Tokens for the Foundlings

Drawing by Mary Husted

The Foundling Museum in London is somewhere I have never got around to visiting but I hope to do so. I was recently visiting the Dylan Thomas Centre in Swansea and spotted this book of poems for sale. I just had to buy it as the subject is close to my heart.

Tokens for the Foundlings

Edited by Tony Curtis

The royalties from sales of this book are donated to The Foundling Museum, in support of its work.

Established in 1741, The Foundling Hospital was essentially Britain’s first orphanage; admissions to it were catalogued by tokens left by the children’s parents. The book is an anthology of poems about orphans, childhood and family inspired by and supporting the work of The Foundling Museum in Bloomsbury.  Contributors include Seamus Heaney, Carl Ann Duffy, Gillian Clarke, Carol Rumens, Michael Longley, George Szirtes and Charles Simic.

Tokens given by mothers to their children on leaving them at the Foundling Hospital. 18th Century

I want to post two poems today from the book, the first is a prose poem by Mary Husted  -   the drawing at the top of this post is one of many made by Mary Husted before she was forced to give up her baby for adoption (they have since been reunited).  

The Shawl

A memory haunts me.  It is the wrapping of a shawl.  I am leaving the nursing home, following two women; one of them has the baby in the shawl.  Snow is thick beneath our feet.  It started snowing on Boxing Day and in early February it is still falling.

The women turn left – I follow.  We walk up a driveway into an empty waiting room.  the doctor comes to meet us, searches my face and looks at the child she delivered ten days ago.  We sit on hard chairs and exchange awkward pleasantries.  The baby is unwrapped from his shawl.  He sleeps.  I ask to hold him – here he is in my arms.

In a corner of the room near the door is a fish tank.  A stream of bubbles rises slowly and continually to the surface as the colourful fish swim to and fro. to and fro.  The three older women watch me with guarded glances.  They do not know what I will do. ‘It is time,’ says one.  I take the shawl, soft and woollen, and very slowly, carefully, with studied tranquillity, I wrap it around the child, before standing and handing him to one of the women.  She takes him and turns, followed by the other woman, to go out of the door.  I watch them go.  I am one of the bubbles in the fish tank.

Mary Husted.

Rain

The day I let you go there were floods

in Wroxeter and Bishopstown.

Leaves, caramel coloured, were swallowed

by the rivers and as weather travelled north

windows ran grey for hours.

Far from that tiny parlour room,

prams were being pushed around still dry

parks or else their thin wheels were hissing

on wide, wet paths and mothers were thinking

of feeding times, baths.

The moment of goodbye was soon over.

Woollen blankets soft between my fingers;

the silk hem of the parting dress a breath

on my skin, and your weight, like kilos of sweet

apples, swung in my arms.

And then, I was cradling air and dust

and stood near the grate, in an awkward tableau

listening to rain falling into soot.

Each clear drop sent dark motes into the room

and the terrible space in my arms gathered all of them in.

Roz Goddard

A Warming Winter Recipe

Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all. 

Harriet Van Horne

The Love Cook

Let me cook you some dinner.   

Sit down and take off your shoes   

and socks and in fact the rest   

of your clothes, have a daquiri,   

turn on some music and dance   

around the house, inside and out,   

it’s night and the neighbours   

are sleeping, those dolts, and   

the stars are shining bright,   

and I’ve got the burners lit   

for you, you hungry thing.

Ron Padgett

Artist Natalie Tur

Cooking Jam

I just liked the above poem and the picture and although I have not been making jam, or entertaining naked visitors, I have been cooking.  My own recipe, something I always make when parsnips are around. I hope you like it.

Parsnip, Potato and Onion Bake

Parboil for around ten minutes or so some fairly big chunks of potato and parsnip (have more parsnip than potato as they are so flavoursome).  At the same time gently fry two largish sliced onions or several small ones.  Vary amounts of all veg. depending on how many mouths you are feeding.

While they are cooking make a cheese sauce:

In a small metal saucepan, melt a piece of margarine (or butter)about the size of a small egg, with  two heapedish tablespoons of plain flour, a good pinch of dry mustard (or a smidgeon of ready made), salt and pepper and half a pint of milk. Use a metal whisk and stir and heat all of this but not too fiercely and when it thickens turn it down to simmer for a minute or so.  If it is too thick add some water, not milk.  Add a goodish heap of tasty grated cheese and a good squeeze of lemon juice.  Mix all together and turn off  heat, allowing cheese to melt.

Drain parboiled vegetables and put in a casserole dish.  Mix around  gently and add cheese sauce.  If too dry add a bit of milk.

Sprinkle a Weetabix over the top to give a delicious crisp topping.  (More than one if you are making a big dish).  Also sprinkle some cayenne pepper amongst the Weetabix as it will make the topping extra  tasty.

Bake in the middle of a preheated oven at 200 C or Gas 6 for 30 minutes covered and another 30 minutes uncovered at the lower temperature of  180 C or Gas 4.

Serve when vegetables are soft (check throughout).  Nice with a green vegetable like sprouts or cabbage.

Enjoy.

My Book of the Year

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.

Anaïs Nin

What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.

 J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

Dear Diary,

Two of my favourite bloggers have had  excellent books published recently; one, Counting Steps by Mark Charlton, I have already written about and the second  From the House of Edward, Essays by Pamela Terry, arrived in the post a few weeks ago from the USA, a signed copy, beautifully wrapped in my favourite wrapping which happens to be plain brown paper.   First of all this book, I was really pleased to see, was just the right size, it fits in the palm easily, only everso slightly smaller than the average book nowadays; this is always a plus point with me. Secondly, it is a thing of beauty, both in its layout and in  its exquisite understated illustrations  -   it is strewn throughout with four leaf clovers and every book has its own four leaf clover bookmark (and dear Edward is on that too). (When I first looked at the bookmark  I thought they were shamrocks!).

I have delayed writing a ‘review’ of the book, not I hasten to add because I have an ounce of hesitation in recommending it to you but because I am enjoying just 'savouring' a book that is so special.  I keep it by my bedside and like to read a small section last thing at night before I go to sleep as Pamela’s words are so soothing and strangely healing.  Within it are many essays of myth, magic, celebrations of the seasons, of literature and art, sensual delights, scenes from her life, poems, quotations, much much more and her own beautiful prose which is poetry in itself.

If I had the power to I would prescribe this book to anyone who suffers when the Black Dog comes calling,  or to anybody at all on those poorly days, fluey days, weepy days, boring days, cold days etc but also the happy and definitely high days and holidays – there is so much within both to cheer and to inspire.

Today I am curled up by the Rayburn, fleeced and scarved around my throat, feeling a little under the weather.  I have the dog and the cat at my feet who are also enjoying the warmth of the fire. Pamela’s words take me to her land and to many places, many seasons. I am dipping into the book, it is the best way to experience it I feel, rather than reading it straight through.  I am currently in December.  Some essays I remember from her fine blog, some are new to me. Some lines I yearn to copy out for you, some essays too but you will just have to buy the book -  why not put it in your letter to Santa?

I was just one of the people who told Pamela that she should get her writing published in book form so I am thrilled that she has done so and I can’t wait for her next one.   She is one of life’s true ‘sweet hearts’, a gifted  writer who sees all that is magical and beautiful in the world and creates it for us, so poetically, in her writings.  An artist in the true sense in that her heart touches others.

I wish I lived near to her as our interests are so similar and I am sure we would be friends but her bloghttp://fromthehouseofedward.blogspot.co.uk/ is unlike mine in that it is  pleasantly rant-free and wholly positive and I follow it religiously.  Please keep writing Pamela.


From the House of Edward is my ‘book of the year’.

 (And Edward is a sweetie too).

Bye for now,
Cait

The Hangman - Maurice Ogden

They came first for the Communists,

and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists,

and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews,

and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew.

Then they came for me

and by that time no one was left to speak up.

Martin Niemöller

Don't Stop The Dance

Don’t Stop The Dance

Don’t stop the dance.

Who was it said that the dance was the body, dreaming?

Sometimes words will dance from such a wilder-ness,

stirring, wraithed in music, or emerging
from behind a New Moon, seeping into 
my wakefulness.

Always there is longing, shaded by loss.

Let us dance away our tunes of despair

into places of loving; and speaking of loving - 

Don’t stop the dance.



Cait O'Connor

Apologies to Brian Ferry but I swear to you that as I sat down to type up this already written (but untitled) poem, this song came on my random player.  Thank you angels.

Counting Steps

A Journey through Landscape and Fatherhood

Cinnamon Press

There is a new book out written by Mark Charlton of the fine blog Views from the Bike Shed fame. I finished the book this morning, somewhat sadly really as I would have liked it to have been longer.  You know what it’s like when you have a really good book, you sometimes want to make it last and to savour it slowly.  The writing was very fine and the book is full of emotion.   I can recommend it highly. Particularly poignant was one of the pieces the author wrote about his father, it had forgiveness, wisdom and understanding within and Mark’s words will stay with me. It is a worthy book for that alone but also for the writings about Wales, many areas of which I know well, (but not all which was a bonus). I am not into climbing, I love walking but unfortunately my husband, because of health problems, is not up to long walks any more. However I could visualise many of the more remote places he visits which was an added bonus.

There is everything I love in this book;  nature and very personal reflections combined – this appeals to me as I too find it easier to reflect amongst nature and do not feel happy if I am away from it. Put me in a town or a city and I do not feel the same ease.  These places are fine to visit but I cannot stand crowds and traffic for too long any more.

So this book will appeal to many: walkers, climbers, lovers of Wales, wildlife and nature, fathers,  husbands ........and wives too.  

For sons of fathers and fathers of sons, there is much that is touching within it.

(There is a quiet humour too).

Most of all I love the book for its honesty.

I look forward to another.

Cait O’Connor

I Hope You'll Dance

Dance till the stars come down from the rafters

Dance, Dance, Dance, till you drop.

W H Auden.

Dear Diary,

I start most of my days with a yoga session – after I have showered I put my Music Library on the computer - which you can find in the right hand column of this blog – just click on Playlist in the top right hand corner – then dismiss the little window that comes up and click on My Library Radio – I have saved a lot of my favourite records on there – there will be some ‘foreign’ ones in there but you can skip those.  Have a listen yourself.  I know a few people who enjoy working  along to my music.

I learned yoga when  I was in my thirties when my children were small.  I’ve been practising it  ever since ( yes I am getting  a bit tired now!).

 

Anyway, I do my daily yoga routine to the first three songs which come up randomly on the computer, they are always a surprise as I never know what will play but I know I will like the tunes.  If I don’t fancy a particular one I can always skip it.   My routine consists  mainly of Prayers to the Sun, also known as Salutes to the Sun.  I prefer Prayers as they  sound a bit less ‘military’ to me. 

This sequence of poses uses all the body bits – my old yoga teacher said that we could get away with only doing half a dozen of these every day and it would be enough – along with the Corpse posture which is very relaxing.  I often do that in the evening or when I felt the need!   I also do daily neck and shoulder poses as I have had a very serious neck injury in the past.  I try and do yoga every day unless I am feeling  very tired or unwell.  My teacher advised us not to practise it on Sundays, she said we should have one day off a week.  Wise woman.    Even if I am a little tired beforehand  I always feel energised after doing my yoga,’ looser’ too and ‘brighter’.  I recommend it.

This morning the fourth song this morning happened to be Staying Alive by the Bee Gees so I just had to dance; how could anyone NOT dance to that song?   

Another song which is inspiring is Time of My Life from the wonderful film Dirty Dancing.   I usually end my routine with a bit of dancing as I love it so -  it’s quite safe, no-one can see me upstairs in the little study.;  well only the dog and she seems to approve of everything I do, bless her.

I am into Strictly Come Dancing at the moment, nowhere near as obsessed as I was at this time last year but I was poorly then while waiting too long for a gall bladder op.  (another story).   I really love dancing and envy the celebrities who are being trained to dance by such professional people.

Anyway I hope you will enjoy my music and I hope  you will dance.

Which takes me nicely back to the beginning.

Have a nice day,

Go mbeannai Dia duit,

Cait

You've Been Trumped

Try and watch this documentary if you missed it on BBC2 tonight (Sunday)

It has impressed cinema audiences around the world. 

The journalist who made the film writes in the link below.

You've Been Trumped

Rip Off Britain- car insurance

I am thinking of having a special section for this subject.

Rip Off  Britain.

This is a copy of an email I sent to this website



You asked for stories concerning car insurance renewal quotes as in the article on your website you say:


Evidence suggests that some car insurers are offering sky-high renewal quotes even when they are willing to insure for a lower price.

Drivers have found their insurer offering cheaper quotes for the same cover as their renewal offer through comparison websites. 

It means that rather than quoting prices based on a driver's circumstances, insurers are taking a punt that loyal customers will accept a higher price without question, even if it could afford to insure them for less.


(Read more: http://www.thisismoney.co.uk/money/cars/article-2129220/Car-insurance-haggling-Insurers-taking-cheeky-punt-inflated-renewal-quotes.html#ixzz29MxKE8ji )

This is my experience.

My renewal notice came through recently at £205 from Swintons, I have been with them for some years now.

My husband rang and tried to get a lower quote from the brokers, Swinton Insurance,....... and was quoted £170.

I went on to the great website money supermarket, found a quote for £105 and purchased it online. I was pleasantly surprised as this quote was for fully comprehensive and we had only asked Swintons for third party, fire and theft on the phone as that is what we always have. .

Guess who this lower quote for a more comprehensive insurance package was with?  (£100 lower).  Swinton Insurance.

I received in the post a schedule of insurance today for £170 so as you probably understand (Swintons pretended not to!) I was very worried and confused as I had only paid (I hoped!) £105 online to purchase the cheaper policy.

It took two phone calls to Swinton Insurance for it not to be explained  what was going on.  I have demanded that a receipt and an explanatory letter (in plain English) are sent to me today.

While I was on the phone to Swintons my husband checked our bank account and thank God only £105 had been taken.  The insurance doesn't run out till the end of the month so they are a bit eager aren't they?

The first woman at Swintons treated me like a child and the second man was more helpful and spoke English but he called it getting a discount.  He had called it cashback to my husband in an earlier call.


Not what I call it.  How about you?

Gillard labels Abbott a misogynist

F-Words

I am cheating a bit by posting this on my blog because it is another piece of homework set last month at our writing group. We each had to choose a word beginning with the letter 'F'. We chose Felicity, feckless, finickity,  fettle, frank, felucca and one other which I have forgotten. 

We then had to write a piece of prose or poetry using these F words. (an earlier post, a poem of mine, gives this away somewhat!).

Trouble is on this piece of prose I got a bit carried away (but I wasn't the only one).



A Fictonal But Fairly Factual Story of Fun and Foreboding.



First and foremost let’s face facts.  I am not a fan of Felicity Fairweather and I may be politically incorrect in saying this but I am known for being forthright and I am only being fair to you by sharing my true feelings and saying that I have found out that for some modes of transport, Felicity was far too fat.  Floating ferries maybe, but a felucca?  No.

Apart from being far too large, Felicity was French and a feisty female,  a bit facile, a bit of of a flbbertigibbet and far too gossipy and flighty. She was also flushed of face, fair of hair, and probably still fairly fertile for she was not yet forty-five.  Her latest beau Frank O’ Flaherty was a fop (a bit of a fool) to be honest (as they say far too often here in Wales); not forceful  at all but full of the flannel.  He was rich though and quite funny, if you like that  sort of thing and he had certainly played the field, sometimes in formal circles too; (his father had once won the fixed odds on the football pools, but that’s a fable I shall save for another day).  Frank was unfortunately prone to fixations and he fell far too fast for feisty Felicity and she, being without the talent for fascinating the male sex which some fortunate females possess, could  never dare to be finickity enough when it came to finding friends or would-be lovers. She didn’t really fancy Frank but for a while she feigned favourable feelings towards him, fawning over him in a slightly feline way (for she was far too susceptible to his flattery).

Patrick Francis O’Flaherty (Patrick being his first forename) was  of Fenian stock and was frankly feckless, especially on that fatal  foggy day on the fourth Friday in February last year. The couple were sailing on the Nile in a felucca during a frightful monsoon when their flimsy makeshift flag came adrift and floated far away downstream. Felicity had got in a flap, had fainted right off her feet and the felucca started leaking like a fountain.  Poor old Frank was never one to flip and feeling in such fine fettle, flexed his muscles and made a foolhardy attempt at fixing it by sticking his finger in the fissure.

To cut this far too frenetic story short, a frantic family feud , not the first, ensued between the ferocious owners of the felucca  (who had captured it all on film) and the fecking insurance company, (their ‘F’ words, not mine, the air was very frosty I can tell you and more than faintly blue)……..

Frank and Felicity’s relationship was somewhat shortlived and faded swiftly after that fateful date.

And Felicity?  Would she ever achieve fulfilment? I did wonder. However, she was never one to fret or be frightened of anything so she soon recovered and with no need for rehabilitation she quickly returned to her previous good form.  She never forgot Frank, she never forgave  him either but she  didn’t give a flying fig……………..she  just looked forward to her freedom.

And  Frank?  He may never be a high flyer but he wasn’t fearful of life either, rather the opposite.  He  looked forward to visiting France on the next available flight (he had a fear of boats) and to exploring fresh pastures and to fighting new frontiers…..and more than anything he relished finding a few fresh and more faithful French females (the fresher the better)…..



Cait O’Connor


If you would like to comment feel free to use F words (but only clean ones).

Saturday's Poem

This week has been a very sad one for us all here in mid-Wales. For readers of this blog who not from the UK you may not have heard that there has been an abduction and a murder of a five year old girl, April Jones, in Machyllneth in my own county.  These sort of things just do not happen here.  The response of our community has been amazing and I am so proud of the hundreds of volunteers who have come from miles around to help in the search for April; I am so proud of the Welsh rescue services and the police too.  It is a cliche but my heart goes out to April's family. I have four granddaughters of my own and cannot begin to imagine how April's mother must be feeling. 

The news has been full of children's suffering of late. Prior to that poor child being taken there were stories in the media of the alleged abuse of children by the late Jimmy Saville. This followed the Rochdale Social Services affair which shocked us all. 

Some folk question why adults wait so long to speak of their abuse as children.  Many indeed go to their graves without ever telling a soul.

I was inspired to write a poem.

Abuse

It is what she wants them to know

but she doesn’t want to tell

and doesn’t want to remember.

It is what her brain won’t  recall

but rather chooses to forget

until triggered, like a failsafe, out of  

its save-from-wounding safety catch.

It is what she needs to say

but which is held instead within,

buried in a store of memories, incurred like fines.

It is what she never understood;

a trauma of troubles, feelings too new,

just hands and touchings, far too strange for understandings

for what in truth is normal to a child

believing touch is touch, is touch, is touch?

Is it really such a slight pain, this silence,

dulled and muffled up against all elements,

carried like convictions in a tally of a life?
Is it now that she is old, yet still that child

that she is dreaming of her deathbed where there may be spilled

a riot of revelations, a telling of all truths

outpoured to all her kin within a testament of tears?

But for now she doesn’t blurt, she doesn’t even whisper of his ways

but turns her face and self away 

and shuts the door on memories of shame,

her frailty and fear still hidden

behind the door that has slipped once more ajar.

Cait O’Connor

Just a poem for National Poetry Day

Frank and Felicity/A Marriage



Passion was in hiding somewhere that night

and even the moon was absent for their union

in their honeymoon bed of half-measures

and pale imitations.  For his movements were too clumsy,

or bungling with half-baked hamhandedness.

The marriage of hobo and dreamer?  Such a bad idea

but he had been blessed with the gift of quackery

and on the Nile in a faded felucca

he had charmed himself into her heart.

A gypsy had foretold her a future of

a life with no fun with a man in fine fettle

who would stand stubbornly in his own light which

shaded her too and faded her dreams till they died.

A wasted life with a man, feckless and foolhardy,

a would-be pirate destined to roam and to be

a dark mystery,  a cowboy, a dare-devil desperado.



Cait O’Connor

Charity?

(Warning: I apologise in advance because this post contains far too many anyways). 

I went to Morrisons on Saturday morning  and when  I arrived at the till the checkout lady asked if I would like help with my packing.  I declined her offer as I had M with me and although we had got a lot of shopping in our trolley it was not as much as I sometimes have so thought we would cope nicely.  There was (then) no-one behind us in the queue and anyway I always refuse to be rushed, having  usually spent a small  fortune with their company and being a fairly regular customer I will take as long as I like thank you( I even buy petrol  from them too – and it is an 80 minute round trip just to shop there).

Anyway, as we started packing I saw there was a girl at the end of the conveyor belt with the customary bucket and I realised that yet again here was someone collecting from some charity or other.  I still didn’t want help with packing as I had  not that long ago decided not to feel coerced into this from of charity giving.  I am becoming increasingly irritated by these people attaching themselves to the checkouts, getting in my way and trying to make me feel beholden to put money in their damned buckets.  I know I am not alone as several of the borrowers at the library have voiced similar concerns.

Let’s get it straight, I do give to certain charities and like to think of myself as kind and caring. I have even worked as a volunteer years ago for Save the Children.  However, only recently M had to phone Morrisons to complain about the charity collectors approaching him on his entrance or exit from their store –.  I have also been approached and on principle I ignore them.  Anyway, the staff member from Morrisons said that they have a policy of not letting  collectors go within a certain distance of members of the public.  This seems fair enough if it is adered to.  So why have collectors on every checkout right up close with their damned buckets.

Anyway back to Saturday – we finished our packing – M politely asking the girl to move out of our way so we could pack (!) - she only looked about fourteen.  I could then see written on her bucket what she was collecting for, it was the local High School’s Geography and Business Studies department (s)!

Is it me?  I thought we paid for education in our Council Tax – I know the bulk of our council tax goes to education in this area (and it’s a lot of money). Good thing.  Education is, (well should be) the basis of a humane and well functioning society.  So why on earth should I want to give money to a local high school which gets money from the State, one my granddaughters don’t attend anyway and even more to the point -  where and how the hell is the money going to be spent? When I was at school teachers were paid to teach and we learned. End of story.

And Business Studies? Will Morrisons have buckets at their exits asking for charitable donations to run their business next?  It is not exactly entrepreneurial to beg with a bucket while using a form of emotional blackmail to get people to part with their money (or is it nowadays? Perhaps I am missing something). I would prefer it if my grandchildren spent their free time studying (when not relaxing) and not going out fundraising for their education.  Am I missing something here?

I would have thought that these students, if they had to stoop to such activities, would have gained more by going to supermarket and other business fatcats and asking them for money, instead of targeting the low paid, the unemployed and the old age pensioners – this county (and country) is full of them - let those with all the money support proper charities with donations or sponsorship. But isn’t that what the (ex public school boy) Cameron wants – the end of State control and to let Big Business and Big Brother run the world in their own way.  

Anyway, the upshot of this was that when we had finished packing,  M felt sorry for this girl and ended up giving her some money after all –even though  he had no idea what she was collecting for (!) - and on our way home a row about it ensued between him and me -  so it was not a good start to my weekend.

Where will it end I wonder? Should  folk go begging at checkouts for help with dental treatment costs or operations which they being made to wait for because they can’t afford to go private.   Or money to save public libraries or public toilets.

What do you think? Do you think I am heartless?

Go mbeannai Dia duit,

Cait

People Power

I was thinking this morning how everything is being shaken up this year, perhaps 2012 really is the end of something, not the world exactly but perhaps the world as we have always known, accepted or tolerated it.   What is it that they say? You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs?

People's faith has been shattered in so many elements of our society that should be respected and relied upon: bankers, politicians, journalists etc and today of course we are shocked to hear more about the actions of some of the police in this country.  Deception, cruelty and corruption seem to be the order of the day and it almost reminds me of Stalin's Russia.

I have put up a song in a previous post - Read All About It sung by Emile Sande, (she sung it at the Olympics closing ceremony). The words are quite appropriate for our times.

I also found this poem The Justice Bell  online today; it was written ten years ago and it is for all those families who have been deceived and their loved ones vilified. The people of Liverpool have always been special -  fighters who will never give up whether  fighting for their loved ones or for justice, or for both -  after all there are many Irish genes in their blood.

The justice bell has started to toll, I hope it never stops ringing from now on.

The Justice Bell



A schoolboy holds a leather ball
in a photograph on a bedroom wall
the bed is made, the curtains drawn
as silence greets the break of dawn.

The dusk gives way to morning light
revealing shades of red and white
, which hang from posters locked in time
of the Liverpool team of 89.

Upon a pale white quilted sheet
a football kit is folded neat
with a yellow scarf, trimmed with red
and some football boots beside the bed.

In hope, the room awakes each day
to see the boy who used to play
but once again it wakes alone
for this young boy’s not coming home.

Outside, the springtime fills the air
the smell of life is everywhere
viola’s bloom and tulips grow
while daffodils dance heel to toe.

These should have been such special times
for a boy who’d now be in his prime
but spring forever turned to grey
in the Yorkshire sun, one April day.

The clock was locked on 3.06
as sun shone down upon the pitch
lighting up faces etched in pain
as death descended on Leppings Lane.

Between the bars an arm is raised
amidst a human tidal wave
a young hand yearning to be saved
grows weak inside this deathly cage.

A boy not barely in his teens
is lost amongst the dying screams
a body too frail to fight for breath
is drowned below a sea of death

His outstretched arm then disappears
to signal thirteen years of tears
as 96 souls of those who fell
await the toll of the justice bell.

Ever since that disastrous day
a vision often comes my way
I reach and grab his outstretched arm
then pull him up away from harm.

We both embrace with tear-filled eyes
I then awake to realise
it’s the same old dream I have each week
as I quietly cry myself to sleep.

On April the 15th every year
when all is calm and skies are clear
beneath a glowing Yorkshire moon
a lone scots piper plays a tune.

The tune rings out the justice cause
then blows due west across the moors
it passes by the eternal flame
then engulfs a young boys picture frame.

His room is as it was that day
for thirteen years it’s stayed that way
untouched and frozen forever in time
since that tragic day in 89.

And as it plays its haunting sound
tears are heard from miles around
they’re tears from families of those who fell
awaiting the toll of the justice bell.


© Dave Kirby 2002

Emeli Sande Read All About It

I Can See Clearly Now - Jimmy Cliff (lyrics)

Welsh Writings

On Wales

Why I love it by Niall Griffiths, author

Because it’s like nowhere else on earth. Because the mountains aren’t remote humps on the horizon; they’re what people live on and among. Because those airborne crucifixes that soar and mewl in the mist are predatory birds. Because water is the country’s blood; the rivers and sea lap at your ankles and elbows wherever you are. Because of the food; the laver bread and cockles and cheeses and lamb and samphire and herbs and fish which have been prepared in the same way for centuries. Because the language’s refusal to die offends those who should be offended. Because of the calmness to be found on peaks and pinnacles. Because of the age of the rocks, pocked and stippled by the movements of the very first multi-cellular creatures. Because you can drive from Amlwwch to Newport in a day and see mountain and marsh and plain and moor and valley and city and mine and dam and lake and river and sea-cliff and bog on that one short journey. Because the country once drove Blair to blaspheme. Because it can be home.

From the Guardian 12th May 2007

One of my favourite bloggers Nan of Letters from a Hill Farm fame has asked me for recommendations for books set in Wales or by Welsh authors so I am beginning by mentioning a few off the top of my head which I have enjoyed reading.  These are just a taster to be going on with but I shall try and post more at a later date as I think of them and I hope other folk will make suggestions. Coincidentally I see that today Nan has blogged about my favourite poet Mary Oliver, I wonder if she has any Welsh genes?

Before escaping to Wales from England many moons ago I read a lot of ‘escape to the country/self sufficiency’ type books. John Seymour (not actually to my knowledge a Welsh writer) was the ‘God’ to people like me in days gone by. Among a lot of others I also enjoyed Jeanette McMullen’s books and must mention the classic Hovel in the Hills by Elizabeth West.  I have to say that being Irish I am more into Irish literature but there are of course many fine Welsh writers.

Poets to start

Dylan Thomas (of course)
Gillian Clarke,
Gwyneth Lewis
R S Thomas
Dannie Abse
Owen Sheers


Some fiction (and non-fiction)now:

On the Black Hill by Bruce Chatwin
Running for the Hills by Horatio Clare
The Presence by Dannie Abse
Eve Green by Susan Fletcher
Blue Sky July by Nia Wyn
How Green was my Valley by Richard Llewellwyn
Rape of the Fair Country by Alexander Cordell
People of the Black Mountains by Raymond Williams
All Phil Rickman’s crime/supernatural novels – set in Wales/Herefordshire.

I hope this is enough to be going on with, I have had a busy weekend (guests staying) so I  am a little brain dead today.

Bye for now or should I say Hwyl?

Cait.

PS While writing this post I have sadly just discovered that the lovely lady Elizabeth West died two years ago   She used to broadcast about her escape to the country on Radio 4 years ago and she wrote two fine books A Small Country Living and The Wind in the Ash Tree (you would love then Nan). She lived not that far from where I live.

Rest in Peace Jeanine.

Indian Summer

My Indian Summer Day

.

You must have been a gift, a reward, for 

surely some things are earned, or just deserved? 

The martins are breeding one last time, the

bees and butterflies proliferate and 

though full to bursting, even the river

relaxes, glinting so sweetly in the 

sunshine, its tune so melodious, that 

now even the aspens are applauding.

More an answered prayer than a dream or wild 

imagining, you are the summer season’s final fling

before the knife of winter slowly slides its way in.

So it's a wish-you-were-here kind of day,

a red-shoes-on-get-up-and-go kind of day, 

when to be alive or just bathe in the sun is all I 

could ever hope for or would ever, ever need.

Cait O’Connor

Two Very Good Reads

Dear Diary,

I promised that I would recommend some books to you and here are just two of them.  I have more in the pipeline.

The first one is is about a part of the west of Ireland coast I know well as my mother came from quite close by.

The House on an Irish Hillside: When You Know Where You've Come from, You Can See Where You're Going

by

Felicity Hayes-McCoy.

‘From the moment I crossed the mountain I fell in love. With the place, which was more beautiful than any place I'd ever seen. With the people I met there. And with a way of looking at life that was deeper, richer and wiser than any I'd known before. When I left I dreamt of clouds on the mountain. I kept going back.'

We all lead very busy lives and sometimes it's hard to find the time to be the people we want to be.
Twelve years ago Felicity Hayes-McCoy left the hectic pace of the city and returned to Ireland to make a new life in a remarkable house on the stunning Dingle peninsula.

Beautifully written, this is a life-affirming tale of rediscovering lost values and being reminded of the things that really matter.


Here is the second book.

The second is fiction, historical at that, not a genre I usually go for but this writer is special. She is quite a ‘new’ author but one of the most ‘lyrical’ writers I know and I think this one is worthy of the Booker prize. This book is certainly better than last year’s winner The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes which I would class as run of the mill ordinary.

The Silver Dark Sea
by
Susan Fletcher

The powerful new novel from Susan Fletcher, award-winning author of the bestselling Eve Green and Oystercatchers.

A profound tale of love, loss and the lore of the sea.

The islanders of Parla are still mourning the loss of one of their own. Four years since that loss, and a man – un-named, unclothed – is washed onto their shores. Some say he is a mythical man from the sea – potent, kind and beautiful; others suspect him. For the bereft Maggie, this stranger brings love back to the isle. But as the days pass he changes every one of them – and the time comes for his story to be told…

Tender, lyrical and redemptive,The Silver Dark Sea is the dazzling new novel from the author of Eve Green (winner of Whitbread First Novel award) and Witch Light. It is a story about what life can give and take from us, when we least expect it – and how love, in all its forms, is the greatest gift of all.

I recommend all her books, do give them a try if you appreciate poetic writing and a great story, well researched too.

Tribute to Hal David