World Book Night

Anyone who says they have only one life to live must not know how to read a book.  

Anon

A good book on your shelf is a friend that turns its back on you and remains a friend. 
Anon.

A good book should leave you... slightly exhausted at the end.  You live several lives while reading it.  ~William Styron, interview, Writers at Work, 1958


Dear Diary,

I expect you’ve heard of the Million Book Giveaway to be held on World Book Night, March 5th 2011;  an attempt by publishers to promote the reading of books (and if I am to be cynical their own specific authors).  It is said to be a collaboration between booksellers, libraries, publishers and readers but I have heard nothing about it in our library service. They have come up with a list of 25 titles (see below) and want people to submit 100 words in praise of their favourite one in the hope of being picked as one of the 20,000 people chosen to give away 48 copies to folk who don’t normally read.

I am not against anything that promotes the reading of books but I would love to make my own list and feel sure I could pick books, real crackers……. titles that would be more likely to encourage people to read. I bet you could too?  This is a challenge to myself and I shall be working on it.  Why don’t you have a go too and send your suggestions to me?

Anyway these are the ones they have chosen.

Case Histories -Kate Atkinson
Margaret Atwood - The Blind Assassin
Alan Bennett - A Life Like Other People's
John le Carré - The Spy Who Came in From the Cold
Lee Child - Killing Floor
Carol Ann Duffy - The World's Wife
Mark Haddon - The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
Seamus Heaney - Selected Poems
Marian Keyes - Rachel's Holiday
Mohsin Hamid - The Reluctant Fundamentalist
Ben Macintyre - Agent Zigzag
Gabriel García Márquez - Love in the Time of Cholera
Yann Martel - Life of Pi
Alexander Masters - Stuart: A Life Backwards
Rohinton Mistry - A Fine Balance
David Mitchell - Cloud Atlas
Toni Morrison - Beloved
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie - Half of a Yellow Sun
David Nicholls - One Day
Philip Pullman - Northern Lights
Erich Maria Remarque - All Quiet on the Western Front
CJ Sansom - Dissolution
Nigel Slater - Toast
Muriel Spark - The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
Sarah Waters - Fingersmith

I am a little sad because although they are all ’good’ books they are a tad predictable and what I call ’fashionable’.  I realise that they probably have to be contemporary but even so  none of them jump out at me demanding to be fought for and I enjoy a fight....... especially for a book……such is my passion.  As for the poetic inclusions of course I adore both Seamus Heaney and Carol Ann Duffy but I think the organisers could have chosen a wider view by picking an anthology of poetry.  I realise the publishers are putting a lot of money into the venture and  are hoping to recoup it in sales but overall I am disappointed……….. what do you think?

If you are still awake......... to whet your appetite I have dug out the BBC's Big Read Top 100 books which was compiled a few years ago - there are some grand titles here.. 

1. The Lord of the Rings, JRR Tolkien
2. Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
3. His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman
4. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
5. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, JK Rowling
6. To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
7. Winnie the Pooh, AA Milne
8. Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell
9. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, CS Lewis
10. Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë
11. Catch-22, Joseph Heller
12. Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë
13. Birdsong, Sebastian Faulks
14. Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier
15. The Catcher in the Rye, JD Salinger
16. The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame
17. Great Expectations, Charles Dickens
18. Little Women, Louisa May Alcott
19. Captain Corelli's Mandolin, Louis de Bernieres
20. War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy
21. Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell
22. Harry Potter And The Philosopher's Stone, JK Rowling
23. Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets, JK Rowling
24. Harry Potter And The Prisoner Of Azkaban, JK Rowling
25. The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien
26. Tess Of The D'Urbervilles, Thomas Hardy
27. Middlemarch, George Eliot
28. A Prayer For Owen Meany, John Irving
29. The Grapes Of Wrath, John Steinbeck
30. Alice's Adventures In Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
31. The Story Of Tracy Beaker, Jacqueline Wilson
32. One Hundred Years Of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez
33. The Pillars Of The Earth, Ken Follett
34. David Copperfield, Charles Dickens
35. Charlie And The Chocolate Factory, Roald Dahl
36. Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson
37. A Town Like Alice, Nevil Shute
38. Persuasion, Jane Austen
39. Dune, Frank Herbert
40. Emma, Jane Austen
41. Anne Of Green Gables, LM Montgomery
42. Watership Down, Richard Adams
43. The Great Gatsby, F Scott Fitzgerald
44. The Count Of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas
45. Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh
46. Animal Farm, George Orwell
47. A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
48. Far From The Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy
49. Goodnight Mister Tom, Michelle Magorian
50. The Shell Seekers, Rosamunde Pilcher
51. The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett
52. Of Mice And Men, John Steinbeck
53. The Stand, Stephen King
54. Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
55. A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth
56. The BFG, Roald Dahl
57. Swallows And Amazons, Arthur Ransome
58. Black Beauty, Anna Sewell
59. Artemis Fowl, Eoin Colfer
60. Crime And Punishment, Fyodor Dostoyevsky
61. Noughts And Crosses, Malorie Blackman
62. Memoirs Of A Geisha, Arthur Golden
63. A Tale Of Two Cities, Charles Dickens
64. The Thorn Birds, Colleen McCollough
65. Mort, Terry Pratchett
66. The Magic Faraway Tree, Enid Blyton
67. The Magus, John Fowles
68. Good Omens, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman
69. Guards! Guards!, Terry Pratchett
70. Lord Of The Flies, William Golding
71. Perfume, Patrick Süskind
72. The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, Robert Tressell
73. Night Watch, Terry Pratchett
74. Matilda, Roald Dahl
75. Bridget Jones's Diary, Helen Fielding
76. The Secret History, Donna Tartt
77. The Woman In White, Wilkie Collins
78. Ulysses, James Joyce
79. Bleak House, Charles Dickens
80. Double Act, Jacqueline Wilson
81. The Twits, Roald Dahl
82. I Capture The Castle, Dodie Smith
83. Holes, Louis Sachar
84. Gormenghast, Mervyn Peake
85. The God Of Small Things, Arundhati Roy
86. Vicky Angel, Jacqueline Wilson
87. Brave New World, Aldous Huxley
88. Cold Comfort Farm, Stella Gibbons
89. Magician, Raymond E Feist
90. On The Road, Jack Kerouac
91. The Godfather, Mario Puzo
92. The Clan Of The Cave Bear, Jean M Auel
93. The Colour Of Magic, Terry Pratchett
94. The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho
95. Katherine, Anya Seton
96. Kane And Abel, Jeffrey Archer
97. Love In The Time Of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez
98. Girls In Love, Jacqueline Wilson
99. The Princess Diaries, Meg Cabot
100. Midnight's Children, Salman Rushdie
 

I'd love to hear your favourite(s),or if you do a blog on them send me a link and I will include it on my blog.

Bye for now,
Cait.
PS Do go here today:
Mosaic Monday

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Dear Diary,

The cold has become something of a cliché and I fear I am boring you. But it is on my mind all the time and sensually I can’t ignore it because most of the time I am striving to keep warm. I am sure it dulls the brain and slows me down because I seem to be just plodding lately, getting nowhere fast and unable to achieve anything; I have just spent what seems like ages just replying to mail and deleting my overfull email Inbox - a complete waste of time really.

I look out of the cottage windows and everything is a bright white, it is really very beautiful (another cliché) but there are always so many (desperate) birds flying around or feeding (and sometimes fighting) at the feeders. We bought huge sacks of peanuts and seed to see them through and I feed them each morning while my own breakfast of porridge is cooking (oats make good central heating!). Mid-morning those late risers the starlings arrive en masse and ‘take over’ - M hates them but I say they have to live and eat the same as the rest of us. I haven’t seen any fieldfares yet this year which is strange as they always come in conditions like this - perhaps it is too early in the season.

There are lots of icicles and thick snow but at least the road is clear and traffic is passing by safely - a bit different to this time last week when we had eighteen vehicles stuck outside. We will be OK until the council’s grit supplies run low and then we will not be top priority - then the fun will start ….or not.

The weather dominates the news and the constant forecasts which are frustrating because they can never seem to get it right (‘twas ever thus). My daughter says they make it up as they go along and I think she is right. They said it would be Minus 6 last night and it was Minus 12.5. It is a balmy Minus 5 at the moment! I look pretty barmy too layered up as I am indoors and wearing an unflattering thermal hat that is too big for me. It was bought in desperation at the beginning of the week - there was not much choice in the agricultural supplies store. But I have finally succumbed and turned the radiators up to their maximum output, I’m dreading the leccy bill as it was horrendous last year and I didn’t turn it on full then.

The wind has lessened today but it is cloudy and snow is forecast for later. I have to go out soon but will be keeping an eye on the skies…….

How is it with you?

Bye for now,
Cait.

Universal Child

How many mountains must you face before you learn to climb.

I'm gonna give you what it takes, my universal child.

I'm gonna try to find a way to keep you safe from harm.

I'm gonna be a special place, a shelter from the storm.

And I can see you, you're everywhere, your portrait fills the sky.

I'm gonna wrap my arms around you, my universal child.

And when I look into your eyes, so innocent and pure.

I see the shadow of the things that you've had to endure.

I see the tracks of every tear that ran right down your face.

I see the hurt, I see the pain, I see the human race.
Find More lyrics at www.sweetslyrics.com

I can feel you, you're everywhere, shining like the sun.

And I wish to God that kids like you could be like everyone.

How many tumbles must it take before you learn to fly.

I'm going to help you spread your wings, my universal child.

I can feel you everywhere shining like the sun.

And I wish to God that kids like you could be like everyone.

And I wish to God that kids like you could be like everyone.


Annie Lennox

Minus 18

Sorry it is yet another poem and not a proper blog. It is so cold in my study that I am not keen on spending much time at the computer; the log fire is much more inviting. There is not much on my mind these last few days other than keeping warm.

I hope normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

I was inspired to write this little poem though.


Minus 18



I have walked this day in sunshine
and in the lighted snow,
have found there can still be joy
amongst the cruellest, fiercest cold
for I have trod amongst diamonds
and as frosted jewels surrounded me,
I was made rich.

Two well-fed dogs ran beside me;
covered in white, all sniff and snuffle,
racing and falling, they would laugh and rise again.

Among the maiden snowfall,
across the field and by the frozen river’s side
lay snow prints of a record-breaking, freezing winter’s night;
fine drawings in a stark and saddened monochrome;
lines drawn by otters, foxes, badgers and the rest,
all had crossed this hardened, whitened winterland
but were they writ in hope or desperation?


Cait O’Connor

Just a pic and a poem

 Maxfield Parrish 1870

Morning

Dark or light, the day is given;

her kindly presence surely follows night.

Sure, like rain or death and taxes,

she is granted to me with each dawn

and if I’m spared, must always quietly rise.

She is dressed in white this morn,

layered in time, folded in hours

stitched with hope and clothed in mystery

and I can play her as I wish.

I can stretch her out or hold her close, 

sing low and soft or seek out beauty in her dance,

measure out in hours or seconds all its spice,

savour all its sweetness in my moments,

rub in truth and knead delight,

speak a prayer with grace

or quietly weep,

spit her out and run away.

Cait O’Connor

Frost

How can one keep from joyfulness
or a whispered thanks to God?
I didn’t exactly order it
though it was ladled last night
in my falling-in to sleep
and cradled in my dreams.
But it came unbidden to me;
hoar frost, a mist and sunlight
have dressed this mid-November morning.
and I need not ask for more.
From my window of white diamonds
a heron stalks the river
gazes at the bridge,
is standing, statuesque, in meditation.
I watch too, in a similarity of stillness
but who will weaken first?
with a call to breakfast or to prayer?



Cait O’Connor

Dear Diary,

Our River

It’s been too long again since I last blogged.   I can offer no worthy excuses; there is only life as usual and a respiratory virus that is doing the rounds which has laid me low and sapped my energies..  But whatever I am doing I would rather be writing and am with you in spirit if nothing else.

I am on the mend now I think because I have spent time this weekend beginning to put the garden to bed.  This I have delayed as long as possible in order to shorten its winter sleep.   Everything looks bedraggled though as it always does at this time of year and I don‘t think I have ever cleared up so many leaves as I have this year. -  I long for one of those attractive, inspiring winter gardens full of colourful touches  like winter jasmine, hellebores, viburnum, mahonia and witchhazel, I read that there is even a winter flowering cherry called a Prunus Autumnalis Rosea.  I do have a daphne which is always a delight when it flowers and a dogwood with its gorgeous red stems.  And my much-loved cyclamens which seem to like this Welsh upland.
Come spring I will have forgotten all about these ideas for winter and I will never get around to planting any winter brighteners for next year.   Never mind,  I will look forward to January and the arrival of my snowdrops because from then on the only way is up.  I quite like the snow when  it comes because it bestows its own special  beauty on the garden, frosts do too and my favourite of all are the hoar frosts.  There are lots of red berries this year which tells me that we are in for another hard winter - I must prepare myself for another hefty leccy bill.  I always enjoy being in the garden as my mind can wander and I often get ideas or inspiration to write something.  It is certainly relaxing but exhausting at the same time which is probably what a body needs to be well.

The dark evenings are upon us which means the days are short; thank God for log fires and our ancient Rayburn which we have resurrected of late as it has been soooo cold.  Winter has its many blessings and as long as I can keep warm I am happy but even so, time outside in all weathers is essential to keep that black dog at bay.

There was an exciting happening last week.  M saw two otters playing in our river - in the daytime!  I was indoors at the time so I missed them and was naturally green with envy.  We are wondering of they have made a home nearby and will be on otter watch from now on.  I shall keep you posted.

I will leave with a song, it is so well-known, is somehow eternal and the subject is peace - on a day when people think of the dead in warfare both past and present I always wish we could have such a day to try and bring about peace in our time with maybe the wearing of white flowers.







Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Samhain

Dear Diary,

Samhain Art Nouveau greeting card - Oestara Publishing

(I shall start with a poem and end with a blessing).

Yea, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves,
And the great garths, and stacks, and quiet farms,
And all the tawny, and the crimson leaves.
Yea, she hath passed with poppies in her arms,
Under the star of dusk, through stealing mist,
And blessed the earth, and gone, while no man wist.

With slow, reluctant feet, and weary eyes,
And eye-lids heavy with the coming sleep,
With small breasts lifted up in stress of sighs,
She passed, as shadows pass, among the sheep;
While the earth dreamed, and only I was ware
Of that faint fragrance blown from her soft hair.

The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams;
There was no sound amid the sacred boughs.
Nor any mournful music in her streams:
Only I saw the shadow on her brows,
Only I knew her for the yearly slain,
And wept, and weep until she come again.

 

Frederic Manning

I apologise -  it has been such a long time since my last ‘confessions’.

I’ve been away for a few days to the Otherworld which is what we call the South East of England from whence we escaped twenty years ago.  We travelled eastwards from Wales for the wedding of my niece in Lewes and also for a reunion of siblings for my husband, also by chance held in Sussex.  We stayed with my brother and sister in law in Surrey which is always a pleasure.  Much as we hate to leave Wales, the pleasure of seeing so many family members who we don’t see often enough was a real joy.

Last night was a return to watching Strictly Come Dancing but I didn’t enjoy it as much as usual.  Only one dance moved me (Matthew) and the judging, the costumes and the ridiculous Halloween theme choice of music were a disappointment.  Personally I don’t think Halloween and music and dancing mix.  I hope next week is an improvement.  Sometimes the costumes are so unflattering, all the wrong colour and they irritate me so much that I am itching to re-clothe the contestants.  Moan over.  I am allowed one per day.

So Sunday comes round again, my favourite day of the week but even though I call it my day of rest it is back to the old everyday routine because I am back to doing my daily yoga each morning  -  I have been very lazy of late, preferring to have an extra twenty minutes in bed instead of exercising each morning as I used to.  I do my yoga routines to music and never know what songs will play as I set my Windows Media Player to shuffle selection mode.  This makes it more fun and in a really daft way it helps get me out of bed each morning, eager to see what music will come up.  Sad eh? Today’s music is pure Sunday, easy going soft and gentle songs by Mark Knopfler and Celine Dion (not together!) and a final one by Eric Clapton which wakes me up and energises me as only Clapton can. 

I am still reading in bed each morning as usual and the book I am reading at the moment is so good that it makes it hard to put down.  I have read it before -  it is The Secret Scripture by a much loved author, Sebastian Barry but a book group member has, to my delight,  chosen it for our November read. I know the ‘story’ so can now re-read  and completely wallow in the writing -  and it is language to die for.

And so it is Samhain already, the time when the veil is the thinnest between this world and the next.  I love Autumn so and will be very sad to see October leave us, she has been and still is so beauteous this year.  I can’t remember last year’s leaves being as colourful as they are this year. I am not of scientific mind.but  I think it’s something to do with the weather, frosts and all that.

John O'Donohue 1991-2009

Talking of dearly departed souls, John O’Donohue is one of the most missed so I was so pleased to hear of a newly published book of his writings..

In The Four Elements, John draws upon his Celtic heritage and the love of his native landscape, the west of Ireland, to weave together a tapestry of beautifully evoked images of nature.

In this collection, John explores a range of themes relating to the way we live our lives today, revealing how the energy and rhythm of the natural world – its innocence and creativity, its power and splendour – hold profound lessons for us all.

With a foreword written by his brother Pat, this illuminating treasury is a unique collection of reflections inspired by the ancient wisdom of this earth.

The book is available in the U.K. and is set for release in the U.S. early next year.

For more information: http://www.johnodonohue.com/news

I am off to order a copy now, it will have to be (a tad early) Christmas present to myself..

In September I had sent my dear sister the latest book of John O’Donohue’s Blessings for her birthday and I was thrilled when one of them was read out at her daughter’s wedding.


For Marriage

As spring unfolds the dream of the earth,
May you bring each other’s hearts to birth.
As the ocean finds calm in the view of land
May you love the gaze of each other’s mind.
As the wind arises free and wild,
May nothing negative control your lives.
As kindly as the moonlight might search the dark,
So gentle may you be when light grows scarce.
As surprised as the silence that music opens,
May your words for each other be touched with reverence.
As warmly as the air draws in the light,
May you welcome each other’s every gift.
As elegant as dreams absorbing the night,
May sleep find you clear of anger and hurt.
And as twilight harvests the day’s colours,
May love bring you home to each other.

John O’Donohue

I will leave you now because before I polish up my broomstick I have alliums to plant, dogs to walk and Sunday lunch to get on the go.  I hope you will forgive me that this post is a lot about Irish authors but I think it must be my dead ancestors trying to influence me through the veil.

Blessings,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Close to You

Kitty

Finn

This post is a response to a kind of Meme posed in the wonderful blog that is Chronicles of a Country Girl.
(do go and visit her blog, there are photos to die for, she is another Kate and she also has a border collie).

These questions were posed.

You may recognise the wording as they come from lyrics of the song Close to You by the Carpenters.


Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?

I like to think it’s because they love me as much as I love them, especially as it is said they are akin to angels. But it is more likely that they see me as the lady of the cottage who feeds them with nuts, mixed seeds, fat balls, left over bread and the like. But they do enjoy my music and always sing along when I fling open doors or windows,

What always gets you down?

Definitely not rainy days and Mondays as I love both.
Best not get me started on what does though, I am a Grumpy Old Woman of late and it could turn out to be a blog in itself.

If you had to live yesterday once more (literally yesterday, as in Friday the 15th) which part might be worth writing a pretty pop song about?

Oh God I can’t even remember yesterday!
Let it be today.
Let the song be about autumn sunshine, a walk in the field with the dogs, taking photos, river watching, listening to music, watching dance, laughing, having a nice meal, feeling great joy that it is the weekend and that all is well.

Where’s the coolest place you’ve been where you could look “down on creation?”

I hate flying in an aeroplane but would like to be able to have a superhuman ability to fly and not only in dreams. I have not been on the top of the world, not literally but like most people I have been there mood-wise on occasions and it is a good feeling - not under the influence of any drugs I hasten to add.

What’s something in your life that has only just begun?

The rest of my life has only just begun.
This moment……
Ah, it has passed already.

All these answers are cliché-ridden, I apologise.

Here’s one for you inspired by another song, the Lovin Spoonful’s Do You Believe In Magic?

Do you believe in magic?
Do you believe in magic in a young girl’s heart?
Can music free your soul?
Does it make you feel happy like an old-time movie?
Is the magic in the music or is the magic in you?

Tell me of the magic in your life.

I am looking forward to answers in the comments or in your blog.

Bye for now,
Cait.

Friday Rambles

Windswept by Paul Henry

Dear Diary,

Who can tell the dancer from the dance?

W B Yeats.

This is just a bit of a Friday ramble, just a list of a few nice things about the day.

The sun has been shining, it has been very warm, more like summer in fact and I have primroses out in my garden which, nestling beneath the roses make a rather unusual coupling.  A fuchsia I have planted in an old Belfast sink has also decided to flower once more.

There is also something rather nice that helps me get out of bed in the mornings and it’s a new kind of cereal.  Chocolate Weetabix, have you tried it yet? Simply delicious, the naughtiness of chocolate mixed with the healthiness of wholewheat, what a grand combination.   I feel I should  perhaps be paid for advertising it but never mind.  I must admit that I have been unfaithful to my organic porridge for a few days now, Jordan’s porridge which I adore, their organic and chunky oats which I have had religiously every morning for literally years as anyone who knows me will confirm.  I usually add ground almonds, raisins and whatever fruit comes to hand…. Very healthy and sustaining for me ……but not lately.  I  have a new temptation.  I know the answer …. Jordans will have to make chocolate porridge…..they don’t do they?

So what else has been good?

I found some YSL Elle perfume very greatly reduced in a local Boots and a Wallis skirt in a charity shop, it is my favourite skirt-colour -  grey in my much-loved herringbone tweed mixed with a textured tweed and just below knee length.

Talking of clothes I am a bit late I know but I have just discovered Boden’s 'pull-ons', I have a pair in lovely jade green and white flowery pattern and really, as their website says, the comfort and quality of these is out of this world.  Worth every penny. I sleep in them, wear them to lounge about or snuggle up in, do my yoga in them, I even blog in them.  I think I need two pairs!  I am getting well into snuggly type clothes now as winter draws on.  I have got some really soft  socks from M and S, quite inexpensive too but soooo warm and comfy. Again I wear them for everything.  And I bought a pair of their cheap soft boots, the sort you wear indoors.  I have to be prepared for the hard winter that is forecast.  Someone said to expect snow showers next week!

I also discovered a new fruit and veg shop today in one of our market towns, it is a little bit hidden away on an industrial estate and  sells the most fantastic range of stuff which is all really good quality.  They sell eggs, plants, ice cream and  bird food too.  There is a dearth of places round here to get good vegetables and fruit so I am very pleased.  Also for sale  there was a fantastic classic car - a 1953 burgundy coloured Vauxhall Wyvern.  Stumbling on this car was a real trip down memory lane for me as when I was a child my adoptive parents had one in a metallic green colour - I even remember its registration number - 729 HEV.

I treated myself to a magazine today, an Easy Living with a free gift of an Emma Bridgewater tea towel which can’t be a bad deal.  I shall read my book (Stepping Stones - Interviews with Seamus Heaney by Denis O'Driscoll)   in bed tonight by the light of another much loved object, my little reading lamp which can be clipped on a book - I just hold mine as it can be bent into any position, the light it gives is fantastic, the battery has lasted ages and it even doubles up as a torch.  I am putting a lot of effort into simplifying my life and getting rid of stuff, and as well as 'stuff' I am trying to eliminate what I call the 'nuisance' in life and all its 'unwanted obligations' but there are some things one just can’t live without.  What can’t you live without?
What are you getting rid of?

Before I go here is a poem by one of my favourite poets. She speaks of things you can't buy but which are the most valuable of all.

Barter

LIFE has loveliness to sell,

All beautiful and splendid things,

Blue waves whitened on a cliff,

Soaring fire that sways and sings,

And children's faces looking up,

Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,

Music like a curve of gold,

Scent of pine trees in the rain,

Eyes that love you, arms that hold,

And for your spirit's still delight,

Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,

Buy it and never count the cost;

For one white singing hour of peace

Count many a year of strife well lost,

And for a breath of ecstasy

Give all you have been, or could be. 

 

 

Sara Teasdale

 What was good about your day?

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

The Model

 

The Model


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

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

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

Cait O’Connor

Dear John

 John Lennon would have been 70 tomorrow had he lived.

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

National Poetry Day

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

The Table

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

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

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

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

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

Stephanie Norgate

 

Poetry

Alphonse Mucha 1860-1939

A Poem I Must Share

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

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

The Widower and his clothes 

 

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

Margaret Livingston

Just a song

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

A Glimpse into my Morning

Dear Diary,

Photo by John Ellis

Waste no opportunities.
  This is called following the light
Tao

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So many books, too  little time.

Before I go here are just a few of my


Thoughts on Autumn


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

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

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

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


Cait O’Connor

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Images and a few words

Dear Diary,

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

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

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

Before I go,

I will leave you with a little poem.

Ange passe



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


Cait O'Connor

Heart-Lifters

Dear Diary,

Roald Dahl writing in his shed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Days

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

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

Philip Larkin


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


Dublinesque


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

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

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

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

Philip Larkin


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

A Fable For Our Times

The Ant Story : Working Life

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

Migration

Just a poem today.

Migration/Safe Home

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

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

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

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

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


Cait O'Connor

 Safe Home

Connemara Blues

Dear Diary,

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

John Keats

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Procedure

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


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

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

The Fisherman

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

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Ramblings

Dear Diary,

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

I will pick out the good points of the one

and imitate them

and the bad points of the other

and correct them in myself.

Confucius (c551-478 BC)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loss

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

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

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

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

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

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


Joan McBreen


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

Bye for now,
Cait

The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo

Dear Diary,

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

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

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

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

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

PS What are you reading?

Beginnings

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think not.

And there’s the pity of it

Cait O’Connor

92

Top of the Hill

Henry, Grace

c.1920

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

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

Dear Diary,

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

Satchel Paige

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

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

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

I digress.

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

Ninety-two


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

.
Cait O’Connor

That’s all for now,
Life beckons,
Cait

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

Song for a Sunday

 Mrs McGrath.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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