Alexander Averin

Tuesday 29 April 2014

Red, Blue, Green, Yellow

Why do two colours, put one next to the other, sing? Can one really explain this? No. Just as one can never learn how to paint.
Pablo Picasso

Red, Blue, Green, Yellow

Paintings are a dream, more than just colours:
red, blue, green, yellow.
Books are an experience, more than paper and ink.
Some folk can taste the shapes of the  letters,
touch the sounds of the storyteller’s voice,
and can even smell the words on the page.
Music is a language, more than the food of love,
more than sound, we feel it somewhere down deep.
Someone said, play the notes and listen hard;
D flat is deep plum, Middle C sapphire blue.
Some folk play inner chords in the key of
silence, dreaming their own private rainbows,
whose palette’s intensity is quiet,
always muted, not florid, lurid or loud.
Some spend their whole lives under the water,
blindfold, deaf and dumb.
Some see coloured auras others cannot see,
hear voices from another place and time,
but  keep all their inner secrets silent.
Some babies born from the Light, in colours
soft, quiet and under-stated, soon blossom
into brilliance, in tune with memories
of Spirit’s dazzling primary colours:
red, blue, green and yellow.

Cait O’Connor

Saturday 26 April 2014


A Pose, Caught in a Moment

Taken through the kitchen window while I was eating my breakfast this morning


What are moments for?
Moments: over and over they come, they 
haunt us, we wait for them, race through them,
speak of them and waste far too many 
at our peril. We should treat each one as 
special and seize them, not speed them on their way.
Some hours we set apart, planning to be 
happy in. But all moments are Earth’s murmurs 
to be merry and be dreamy  in 
to be forever joyful, never mournful.
What can we live within but hours and minutes, 
days and years? We must still extract each moment,
sense each one and mould it, stretch it out to 
fit us. What form are they, these fragile fragments
of our lives, are they diamonds, squares or circles?
What shape is time? Where does it go? An answer 
to those questions would bring God and all the
angels to claim us, flying over the
fields to carry us away on the wind
and in the briefest of moments we would
be gone.........

Cait O’Connor

(Apologies to Philip Larkin)

Sunday 20 April 2014

Easter Musings

Finland 1968

Easter Musings 2014

I prefer back views, they leave much to the
imagination; we can only dream what
their expressions were on that hopeful day
back in the sixties when you and I were
not yet born, nor even dreamed of in some
fashion.  Our souls did not exist on Earth,
knew nothing of the storms that might one day
befall us on such a seemingly timeless,
future springtime day.  Now, in the noughties ,
very much alive, we can’t ignore the
bleak precipitations but we huddle
beside the grey and uni-coloured folk
beneath the darkened silvery birches
under umbrellas together.  Sometimes
all we can do is unleash balloons in
colours of the rainbow to be a kind
of  sixties prayer, a plea for comradeship and peace
for all the peoples of the world to see.

Cait O’Connor

This is another Magpie Tale.
Other can be found here

Tuesday 15 April 2014


The King of Cats, 1935, Balthus 

This is a self-portrait of me with my human, Balthus the artist, you may have heard of him though he is something of a recluse, he prefers painting to almost anything else and likes to be perceived as an enigma. He is an intovert, occasionally visited by poets, writers, painters too but no other cats are ever allowed over our threshold. 

I am the King of Cats as you can probably tell from my proud bearing, size and strength.  I am known as H.M. or King for short.  It was very good of Balthus to do this painting of me and because of his supposed talent with the brush I condescendingly allowed him to be in it. He does in fact try and make out I painted it, (I ask you, who would believe that cats can hold a paintbrush?).  He tried to take over the image somewhat but my beauty and regal bearing reign supreme.   I don’t think much of his outfit but he has a uniquely odd dress sense.  I think his legs look overlong in this picture and he seems somewhat out of proportion but that may be intended, you know what these artists are like, (what do you think?).  

I am Balthus’s guardian of being (this phrase is very ‘in’ at the moment so I thought I would throw it in). Without me he would be a nervous wreck but he has learned to watch me and tries to be like me; spiritual and soulful but with an independent streak.

I shall leave you with a poem, just to prove that Balthus is not the only artistic one in this family. 

My Self-Portrait by Balthus

Lithe and long of limb, eyes as wide as his ego,
hair as dark as his imagination.
Dressed in his best, as familiars go,
Balthus is a superior specimen but
he has to be to match my royal bearing.

I allowed him to be in my self-portrait
but he tries to hog the frame, centre stage.
He presents me rubbing up his leg in
hero-worship mode;  (if he only knew, 
it is not about affection, just a 
hunger for fish). 

Cait O’Connor
aka HM King of Cats

(Another Magpie Tale exercise).

Blood Red Moon

My Last Night's Moon pics are below but

Tonight is special......

The April 15th, 2014 Full Moon is also a total lunar eclipse, hence the name Blood Red Moon.  In North and South America and a few other places in the Pacific region this eclipse will last just over an hour and a half. Which will make for an amazing star gazing experience.

The Blood Moon has always been a symbol of great change or big events coming in the near future. With this being a full total lunar eclipse the power behind the significance of this moon is of course astronomical.

This is a time when the Earth, Sun, and Moon will align and when that happens it is believed that a gateway to the stars, to heaven, is opened and we are then able to speak with those not only in the spirit world but other dimensions.

This lunar eclipse can be viewed with your telescope and even the naked eye. It is not like having a solar eclipse of the sun.


Monday 7 April 2014

The Palm Reader

For Magpie Tales.

The Palm Reader

I crept in showing sunken palms, chasms of
no confidence, a failing in my hands
for all to see, a map of lines I had  
worn lifelong and an eager, far
too trusting, sympathetic, ailing heart.
She swept in on an air of frankincense
and cedar, her aura rainbowed, sparkling
silver and gypsy gold with a tourmaline
ring hung on red- ribboned silk, for she dowsed,
read leaves,clouds, water and a crystal ball.
She saw weird shapes in dripping, melting wax,
all yielded secrets to her as she scryed.
She said I had a Water hand, (intuitive,
compassionate but gullible and too
unworldly for this tainted planet Earth).
A heart line deeply curvy (I did like
the sound of that) but I was without any
minor lines (well none to speak of). No crosses
or triangles, no sign of little squares.
But then she found the writer’s fork (quite rare)
which showed a poet's soul (kind, true, sensitive).
When I reached home elated, I created
a bouquet for her of words, as we poets love to do
for when we’d bidden our farewells I’d seen
deep into her psychic eyes and had no
doubt that I  had left with her the knowledge
of my very secret ‘poet’s life’ of dreams.

Cait O’Connor

Friday 4 April 2014

All about writing


I read in the Indie  that it is Maya Angelou’s birthday today.   Very many happy returns Maya.

Something arrived on my Facebook page yesterday about the writing rituals of some well known writers. This was Maya’s entry:

Most writers can’t afford to check into a hotel when the urge to scribble hits, but for Angelou, it’s the key to great writing. In the wee hours of the morning she’ll book herself a room with a special request: all distracting wall d├ęcor must vanish. Armed with a bottle of sherry, a deck of cards, some legal pads, a thesaurus and the Bible, she’s spent hours crafting prose in this carefully constructed environment stripped of almost all inspiration

I love to have the thesaurus close by but haven't resorted to sherry yet.

Talking of writing and rituals, the writer Nina Milton has invited me to join the BLOG TOUR which is travelling around Blogland at some speed at the moment. Nina was invited by the writer Jackie Biggs whose blog is here.  You can read Nina Milton’s s entry at her blog Kitchen Table Writers.  Nina is a published author who has written for children, she has also written short stories and of late she writes exciting crime fiction.  She was my wonderful tutor on two creative writing courses which I did some years ago with the Open College of the Arts and I shall be forever grateful to her for her excellent advice.  I still think of her when I am tempted to use too many words or slip in a cliche!  I wish I could afford to do some more courses with the OCA; I can recommend them highly.

Anyway, the writers' TOUR involves answering these four questions and then nominating one or two other writers to do the same.

1. What am I working on?

2. How does my work differ?

3. Why do I write?

4.  How does my process of writing work?

     So here are my answers.

1.  What am I working on?

Unlike most of these ‘blog tourists’ I am not a professional writer or published author, I am just a blogger.  I have never submitted anything  in the hope of getting it published.  I have entered poems into local Eisteddfodds and won prizes and I did win one prize in a writing competition, the only competition I have ever entered!

I have been blogging for seven years now and I amaze even myself as I don’t think I have ever kept up with anything for so long  before.  It started life quite by chance as a sort of nature diary which I entered into a Country Living magazine competition and (coincidentally) Nina Milton encouraged me to continue it;  I did so and it sort of grew into a blog.

The joys of blogging and reading others’ blogs have been many and are continuing.  I have met and am still meeting many inspirational and likeminded folk from all over the world.

My other passion of late is photography and I have a blog for some of my photos here.  I am planning to put words to some of my own images, I am quite excited about that.

Funny how things turn out.

I mainly write poems;  I have a huge collection which is growing all the time and I am also writing a story in novel form based on my own and my mother’s life as there is quite a tale there to tell.  It has been an ongoing project for too long but I am determined to move it on somewhat this year. I have also written a sort of nature journal, a kind of meditative piece  which is almost ready. Ready for what I don’t know.

2.  How does my work differ?

Not quite sure how to answer that.

If a writer is to succeed they should have their own original voice which speaks from the heart and I am striving to find my own.

3. Why do I write? 

I have had a passion for the written word since I was a child.  I live and breathe books and have just retired from my (perfect) job as a librarian.  When I was quite young I used to fill exercise books with my stories of adventure. If I wasn’t reading I would write, both were my favourite forms of much-needed escapism.  As I grew older I started to write poems and that is what I concentrate on now.

(I am cheating in this next bit).

I have dug out something written a few years ago.  Nothing has changed.

Why I Write

I don’t write for you,  I write for me.

I write for you, I don’t write for me.

For whom do I write?

I write because I have to.  I am always writing in my head.  I write in bed. I write at dawn.  I write in the mists of sleep.  I write in the middle of the night in the dark when my pen makes squiggles that I hope to be able to read in the morning. Too often the words next day are illegible or just some kind of gobbledy-gook; phrases that in the night seemed to be some kind of inspired genius but in the morning present themselves as the ramblings of a madwoman.  I write all day in my head.  I write in a flash of inspiration.

I can write if there is a deadline but I don’t really like to write to order.  I write in draft by hand.  I write letters and emails in my head.  I love to write in notebooks colourfully pleasing to my eye,  I have a collection of these waiting to be filled, all picked up on my travels.  I  write on little scraps of paper because I can never find said notebooks when ideas come to me . I don’t write often enough when I am out on walks with the dogs because I nearly always forget my wee ‘walking’ notebook.  I keep a notebook in the car which is a bit of a problem if I am driving.  I don’t write in the shower because I can’t can I?  Too wet. It is however the place where so many ideas come to me in a flash. From where do they come?  I think it is something to do with the running water, its elemental energies being associated with feelings and inspiration.

I do  quite often write when angry and the need to communicate my feelings is intense.

I write for enjoyment, especially this blog.

I probably write for therapy.

I write rather than speak.

I write my life.

4.  How does my process of writing work?

I dream a lot.

This would be my dream home and writing location in the west of Ireland.  I actually live in mid- Wales which is beautiful but is not my spiritual home.

I am lucky in that I live in a most beautiful part of mid-Wales so inspiration is not hard to seek out. It would be very strange not to be inspired artistically in some way by living here.  As I am not a ‘professional’ writer I am very lucky as I can and do write whatever I like and whenever the mood takes me and I don’t have to keep to any deadlines.

I get flashes;  lines and phrases will come to me, or I may see visions that move me.  I may hear something. I collect words that appeal to me and also ideas.   I scribble by hand and then type up and edit on the computer (that is the fun part).  A poem is put to rest and then brought out daily and (usually) edited many times before it is finished.  And like Valery I don’t think a poem is ever finished, I am never satisfied that it can’t be improved upon.

I have a little room upstairs in my tiny cottage which I have given the grand name ‘the study’. It is open to the stairs and is not that peaceful as I can hear the television downstairs if it is switched on. I often put headphones on and listen to music while writing; I have many songs on Spotify and enjoy shuffling through its library. I sit at the computer and look out at my garden which at the moment is filled with daffodils and primroses. A river flows through it and our field is beyond. I am so lucky to live here in this old blacksmith’s cottage, how could I not be inspired to write?

I hope you have enjoyed reading my attempts at the four questions.  I would like to nominate some ‘proper’ writers to take this tour and I shall get back to you with their names once I have their agreement.

Watch this space!

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,