Reason for my Absence

I thought I should just post an apology for being absent from this blog for over a month now. I am afraid I have had a cancer diagnosis and further surgery/treatment is on the horizon, I shall report back when I can and I shall try to visit other blogs too.

Artist Unknown

Painting on My Bedroom Wall



Artist unknown; the painting has everything:
A back view so all might be imagined
but may never be revealed, a tableau
of mystery, misty, somewhat muted.
There is soft light, a  plea for gentleness,
scented roses, a bedside book and candle.
Set by an ancient window, muslin-dressed
in lily-white, a simple wooden bed,
patchwork-quilted, soft and silken-pillowed.
I spy perhaps my own child-self dressed in
lace and Irish linen, her hair loose and
long and wayward in its curl, a tortoiseshell
cat close by, her one familiar.
Is she pondering, is she sad or is
she all a-wonder? I do not know for
her thoughts and face are hidden, even the
beauty of her downturned face can barely
be recalled to mind, the dewiness once
contained within is now unrecognised
but surely she has learned that there is comfort
to be found at every fall of day
and hope at every day’s beginning.



Cait O’Connor



Does anyone recognise this picture? Can anyone tell me the painter’s name? I cannot make out the name on the print which I bought very cheaply from an Oxfam shop.  I fell in love with it at first sight.

Ants

We are but ants


Lay out your false gods in  neat rows; start with
greed for  money, power and celebrity.
Shatter them to smithereens and then
instead revere the glory found  in love, the
nature of the Earth and the wide Universe.
True power lies in Nature and a beauty
of design which we can just aspire to,
try to re-create as art but not invent again.
We are but ants and tiny in the scheme
of things; just a part, a section of a whole
and very far apart from whence we came.
Small, solitary, humble, we gaze up
at skies in wonderment, dreaming of a
purpose to life that we can’t yet comprehend.



Cait O’Connor

Failure

Karma

Karma



She climbed.
By a series of degrees, karma-driven, 
her  life was destined to be a rough and tough
ascent. It was hard, lurid, scuffed and careworn 
from the start and she had lived it on the edge.
Not one to push herself or ever let 
herself be pushed, she knew not how, or had 
the cause to fly.  Agéd now and scared to 
die alone, her longings are like dreams whose
intensity is strong but like her fateful
journey are too high-coloured, dramatic,
overstated in their indemnity.



Cait O’Connor





This is a Magpie Tale, read more here.

Peace

There is no road towards peace; peace is the road   

Mahatma Gandhi

Recommended Blog Post

Occasionally I like to recommend a particular blog post that has touched me in some way.

This is one such post.

There are swear words, you have been warned.  I think if I had written it there would be swear words too.

The blog is Frugal Queen,  here is the link

A Game of Patience

A Game of Patience, 1937, Meredith Frampton




Dressed in blue-stocking grey, to match the sharpness 
of her intellect, Margaret Austin-Jones 
sits alone in solitary pursuit. 
Her eyes deep hazel, her hair sweet chestnut, 
crimped in waves so neat and precise they match her
manner and the cut of her dress, (modern, 
Vogue-patterned, made for her with care).
Although she's up-to-date, she is but
young and wise in every way but love.
Like Eve she yearns too much for life, desires
to taste the apple, touch  the texture of 
the ears of corn, impatient for the blood- 
red buds to bloom. She hears a footfall on 
the stair, her heartbeat pounds, she glances at
the door.  Like a scene from a novel, in
a room with a view, the dramatic part 
has come; she has played a patient game of 
waiting for a suitor to appear, has 
craved and dreamed herself a handsome, kindly
knave but little knows she may have drawn instead
a darkly evil, scheming, King of Spades.



Cait O’Connor




This is Sunday's Magpie Tale, read others here

Collapse of Capitalism

Owners of capital will stimulate the working class to buy more and more of expensive goods, houses and technology, pushing them to take more and more expensive credits, until their debt becomes unbearable. The unpaid debt will lead to bankruptcy of banks, which will have to be nationalized, and the State will have to take the road which will eventually lead to communism.

Karl Marx, 1867, Das Kapital

Collapse of Capitalism


As Marx foretold to us, the cake is shrinking,
the ship is sinking,  the rodents have come
to the fore, the fat cats feast upon our
shores, feuding and fighting amongst themselves.
The vulnerable seem to be subdued,
repressed, dismissed, their lifelines cast  aloft
into some briny deep along with truth
and trust, care and humankind’s compassion.
Only the slightest shreds of verity
remain, almost entirely covered now
by lies and spin as the cake reduces.
The poorest, the meek, the sick and the weak,
the greens and the peacemakers, once were blessed
but are now portrayed as fools or traitors,
burdens or charlatans, benefit scroungers.
The rodent-rich, much richer than before,
step upon the enslaved and the ignorant,
laughing at them as they do, with barely
hidden arrogance, while gnawing at their bones.


Cait O’Connor

Avatar

 Sweet Summer 1912 John William Waterhouse

Avatar.  Hinduism.  A manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher.


Avatar


No more the crone, she lies alone, basking
in a perpetual summer; soaking
in the sweetness of the scent of roses
and the sleekness of her grey silk clinging.
A sash of russet tied around her waist,
breast-bared and cooling in the sultry heat,
just the sounds of birds and water singing.
This is her one true dream, her avatar.
At peace, restored, her beauty everlasting,
no more the victim, no more the doom, no
more the dread, a victim of life’s vagaries.
She lies, she sleeps, completely lost in love
and dreams of just its pleasing fripperies,
no need for knights in gleaming armouries
to save her from herself.  Her self is free,
and flying now, somewhere high above, it
floats at whim and far away from all the
suffering of life and its mendacities
.


Cait O’Connor




This is my latest Magpie Tale, more can be read here

Not To Be Reproduced

Rene Magritte 1937




Not To Be Reproduced


Like Plath, I too often mused on mirrors,
Like Alice, I  wandered  from Wonderland
into a looking-glass world of magic.
I came upon an image, surreal,
an enigma framed in gilt, dressed in brown.
Here was a man too neat, too still, but with
silken hair inclined to curl . Upon the
mantel I spied a book and felt it was
like him, adventurous of mind, well worn,
a much loved mystery and better written
in the finest French. Gazing, tuning in,
I sensed another poet-soul, a dreamer,
self effacing, illuminated always
from behind but  hiding his reflections
except in unleashed poems on the page.



Cait O’Connor





This is for Magpie Tales, more can be found here

Julia Margaret Cameron

Sadness

Sean Scully

Just because I love it.

Dumbing Down Century

Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand.

Albert Einstein

Dumbing Down Century


Perfect pout and pristine pearly white veneers,
plumped lips painted with iridescent ruby
juice, her medication’s taken capsulised
in luscious (chemical) lemon flavour.
Kept tranquillised and dumbed down daily, her
development is arrested, she is
lacking a  proper education.  Licked
into shape, stuffed with  useless knowledge which
she must regurgitate on the command
in the exam room (aka factory for failures).
The media and government spoon feeds  sweet
snippets of only what she needs to know,
(lies or truth, who cares?).  They will preach, harangue,
sermonise; indoctrinate and moralise;
obliterate originality,
anaesthetise her imagination
paralyse her inborn creativity.



Cait O’Connor



Latest Magpie Tale, more here

Restoration

Restoration


Having had a rootless  life,  too often
lived at random, he scrabbles where he can,
for curios, bibelos and  trinkets.
He roots amongst  bric a brac, seeking out
objets d’art, finding beauty amongst junk.
His car, his home, his clothes, his rescued dog,
even his childhood’s  memories, all are
second hand.  Practical, adaptable,
he has learned to scatter fairy dust and
turn trash into treasure.

He spied an ancient  dulcimer hiding
shyly, amongst the bespoke furniture,
A rare musical instrument,  shapely
and sexy, past it now but with youthful
and endearing charm.  He will tune it, feed
it on beeswax and restore it with his
gentle  touch so it it will become transformed,
until, like all he gathers  around him,
it will become serenely  harmonised,
mellow and tempered totally  with love.


Cait O’Connor


Latest  Magpie Tale, more here.

RIP Maya Angelou

Only love will set us free.




RIP Maya, with the angels now.


Touched by an Angel

 
We, unaccustomed to courage,
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies,
old memories of pleasure,
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave.
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.

Maya Angelou

Sentenced to Life

Once, I would not have noticed; nor have known the name for Japanese anemones, so pale, so frail. But now I catch the tone of leaves. No birds can touch down in the trees without my seeing them.

I count the bees.

This morning I heard James Naughtie read the poem Sentenced to Life on the Radio 4 Today programme and it moved me to tears, it was read so well and the words....... well the words speak for themselves.  The poet is the great Clive James.

I don't always enjoy poems being read aloud, I know a lot of folk prefer it but I nearly always like to read them aloud myself in my own head but in this case there was some kind of magic afoot as I listened while washing the breakfast dishes at the kitchen sink.

Here it is:

Sentenced to Life

Sentenced to life, I sleep face-up as though
Ice-bound, lest I should cough the night away,
And when I walk the mile to town, I show
The right technique for wading through deep clay.
A sad man, sorrier than he can say.

But surely not so guilty he should die
Each day from knowing that his race is run:
My sin was to be faithless. I would lie
As if I could be true to everyone
At once, and all the damage that was done

Was in the name of love, or so I thought.
I might have met my death believing this,
But no, there was a lesson to be taught.
Now, not just old, but ill, with much amiss,
I see things with a whole new emphasis.

My daughter’s garden has a goldfish pool
With six fish, each a little finger long.
I stand and watch them following their rule
Of never touching, never going wrong:
Trajectories as perfect as plain song.

Once, I would not have noticed; nor have known
The name for Japanese anemones,
So pale, so frail. But now I catch the tone
Of leaves. No birds can touch down in the trees
Without my seeing them. I count the bees.

Even my memories are clearly seen:
Whence comes the answer if I’m told I must
Be aching for my homeland. Had I been
Dulled in the brain to match my lungs of dust
There’d be no recollection I could trust.

Yet I, despite my guilt, despite my grief,
Watch the Pacific sunset, heaven sent,
In glowing colours and in sharp relief,
Painting the white clouds when the day is spent,
As if it were my will and testament –

As if my first impressions were my last,
And time had only made them more defined,
Now I am weak. The sky is overcast
Here in the English autumn, but my mind
Basks in the light I never left behind.


Clive James


There will be an interview with Clive James on the programme tomorrow, I look forward to that.

Coffee Talk

This is another take on the picture below, not my work but I liked it and wanted to share with you.



Coffee Talk (a poem)


Plain people
In their tailored suits
And perfectly polished dress shoes,
They tap manicured fingers
While waiting for stiff drinks
And wonder what poets across the room
talk about over the messy edges of café tables,
Toppling bottles of half-drank wine,
And the coffee-stained pages
We exchange as if sharing secrets:
That an unleashed mind is a happy life,
How the whole world spins,
A shedding wilderness of words
From a vortex in the frontal lobes
Of our dishevelled brains, so full
Of good films and literary autobiographies
That there’s no time left to lend to reality TV,
How fluid the body is when words
Become art and the pen fills the skin,
How sustainable love lives when veiled
In the expression of shameless creation.,
How strong the pull of death
Into so many notebooks,
Brash handwriting of well-lived moments,
The grand metamorphosis immortalized.
How meaningful the lonely moments
Of this night can stretch themselves
Into the star shine of a haiku or soliloquy,
Ink-covered hands and blood-shot eyes
Crossing themselves like prayers across
First drafts and pages full of paragraphs,
my crusted coffee cups spent of words,
Those blue, curvy mamas who open
morning windows and warm my wintered hands.


 Stacy Lyn Mar


Written for a prompt at Magpie Tales.

New York, 1922

New York 1922

It was the noon hour, the time for protection.

I was wearing my favourite apricot 

cloche hat, everything seemed just perfect; 

it was all about the light.  The light and 

the moment the light shone upon were both

golden, so all about me was glamour,

jewel-like, atmospheric, their colours 

matching my Parisien hat and my mood. 

I did not know that my image was being 

captured; I would  have protested but to 

be painted thus did thrill and move me in 

an equal measure. On that day in New

York in 1922, when he and

I took tea together, we became as

one, isolated in our togetherness.

The crowd receded and time paused for me,

so that in its stillness I could no longer

fear my past or worry for my future.

I knew somehow, from that  golden day on,

there was only ever going to be the now.

Cait O’Connor

This week's Magpie Tale.  See more here.

The fine painting is by Edward Hopper.

My Dream

My Dream


This is my dream now.
I can now escape night terrors and the Dali dream which was delirium.
I am single-handed, yet feeling closely-held and not forsaken.
Out, out into the thistledown, featherlight and floating,
I am carried on Etesian winds;
caressed by raindrops, watched  over by angels.
I can see a rainbow but now in fade-out
I am seen in sweet sepia, softly sleeping.
I am unique and special, solitary but safe.
I am high-flown now, carried away like a poem.
I fly below doves, follow in the wake of clouds
and nothing can stop me.
I am to be cherished forever.
This my dream now.



Cait O’Connor





This is written as a response to another Magpie Tale. Read more here
(The photographer is Martin Stranka.