Shadows

Shadows

 

There are many  writers-in-cyberspace;

words flow like a proverbial, perpetual

fountain but one poet- soul, a wise one,

who weaves his words with skill and feeling, said

that the shadows racing over sand were

thoughts that the land is having. I marvelled

at what seemed to me a revelation

for I live amidst mountains and am often

found watching shadows as they cross, soft-hued,

quiet and tender, covering and changing

the landscape in their wake, from dark to light,

from light to dark and back to light again.

Now  I imagine the land’s emotions:

the wind is its anger, the sun is its

benevolence, the breeze a tease, the snow  

its strong urge to hibernate and always,

always I shall see the rain as its tears.

From a penumbra in the poet’s mind,

something ghostly, insubstantial, half-glimpsed

and half-hidden, just an inkling of an idea

became pure poetry,transformed itself

and flew on a journey to me, through space,

reaching my mountainous place from the sea

inspiring me, from those  thought-shadows in the sand.

 
Cait O’Connor

 

Written in response to a poem  Shadows at Pics and Poems .

 

 

 

 

A Little Request

 

View from the Sugar Loaf on a Winter Sun Day

I am sorry that I haven’t blogged as much lately but my daughter and I have been busy working together setting up a website for a planned mother-daughter small business enterprise.

I would dearly love you to have a look at the site and give your feedback on it  as I really value your opinions and any suggestions you may have.  I won’t explain here how the business idea came about but all is revealed on the site.

This the link; Google is not picking it up yet as it only went live a few days ago.

 

Find Your Family

http://www.findyourfamily.org.uk/

Many thanks,

Cait

 

 

 

A book I think you would love

I have just finished this book; it's a first novel, it's a real page turner. 

 

On the back it says:

Ireland

America

Family secrets

Laughter

Tragedy

Swimming

Dogs

Big beaches

Loneliness

 

A story of unexpected life-changing love

 

I loved this book and would like to recommend it to you.

Dido - No Freedom

Lenten Lilies

 

Lenten Lilies

(For Frances)

 

Ceramic, smooth and milky white

 a jug of promise holds green daffodils in bud.

They draw me in as I pass the table

but I cannot watch and wait

to capture such a slow changing.

I pass.

Days pass

in hope and anticipation,

I can only imagine what will be,

what will create a swift  lifting of  my heart

the gift that is a flower.

I will love each one

for its colour,

for its beauty,

for its scent,

for it is a miracle,

lenten like the lilies,

a promise to me, soon coming,

 

Cait O’Connor

Essentials

 

Essentials

 

An old cottage that always welcomes you.

Flowing water, flowers, trees and a view.

A baby in the cradle and birds in the wood.

A dog, a cat, a hearth with logs stacked.

Books to lose myself within, words to weave.

Red shoes, Guinness, family and friends.

Health and happiness, music, kind words and hugs.

Compassion, understanding and sweet, sweet laughter.

Days of soft rainfall, wide rainbows, sunshine, sunsets.

Images of beauty, colourful and bright.

Voices of velvet, dreams and memories.

Candles, night skies, stars and silence.

The moon and its magic, fairies and the angels’ touch.

Nivea, perfume and a warm, warm, shower.

Earl Grey, goose down, poetry and sweet, sweet sleep.

 

Cait O’Connor

 

(Written in response to a blog by Pamela Terry and Edward).

 

A Meme

A Meme

 

One of my favorite things is solitude.

Outside my window it’s dark;  a night owl’s delight.

I am thinking  detachment must be the order of this night.

From the kitchen come the sounds of silence and the distant echoes of a chime.

I am wearing layers and layers to keep me from the cold.

I am reading the life of Edna O’Brien who weaves her words with magic, beauty and mysticism.

I am hearing a voice, a sigh.

I am hoping all will be well.

Around the dimming room are swirls and curls, reflections from the bamboo shades.

I am going to linger awhile on my creation.

I am creating a dream,

I am thankful  every moment for so much, so much, so much.

Here is picture thought I am sharing.

 

Do share your thoughts in words and pictures too.

 

Two Poems

 

 
Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance
Carl Sandberg

 

Dear Diary,

I have discovered a poet, a writer I hadn't heard of even though she is from round these parts.  I borrowed one of  her books from the library and unusually for me with poetry books, I loved every one of the poems within this one.  Have you heard of her I wonder?  Chris Kinsey. She was BBC Wildlife Poet of the Year in 2008 and lives in Wales.  She is also a rescuer of greyhounds though Greyhound Rescue Wales and a commissioned sequence of poems Houndlove was included in Poems of Love and Longing (Pont Books, Gomer Press, 2008). Chris Kinsey has been dubbed ‘Greyhounds’ Poet Laureate’

These two just right-for-this-season poems are from her book I borrowed,

 Cure for a Crooked Smile 

One February Night

To appease a hunger

brought on by reading about snow

I start making porridge.

Sensing the wolf in the blizzard

I watch my dogs asleep at the hearth,

muzzles twitching, honing dream scents.

I stir till the pelt thickens,

scatter almonds and pumpkin seeds,

twirl in honey and lick the swell.

Wind snuffles at the door

snowflakes scratch softly

icicles drool.

 

Chris Kinsey

 

Moonlighting

When the New Year rolls over on dark mornings

I wonder how much is coaxed

by moon’s second-handlight?

Snowdrops appear after the first full circle

as if the force which tugs tides, sucks white

up their stalks, draws them on to swell and drip.

This play of pearling

sets the birds rehearsing

long before dawn.

The moon wanes; snowdrops open wing-nuts

on a bit more day.  By the big, mirror-moon,

of Candlemas, they’ll still be hanging parachutes.

Courting birds will chorus light.

Last February flood, bubbling curlews

waded through quicksilver midnight.

 

Chris Kinsey.

Home Safe

Dear Diary,

Good friends, good books and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life.

Mark Twain

I do apologise because I can’t remember who recommended this book to me (probably via a booky blog post?) but I just want to say thank you. Someone out there who I hope will come forward.

Elizabeth Berg writes sensitively and I very much enjoyed Home Safe.   It caused me to stay in bed half the morning and to feel sad when it ended, always a sign of a good book. The blurb on the book possibly wouldn’t have enticed me to read it but it is a fine book and she is a fine writer and I would also like to recommend this title to others.

Some tastes from the book below:

She sits down and puts her hand to her chest and rocks. Thinks of all she has lost and will lose. All she has had and will have. It seems to her that life is like gathering berries into an apron with a hole. Why do we keep on? Because the berries are beautiful, and we must eat to survive. We catch what we can. We walk past what we lose for the promise of more, just ahead.”

― Elizabeth Berg, Home Safe

When Suzie introduced Helen, she told the audience that one of the best things about books is that they are an interactive art form: that while the author may describe in some detail how a character looks, it is the reader's imagination that completes the image, making it his or her own. "That's why we so often don't like movies made from books, right?" Suzie said. "We don't like someone else's interpretation of what we see so clearly." She talked, too, about how books educate and inspire, and how they soothe the soul-"like comfort food without the calories," she said. She talked about the tactile joys of reading, the feel of a page beneath one's fingers; the elegance of typeface on a page. She talked about how people complain that they don't have time to read, and reminded them that if they gave up half an hour of television a day in favor of reading, they could finish twenty-five books a year. "Books don't take time away from us," she said. "They give it back. In this age of abstraction, of multitasking, of speed for speed's sake, they reintroduce us to the elegance-and the relief!-of real, tick-tock time.”

― Elizabeth Berg, Home Safe

I just want to say one thing. If I ever write a novel again, it's going to be in defense of weak women, inept and codependent women. I'm going to talk about all the great movies and songs and poetry that focus on such women. I'm going to toast Blanche DuBois. I'm going to celebrate women who aren't afraid to show their need and their vulnerabilities. To be honest about how hard it can be to plow your way through a life that offers no guarantees about anything. I'm going to get on my metaphorical knees and thank women who fall apart, who cry and carry on and wail and wring their hands because you know what, Midge? We all need to cry. Thank God for women who can articulate their vulnerabilities and express what probably a lot of other people want to say and feel they can't. Those peoples' stronghold against falling apart themselves is the disdain they feel for women who do it for them. Strong. I'm starting to think that's as much a party line as anything else ever handed to women for their assigned roles. When do we get respect for our differences from men? Our strength is our weakness. Our ability to feel is our humanity. You know what? I'll bet if you talk to a hundred strong women, 99 of them would say 'I'm sick of being strong. I would like to be cared for. I would like someone else to make the goddamn decisions, I'm sick of making decisions.' I know this one woman who's a beacon of strength. A single mother who can do everything - even more than you, Midge. I ran into her not long ago and we went and got a coffee and you know what she told me? She told me that when she goes out to dinner with her guy, she asks him to order everything for her. Every single thing, drink to dessert. Because she just wants to unhitch. All of us dependent, weak women have the courage to do all the time what she can only do in a restaurant.”

― Elizabeth Berg, Home Safe

 

Bye for now,
Cait

 

 

Bird Cake Recipe

Bird Cake

(I call mine Robin Cake because they literally go mad for it).

 

First make a crumble mix with plain flour and margarine ( or butter if you are rich).

Rub in half fat to plain flour with hands or in mixer – as much as you want, I generally make a Delia Smith recipe and leave a fair amount over when making one just for the two of us.

Add oats, any fresh or dried fruit, nuts of any kind, whole or ground, but not salted, cake or biscuit crumbs, breadcrumbs, grated cheese, cereal, anything really that birds like. Add any oil you may have lurking in a frying pan or similar. Suet goes down very well.  Raid the fridge and your cupboards for suitable additions.

Add a little water to bind and then roll in oats (or flour if you have no oats) so it is reasonably firm and not sticky. Make a nice cake shape.  No need to harden in the fridge (!)  -   just stick it out on the bird table, preferably one in view of a window.

Watch it disappear.

 

 

 

Snowscapes

These four pics below were taken with my zoom on full so they are not very good.  I just wanted to show you the hilltops which can be seen from my home.

 

 

 

 

 

IRISH FOLK FURNITURE

Words and Pictures

Just a  pic taken outside first thing this morning and a poem by the Welsh Poet Laureate Gillian Clarke (one of my favourite poets). This poem is from her latest collection 'Ice'.








Ode to Winter 


We hoard light, hunkered in holt and burrow,
in cave, cwtsh, den, earth, hut, lair.
Sun blinks.  Trees take down their hair.
Dusk wipes horizons, seeps into the room,
the last flame of geranium in the gloom.

In the shortening day, bring in the late flowers
to crisp in a vase, beech to break into leaf,
a branch of lark.  Take winter by the throat.
Feed the common birds, tits and finches,
the spotted woodpecker in his opera coat.

Let’s learn to love the icy winter moon,
or moonless dark and winter constellations,
Jupiter’s glow, a slow, incoming plane,
neighbourly windows,someone’s flickering screen,
a lamp-lit page, drawn curtains.

Let us praise intimacy, talk and books,
music and silence, wind and rain,
the beautiful bones of trees, taste of cold air,
darkening fields, the glittering city,
that winter longing, hiraeth, something like prayer.

Under the stilled heartbeat of trees,
wind-snapped branches, mulch and root,
a million bluebell bulbs lie low
ready to flare in lengthening light,
after the dark, the frozen earth, the snow.

Out there, fox and buzzard, kite and crow
are clearing the ground for the myth.
On the darkest day bring in the tree,
cool and pungent as forest.  Turn up the music.
Pour us a glass.  Dress the house in pagan finery.

Gillian Clarke

Our River 

 

 

More pics on my photo blog.

New Year Resolutions

Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.

Albert Einstein

The Leaf Charmer

New Year

The rats have gone  from the rafters,

the mice from the midden

and sun before seven no longer has to mean

rain before eleven.

How does this New Year’s morning pass?

She sweeps the leaves into the river

while listening to the robin sing.

Half-hidden in the magnolia,

he is alone and she is alone

and it is to her alone that he seems to be singing.

She thinks as she sweeps and the robin sings

and the river flows past her.

She thinks of words,

the ones that she will sweep away

like should, ought and must.

She retains the ever-present why and for good measure adds why not?

She stocks up on the cans and the coulds, the wants and the wishes

not forgetting the needs.

All nevers and buts are banned;

when, where, how and now loom large.

There are to be no more cannots, must nots,

should nots, ought nots,

ought tos, never agains;

all are quickly brushed away

along with the far too many ifs and worries, sorries and regrets.

They journey away so quickly,

downstream they go, along with her leaves

at a comforting and such a steady speed.

Cait O’Connor

My Favourite Christmas (Book) Present

Dear Diary,

A Fortunate Child by Elizabeth Wix

Don’t you just love it when a book grips you and you just cannot put it down?  It doesn’t happen enough these days but A Fortunate Child is one and I consider myself fortunate to have been sent a copy for Christmas.

I always find in life that things seem to happen in threes and in the latter part of this year I have read books published by two of my favourite bloggers, one from the UK and one from the USA.  I ‘reviewed’ them both in earlier posts as I was so impressed by them.

Now I have the third!  A Fortunate Child  is a novel by Elizabeth Wix, who, apart from being a great writer, also happens to be a wonderful photographer.  She lives in New York and writes here.   I ‘met’ Elizabeth in Blogland and through reading each other’s blogs we discovered that we had quite a few things in common.  

I was totally absorbed by her novel and read it in only two sittings. Well I started it in bed and read late into the night until I just had to give in and go reluctantly to sleep. I finished the book the next morning in just one more ‘sitting’, after I had got up and finished only the most pressing household chores.

The book is a novel but it is based upon a true story of  two women, one English, one German and  there is also a woman who has been adopted.  But it is more than just an adoption story, it is a weaving tale of mystery and coincidence and there are real characters to warm to and to care about.  I didn’t know where it was taking me either which was another plus; so often stories today can be too ‘predictable’.

The writing is beautiful, it flowed so well and carried me into its world of many years ago and it held me there while at the same time it educated me about  the events leading up to World War II in Germany, (this information was an added and unexpected bonus for me).

I cannot fault the writing or the story and feel it really would make an excellent film, if only it were to be discovered.  So many books are hyped up these days and turn out to be real disappointments, this one has never been hyped  but should have in my opinion.  As an ex-librarian I know that this book would go down really well with borrowers and would make a very popular addition to any library.  I am going to put it forward as a suggestion to our local library service.

I am emotionally involved in the adoption aspect of this book and indeed there were some amazing personal similarities within the story to my own experience regarding its London location and the time in which the story is set.  But one does not have to be ‘involved’ with the subject to be touched by the story of love, loss and survival in difficult times which are its main themes.  There is humour in it too, (essential in life, in my opinion).


I am so pleased that the main character’s life turned out so happily.  This book would make a great read at this time of year, it may be just the thing to read as the year turns and would hopefully please many more readers in the way that it has captured me.   I lent it to my daughter and she echoes everything that I have written.  A Fortunate Child certainly deserves a wider readership and I am sure it will appeal to a host of readers on this side of the Pond............. and beyond.........


Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait O’Connor

Christmas Day's Rainbow

 

He Ain't Heavy He's My Brother

Just a song for Christmas, the number one Christmas single in the UK, a charity single to raise money to help towards the huge legal costs for the many who need it in order to gain justice for the many victims of Hillsborough.

Wishing everyone a Happy Christmas and a Happy, Peaceful New Year.

Connemara Child

Augustus Nicholas Burke

Connemara Child

She is of the mountain, her backdrop pure beauty:

purple mountain, blue ocean, green marbled rocks.

But beauty will not sustain the starving Connemara child,

her small frame hidden beneath a tattered shawl,

this girl-not-quite-woman. Her feet are bare, but underfoot,
summer’s heather is kind and warm, soft as the tale
her voice might tell, if inclined to speak.

Her gaze is clear, her moods like clouds,
forever transient, gleaning what may lie ahead. 

For an ancient wisdom dwells within her, wrapped in a language
washed with tears.  Ancestors sing to her, sometimes a prayer,
sometimes a dirge, sometimes a song of serenity 
which rings in the mountains and rides on the waves.

In times of holy stillness you may hear it, deep
and haunting, like a melancholic Irish serenade.

Cait O’Connor

For Finbar

Dear Diary,

I have recently bought a copy of A Thousand Mornings, a selection of poems by my favourite poet, Mary Oliver. I cannot choose a favourite poem from this book as I love every one but I was inspired to write one today about my dog Finn in the way Mary Oliver has written a poem about her dog Percy.  She admits to copying the format from the poet Christopher Smart and his poem For I will consider my cat Jeoffrey. So  this ‘idea’ goes on.  I spent an hour of this Sunday morning writing it and I must admit that while doing so I shed many tears ...   but then tears are always healing, often a sign that the spirits of those who have passed are close to us. I apologise because this is the second (sad) poem I have posted in a row! 

Finbar 1997-2012

For Finbar

For I will consider our dog Finn.

For I loved  him and am still bereft.

For he was kind and never hurt one soul.

For he  had a golden coat, a pure, soft, honeyed caramel.

For his nutbrown eyes were deep and wise.

For he read my thoughts.

For I read his mind.

For he understood my words.

For he had such powers to wrap himself around me.

For he was a  healer of the sick, a friend and guardian of our home.

For he would howl if ever I would weep.

For he held a mirror to my soul and shared my pain.

For he was brave and thought he was a man.

For he was cunning, like a gypsy’s dog.

For he was full of joys and jokes and loved to dance.

For he loved to run and race and play in snow.

For he loved to eat and lived for food.

For he would watch and wait for my return and know when I was close.

For he was kind to young ones: kitten,  pup or child.

For the cat and he were friends, cwched up before the fire, they washed each other’s coats.

For he was tolerant to a tiny fault.

For he treated my son as a brother.

For he considered himself one of us, a human.

For he suffered stoically at the end and was so brave.

For he is buried by the riverbank.

For his grave is marked by heavy stones of white.

For I still greet him as I pass and always wipe a tear.

For he loved me

For I loved him.

For he still waits for us.

Cait O’Connor

Bye for now,

Go mbeannai Dia duit,

Cait

Just a poem

For Elizabeth

Illegitimate

On a silent, irridescent, cobweb morning

I laid my indigo baby in a

cradle of crystal, her wrap was pure love,

intractable and true, like her beauty.

Be under no illusion, she was born

from an illicit assignation, but to

a world  where forgiveness was forbidden.

I was labelled loose, wild, irrational

but my life had always been impervious to hope,

and happiness incomprehensible.

Unable to speak, or break our silence,

I held her hand as I breathed my goodbyes

and wished for her a life more illustrious.

When she had been taken I could breathe no more;

for I was suffocating slowly under

lumps of hardstone, which became lodged in my heart

with an inextricable, forever kind of pain.

in a locked-in, forever kind of silence.

Cait O’Connor