it stayed with me nearly all my life until I found out it was not true - just another childhood illusion shattered.

I shall leave you with a poem by the late John O’Donoghue. Its title is November and the theme is the coldness and melancholy of the season and I feel a need for ‘hibernation’ within it.

However it may be November but today it is so warm that I have no heating on at all so the poem does not really fit the day or my mood. They tell me colder weather is on its way but I am making the most of these balmy, happy days for even the sun is shining now…..the rain showers have passed away from us. I very much hope all is fine with you too, in every way.



November



November’s hunger strips the fields, its thin light

rifles the web and warmth of every nest

allows the cold day to invade each secret,

absolves the ghosts of leaf that outlast autumn.


Now I can depend less and less on the grace

of spontaneity, talk quickly tires,

words become contrived, as they eyes of others

notice my mind unravel in this sallow light.


Intense with silence my room waits for me,

the paintings and open books grown distant,

its window one huge eye on the tree outside;

in the mirror the glimpse of my face draws tears.



John O’Donoghue



Bye for now,

Cait.

The Touchstone

The Lady
John William Waterhouse

You are not enclosed within your bodies nor confined to houses or fields. That which is you dwells above the mountain and roves with the winds.

Kahlil Gibran

The Touchstone

On Samhain’s night by a waxing moon

the veil was thin, the spirits drew near,

their music was heard in rocks, deep as a drum

beating hard and true against my heart.

I felt them in the Irish mountain rains

whose clouds I follow keenly, like a nun.

I saw them too in the embers of my hearth

and in the candle’s flame.

Today, I scry in my crystal ball

on an Indian summer’s morn,

my tiny cottage windows are open wide.

and sylphs rush in on the breeze.

I pass my dreams to them,

attaching a prayer of hope

that Truth will always prevail,

far and wide, way above treetops.

My dreams can fly with joy

but should they ever fall in pain

I know they will reform

by magic and by alchemy

to form a sacred touchstone for my soul.

Cait O’Connor



Samhain 2011

The Crystal Ball

John William Waterhouse

I woke in bits, like all children, piecemeal over the years. I discovered myself and the world, and forgot them, and discovered them again.

Anne Dillard

Dear Diary,

Being at home off sick now I have taken to searching my own bookshelves for reading matter and I found Anne Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek to read again and am also re-reading all my John O'Donohue books, both newly discovered finds which are such a joy to read.  What would you seek out from your own bookshelves?

I am listening to a lot of Radio 4 and this morning I enjoyed the first part of Jeanette Winterson's memoir Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal as it is the Book of the Week. The adoption aspect is close to my heart so perhaps I get even more from it but she is such a great writer (and poet).

On Sunday morning I heard Will Self's A Point of View about the arms trade (and more); what a fine piece that was. Details are below if you would like to hear it.

Will Self A Point of View Arms Trade

Duration: 11 minutes

Will Self deplores the arms trade and Britain's role in it, including the sale of weapons to authoritarian regimes which abuse human rights

Listen Again or on Podcast

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/console/b01694p0

Anyway enough of the present for you surely know that it is Samhain/ Halloween and the veil between this world and the next is at its thinnest so all our ancestors will be at their closest.

I for one will be out tonight and hopefully there will be sweet moonlight to ride by..........................................

Here is a poem that fits the occasion. 

Sweet dreams.......

Echo

Come to me in the silence of the night;

Come in the speaking silence of a dream;

Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright

As sunlight on a stream;

Come back in tears,

O memory, hope, love of finished years.

Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter-sweet,

Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,

Where souls brim-full of love abide and meet;

Where thirsting longing eyes

Watch the slow door

That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live

My very life again though cold in death:

Come back to me in dreams, that I may give

Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:

Speak low, lean low,

As long ago, my love, how long ago.

Christina Rossetti

Michael D Higgins

Michael D Higgins

 

So Ireland has a new president. The marvellous Mary Mcaleese who has been such an excellent representative of Ireland will indeed be a very hard act to follow but I was pleased to hear that Michael D Higgins has been elected and by such a huge margin. Perhaps it could only happen in Ireland that a poet could be a President though he is much more than that of course but it did make me happy to learn that he is one. He is also decribed as being without charisma - don't you just love that? And he is seventy years old to boot.   He is a proper socialist, an anti-war campaigner and a fighter for human rights and I particularly loved his statement that he wants to 'create an intellectual space' in our dear country.  God bless him.

Here is one of his poems.

When Will My Time Come?


When will my time come for scenery

And will it be too late?

After all

Decades ago I was never able

To get excited

About filling the lungs with ozone

On Salthill Prom.

And when the strangers

To whom I gave a lift

Spoke to me of the extraordinary

Light in the Western sky;

I often missed its changes.

And, later, when words were required

To intervene at the opening of Art Exhibitions,

It was not the same.

What is this tyranny of head that stifles

The eyes, the senses,

All play on the strings of the heart.

And, if there is a healing,

It is in the depth of a silence,

Whose plumbed depths require

A journey through realms of pain

That must be faced alone.

The hero, setting out,

Will meet an ally at a crucial moment.

But the journey home

Is mostly alone.

When my time comes

I will have made my journey

And through all my senses will explode

The evidence of light

And air and water, fire and earth.



Michael D Higgins

Samhain approaches

Friday already, this week is really flying as I will be in a few days when I have prepared my besom.

Today, after a slight frost overnight the sun is shining and the magical low lying mist has lifted.  I am taking gentle little walks with the dogs every day to fill my lungs with our pure Welsh air.  It is such a beautiful day and very well-deserved as yesterday was not just wet but was a dull, dull, dull dark and dreary grey all day.

Isn't it funny how sunshine lifts everyone's spirits so? It must be a light thing, perhaps we truly are drawn to the light.

I am reminded that Halloween is approaching; my grandchildren are getting excited and have been busy carving huge orange pumpkins. I am still not yet inspired to write myself but I am following dear Exmoor Jane's advice to just be and to watch the raindrops on the windows, we get plenty of those. Anyways I have found a poem for you, a contemporary one written in 2001 by a poet unknown to me. The Internet is wonderful in the way it introduces me to poets and poems I might otherwise miss. This poem is not a very happy one so does not fit the mood of the day and for that I apologise.


Dispatch from the Home Front:


Halloween 2001




like every other year I sit outside with a guitar

while kids roam in small packs

from lit door to lit door



the costumes tonight are not that frightening



angels and fairies and superheroes abound

a few bloodsuckers and ghouls

a sprinkling of skeletons

no terrorists



the adults pretend to be scared



jessie (the giraffe from across the street)

solemnly hands me M & Ms from her stash

when I put the Snickers in her pumpkin

“honey,” I tell her

“it’s not a trade – it‘s a gift”

and she solemnly takes them back



the young girl in the bathrobe and curlers

wearing the sign that says

I AM NOT A MORNING PERSON

says to me

“I want to hear you play your prettyful music”



so

I hand her candy

and I pick up my guitar

to play a song appropriate to the season

(a song by the Grateful Dead)

for this world’s recent ghosts



this world

where unimaginable ashes

sift down on children’s beds



in one part of this world

the very rocks and baseballs

smell of abrasives, jet fuel, burning rubber, corpses



in another part of this world

they are making the mail glow white

long enough to kill what lives on the words



in another part of this world

this guitar would be

illegal



in that country a shrouded woman

has been carefully picking food from a minefield

(food that was air dropped in my name)



she runs and lifts her child from the ground

raising his head high up onto her shoulder

vainly trying to keep the frightening blood from spilling too much



it will take her years to fall asleep again



when she does fall asleep

she will dream of picking up a yellow bomblet

wrapping it in swaddling clothes

suckling it until it blooms hot and bright



but she will not cry

as she holds him in that dream



we all dream that dream these days

we all hold our children closer

while holding back tears



a dream like that

is not a gift

it is a trade

we have all already given

more than enough in return for this one

and you do not let go of your tears

when tears are all you have left

Halloween night

I am pushing aside the veil between the worlds

a mourning person waiting for dawn

pretending to be scared to cover real fear

while I give sweets and prettyful music

to my neighbors’children



we are all a long way from home



if I knew the way

I would take you home

Tony Brown
________________________________________

Tony Brown is a poet, publisher & host of the long-running Poets Asylum reading series at the Java Hut in Worcester, Massachusetts. You can find more of his work online at the Open Mike Poetry site.

Oatmeal and Inspiration

Dear Diary,


Thank you for your good wishes in the comments, they mean a lot to me.


After having been really rather ill I am convalescing slowly and feeling a little stronger each day; I am eating well on a strict low-fat diet and though I am weak my body is feeling strangely well on it. I should be feeling even better when my gall-bladder is taken from me – please let it be soon.


All that’s missing is creative inspiration, I have none at all and feel quite bereft because of it so all I can post for you is a poem I heard on Radio 4’s Poetry Please on Sunday afternoon. It’s by Galway Kinnell and is called Oatmeal. Perhaps it struck a chord with me because I too eat oatmeal every morning and also eat it alone. I have never dreamed up an imaginary companion though as I am not a morning person, I love to be solitary and do not like to converse with anyone if I can help it.


I hope you enjoy the poem too – and pray tell me …….who would your imaginary companion be at breakfast time?

And please do tell me how I can get my inspiration back?



Oatmeal



I eat oatmeal for breakfast

I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it.

I eat it alone.

I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.

Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health

if somebody eats it with you.

That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have

breakfast with.

Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary

companion.

Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal porridge,

as he called it with John Keats.

Keats said I was absolutely right to invite him:

due to its glutinous texture, gluey lumpishness, hint of slime,

and unusual willingness to disintegrate, oatmeal should

not be eaten alone.

He said that in his opinion, however, it is perfectly OK to eat

it with an imaginary companion, and that he himself had

enjoyed memorable porridges with Edmund Spenser and John

Milton.

Even if eating oatmeal with an imaginary companion is not as

wholesome as Keats claims, still, you can learn something

from it.

Yesterday morning, for instance, Keats told me about writing the

"Ode to a Nightingale."

He had a heck of a time finishing it those were his words "Oi 'ad

a 'eck of a toime," he said, more or less, speaking through

his porridge.

He wrote it quickly, on scraps of paper, which he then stuck in his

pocket,

but when he got home he couldn't figure out the order of the stanzas,



and he and a friend spread the papers on a table, and they

made some sense of them, but he isn't sure to this day if

they got it right.

An entire stanza may have slipped into the lining of his jacket

through a hole in his pocket.

He still wonders about the occasional sense of drift between stanzas,

and the way here and there a line will go into the

configuration of a Moslem at prayer, then raise itself up

and peer about, and then lay \ itself down slightly off the mark,

causing the poem to move forward with a reckless, shining wobble.

He said someone told him that later in life Wordsworth heard about

the scraps of paper on the table, and tried shuffling some

stanzas of his own, but only made matters worse.

I would not have known any of this but for my reluctance to eat oatmeal

alone.

When breakfast was over, John recited "To Autumn."

He recited it slowly, with much feeling, and he articulated the words

lovingly, and his odd accent sounded sweet.

He didn't offer the story of writing "To Autumn," I doubt if there

is much of one.

But he did say the sight of a just-harvested oat field got him started

on it, and two of the lines, "For Summer has o'er-brimmed their

clammy cells" and "Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours,"

came to him while eating oatmeal alone.

I can see him drawing a spoon through the stuff, gazing into the glimmering

furrows, muttering.

Maybe there is no sublime; only the shining of the amnion's tatters.

For supper tonight I am going to have a baked potato left over from lunch

I am aware that a leftover baked potato is damp, slippery, and simultaneously

gummy and crumbly, and therefore I'm going to invite Patrick Kavanagh

to join me.



Galway Kinnell



About his work, Liz Rosenberg wrote in the Boston Globe: "Kinnell is a poet of the rarest ability, the kind who comes once or twice in a generation, who can flesh out music, raise the spirits and break the heart."


Bye for now,

Cait

A poem

Sorry I have been off the radar for a while; I have had a spell in hospital as I was taken ill quite suddenly. Am on the mend now but waiting for a little operation some time soon (I hope). Times like this makes one appreciate friendship and quite coincidentally, among the doom, gloom and despair that seems to dominate the news these days I heard this poem on Radio 4's Today programme in the Thought for the Day slot.

Really bad news yesterday was hearing that Alan Bennett and the protestors have lost the fight to save Brent libraries from closure.  Sad news indeed.

Anyway here is the poem.



Friendship



Such love I cannot analyse;


it does not rest in lips or eyes,

neither in kisses nor caress,

partly, I know, it’s gentleness



And understanding in one word

or in brief letters. It’s preserved

by trust and by respect and awe.

These are the words I’m feeling for.



Two people, yes, two lasting friends.

The giving comes, the taking ends.

There is no measure for such things.

For this all Nature slows and sings.



Elizabeth Jennings

A Sad Day

Dear Diary,

Try never to count the days,try instead to make the days count.

It is a sad day here in Wales as we have now heard that the fourth missing miner has now been found dead so that is now all four men who have tragically lost their lives as a result of flood water underground.

All over the country everyone's thoughts and hearts are with the bereaved families of the men whose lives were lost.

May God rest their souls.

Just a poem tonight and it seems to fit the mood.

Amber

It never mattered that there was once a vast grieving:
trees on their hillsides, in their groves, weeping—
a plastic gold dropping
through seasons and centuries to the ground—
until now.


On this fine September afternoon from which you are absent
I am holding, as if my hand could store it,
an ornament of amber
you once gave me.


Reason says this:
The dead cannot see the living.
The living will never see the dead again.


The clear air we need to find each other in is
gone forever, yet
this resin once
collected seeds, leaves and even small feathers as it fell
and fell
which now in a sunny atmosphere seem as alive as
they ever were
as though the past could be present and memory itself


a Baltic honey—
a chafing at the edges of the seen, a showing off of just how much
can be kept safe
inside a flawed translucence.






Eavan Boland

Just a picture and a poem

Autumn leaves - Millais

West Virginia – A Life



Once a cog state,

good for only coal and oil and gas,

it was always almost heaven to me.

I sit out this lifetime on my porch now;

my dreams are ancient mountains,

cool trout waters, may apples and black walnuts

white pine and willow, sycamore.

Our old log cabin in the wildwoods,

my one-room school, a walking bridge,

grapevines over rivers, skimming stones.

Winter and I are kin now;

where once was warmth, sub-tropical and kind,

there’s only snow, bone-seeping ice, so cruelly cold.

I seek my solace in the Appalachian Fall,

its radiant colours lift me somewhere high,

a place near heaven, bright and God-given.

I still hear music in my heart,

the fiddlers and the balladeers, they move me

with their tunes of joy, laments of pain,

and strains of Ireland in their tears



Cait O’Connor

Hard Times

What is a cynic? A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

Oscar Fingal O'Flaherty Wills Wilde 1854-1900