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Category Archives: poetry

Mermaid Tail and Today’s Poem by Edward Thomas

I have been knitting for weeks and today I finished the Mermaid Tail for Live-Wire No3’s birthday! I am delighted with the end result, especially the two sides of scaly loveliness.

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The poem by Edward Thomas who was born on this day in 1878 is very pleasing to me. It is called “Words.”

Out of us all
That make rhymes
Will you choose
Sometimes –
As the winds use
A crack in a wall
Or a drain,
Their joy or their pain
To whistle through –
Choose me,
You English words?

I know you:
You are light as dreams,
Tough as oak,
Precious as gold,
As poppies and corn,
Or an old cloak:
Sweet as our birds
To the ear,
As the burnet rose
In the heat
Of Midsummer:
Strange as the races
Of dead and unborn:
Strange and sweet
Equally,
And familiar,
To the eye,
As the dearest faces
That a man knows,
And as lost homes are:
But though older far
Than oldest yew, –
As our hills are, old, –
Worn new
Again and again:
Young as our streams
After rain:
And as dear
As the earth which you prove
That we love.

Make me content
With some sweetness
From Wales
Whose nightingales
Have no wings, –
From Wiltshire and Kent
And Herefordshire, –
And the villages there, –
From the names, and the things
No less.
Let me sometimes dance
With you,
Or climb
Or stand perchance
In ecstasy,
Fixed and free
In a rhyme,
As poets do.

 Edward Thomas was killed in action soon after he arrived in France at Arras on Easter Monday, 9 April 1917. This memorial is to be found in Steep, Hampshire.
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Posted by on March 3, 2017 in Beauty, knitting, poetry, postaday2017

 

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Back Garden, Three Wise Monkeys and A Poem

This is our back garden in the rain when the hoolies have been blowing things around.

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Our Theee Wise Monkeys planter/sculpture is blooming beautiful! Made just for me by local artist, Jeremy Beswick.

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I found this poem in a front garden along the coastal path last week and loved it. The view from the house was spectacular.

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Veggie Supper, Antonio Machado and A Camellia

We had a Butternut Squash, a couple of Peppers and some Mozzarella in the fridge and BBC Good Food came up with  Roasted Squash with Mozzarella and Pesto – delicious!

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I found this poem this afternoon and it touched something in me.  The questions in the first stanza appealed and the answer speaks for me.

Is My Soul Asleep?

Is my soul asleep?
Have those beehives that work
in the night stopped? And the water-
wheel of thought, is it
going around now, cups
empty, carrying only shadows?

No, my soul is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches,
its eyes wide open
far-off things, and listens
at the shores of the great silence.

Antonio Machado

I only discovered this poet today. It is the anniversary of his death in 1939. He was a refugee and was among thousands of others including his mother, his brother and his brother’s family fleeing Spain on foot across the Pyrenees in the last days of January 1939. He died a month later in the French village of Collioure.

Camellias are in flower all over the neighbourhood and are very cheery on these dull days of mizzle.

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Posted by on February 22, 2017 in Beauty, Food, nature, Photography, poetry, postaday2017

 

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Bunk Bedding, A Sculpture and A Poem

I love getting the beds ready for LiveWire visits! As I write they are on the train and will be here soon and the bunk beds are ready with their favourite bedding.

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Our neighbours are sculptors and quite often build something in the garden before it goes off to its new home. Here are the legs of the next big thing! Check out their website http://www.peteandsuehill.co.uk/ to find out who these enormous legs are going to belong to!

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Today’s  poem is by Fleur Adcock and is in Poem for the Day Two for February 10th. I love the lines “your gentleness  is moulded still by words/from me”  What a responsibility we have to the world to teach our children to be kind and gentle.

For a Five-Year-Old

by Fleur Adcock

A snail is climbing up the window-sill
into your room, after a night of rain.
You call me in to see and I explain
that it would be unkind to leave it there:
it might crawl to the floor; we must take care
that no one squashes it. You understand,
and carry it outside, with careful hand,
to eat a daffodil.

I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails:
your gentleness is moulded still by words
from me, who have trapped mice and shot wild birds,
from me, who drowned your kittens, who betrayed
your closest relatives and who purveyed
the harshest kind of truth to many another,
But that is how things are: I am your mother,
And we are kind to snails.

 

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Paper Lanterns, Snowdrops and Tennyson

After the annual Lantern Parade in Truro before Christmas, two of the lanterns have been put up in the Lemon Street Market, Pegasus in the background and a Lion in the foreground. The theme for the lanterns last year was stories. Perhaps this is Aslan from C S Lewis’ The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.

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There are snowdrops popping up all over the place.

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Tennyson welcomed them with this delightful poem.

The Snowdrop – Alfred Lord Tennyson

Many, many welcomes,
February fair-maid!
Ever as of old time,
Solitary firstling,
Coming in the cold time,
Prophet of the gay time,
Prophet of the May time,
Prophet of the roses,
Many, many welcomes,
February fair-maid!

 
 

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New Yarn, Research and Brian Patten

I have some beautiful new yarn for my ongoing project which I can’t tell you much more about until March and LiveWire T’s birthday!

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I have spent the last three days reading and researching for our project and at the end of it have decided that this one, about a family connected with El Cobre Mine in Cuba, is not a story to tell in the graveyard but one for the booklet. To enlighten you re The Project, called “Until the Day Break”: in May we are to bring to life some of the ‘residents’ of our local Churchyard, St Euny and we will tell their stories beside their gravestones. The stories are to be a celebration of the lives lived and have led to some remarkable discoveries. Today, I have come to the conclusion that fascinating as it is, the story of El Cobre Mine in Cuba is not an uplifting one so not one for the performance. It is however, well worth the telling. Watch this space! When the booklet is published I will share it with you all.

It was these two gravestones that set me off on the story –

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The Mersey poet, Brian Patten, whose work I love and whom I met many years ago, was born on this day in 1946. To mark his birthday, I give you  “The Bee’s Last Journey to the Rose” which , though written many years ago, says much to me about hope for the future. I hope it does the same for you.

The Bee’s Last Journey to the Rose

I came first through the warm grass
Humming with Spring,
And now swim through the evening’s
Soft sunlight gone cold.
I am old in this green ocean
Going a final time to the rose.

North wind, until I reach it
Keep your icy breath away
That changes pollen into dust.
Let me be drunk on this scent a final time,
Then blow if you must.

by Brian Patten

 
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Posted by on February 7, 2017 in Beauty, knitting, poetry, postaday2017

 

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Primroses, Naomi Shihab Nye and Jabberwocky

I will resolve the photos issue over the weekend. In the meantime, here are two poems for your delectation and an old photo of Primroses in our garden as we have lots in flower today despite the cold.

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I love this one for its understanding of loneliness. I love the writing of Naomi Shihab Nye. If you put her name into my search you will see that I have chosen poems by her before. Kindness, is my favourite.

The Rider – Naomi  Shihab Nye

A boy told me
if he roller-skated fast enough
his loneliness couldn’t catch up to him,

the best reason I ever heard
for trying to be a champion.

What I wonder tonight
pedaling hard down King William Street
is if it translates to bicycles.

A victory! To leave your loneliness
panting behind you on some street corner
while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas,
pink petals that have never felt loneliness,
no matter how slowly they fell.

Jabberwocky, by Lewis Carroll,  is simply a logophile’s dream – all those lovely made up words that fit into the context so that the reader somehow knows what they all mean.

Jabberwocky
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
      And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
      The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
      Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
      And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
      And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
      He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
      Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
      He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
      And the mome raths outgrabe.
 
 

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