Haiku For Today

The view through my patio doors today is summed up in this Autumn Haiku - short and to the point.

Winds toss brown seed heads
on tall buddleia branches,
butterflies long gone.

Longer poetic offerings will resume once the muse returns - or possibly, after I receive a kickstart from anybody inclined to sort my ignition, which has apparently got damp recently... splutter, splutter, splutter...

P.S. Perhaps I should point out, this last refers to me - not a car! I don't have one of those...

Harvest Time Again

Soul Food

Sun warmed tablecloth field
spread with feast of honey-gold corn,
shimmers in a heat wave heat haze,
while parallel lines of barley sugar ridges
twist, then converge at point of sight.

Ploughshares upturn toffee-coloured earth
to merge in sweetness with pale horizon,
providing food for the soul to digest
as eyes devour the bountiful beauty
of the harvest banquet laid before them.

Are You Sitting Comfortably? Then I'll Begin...

Bearing in mind I'd been told to report to Queen Alexandra Hospital at 7.30am on 19th August, come with me now back to the 18th; 'Brrring, Brrring' went my telephone...
They were ringing to tell me I'd been moved to the afternoon list, and should report to St Mary's Hospital at 12.30pm.
Alarm bells rang. 'Are you sure it's St Mary's?' said I, confused. 'Yes, quite sure'. The determined voice on the other end of the 'phone assured me that was the right place. Okay.

I ordered a taxi for 11.45am Wednesday morning, and after a relatively wakeful night, was glad to be on the doorstep at last, waiting for the off...
No taxi. 'Phone firm and nudge 'em. Ten minutes late, taxi arrives and by 12 noon we were sitting in a traffic jam, still in Havant...
Luckily, driver knew a few crafty side roads, alleyways and factory backyards (!) and we headed towards Portsmouth. And met another traffic jam. Driver played a blinder for the second time, and took me on a circular tour through side roads until St Mary's eventually looms.

I enter a door marked Same Day Clinic, as I knew I was there for a day procedure.
'Day Surgery upstairs' said the receptionist.
Take lift up to first floor; approach another receptionist. 'Can't find you on the list', says she. Wave hoards of paperwork under her nose. 'Oh, you want Outpatients', was the verdict. Back downstairs, out into steaming noonday heat, limp across large car park to Outpatients. (I'd been a bit enthusiastic on the old exercise bike the day before, and one knee was showing its age.)
Another receptionist. 'Can't find you on the list', was the verdict. By now I was close to screaming, crying or having an apoplectic fit in frustration, as she then said 'You should be at Queen Alexandra's Hospital.

AAARRRGGGHHH.

'Just a moment, I'll go and have a word with somebody', interjected a passing bod who had no doubt picked up on my fraught state.
Eventually I got the good/bad news - ' Yes, you are in the right place, but Day Surgery is in the Main Hospital...the other end of this building.'
Limp like a three legged dog through miles of corridors until, eventually, said 'Day Sugery' signpost restores my faith in human nature. . .
Which plummeted soon after, as there was no free cubicle for me to disrobe in. I was ushered into a nurses office with a couple of chairs, filing cabinets, computer and examination couch. Salubrious. They stuck a yellow Post-It label on the doorframe, with my name inscribed, and two plastic labels on my wrist, one with name, and one to signify 'Allergic to sticky-plaster and plastic.' You figure it out.
By some miracle, my blood pressure was an acceptable one thirty over seventy, which only goes to show what a placid person I am in times of stress.

A nurse and an anaesthetist double checked I was who I said I was, and more importantly, who they thought I was, and a lot more boxes were ticked on multi-coloured forms.
Mr Bevan, consultant, came and said hello and made reassuring noises, as consultants do.

Eventually, I was lead out to a cubicle, curtains were drawn and I put on the latest design in gowns - it had a cross-over back, instead of the old, totally open back - what joy. I then spent the next three hours ten minutes in a waiting room with thirteen others (six patients, including me, and the rest their family members) and waited. And waited. I started the day being first on the list, but ended up last - presumably because I didn't need a full anaesthetic, so would be compos mentis and ready to go home faster at the end of the day. At about quarter to five it was at last my turn to walk to the theatre for my one day only appearance, as you might say.

This was a totally fascinating experience. About eight bodies danced a medical ballet around the room, with me at centre stage. I saw yet another inside portion of my anatomy on a screen, complete with offending polyp, which was removed after a local anaesthetic had been injected, and before the hormonal coil was inserted. And that was me done. Off for a half hour or so in the recovery room next, with another medical ballet troupe dancing attendance, until I was finally wheeled to the lift, and down to the ward where I was fed two rounds of buttered toast, and given a jug of water.

Despite warnings about mobile 'phones, once I was the solitary occupant of the waiting room, I'd rung No. 1 Daughter who was sitting out on Southsea seafront, and she'd made her way to the Hospital to pick me up about half six, so I was home about seven. What a day!

All medics did a great job - don't ever knock the NHS -it was the clerical staff that were lacking in finesse, but all's well that ends, well, eh? Hope you all enjoyed the tale...

(P.S. Just realised this will be my 200th post - seems like a good time to tell all!)

Post Op

Well, the 19th came and went, complete with awaited hospital procedure. As I'm am still under the 24 hour, post anaesthetic 'no operating machinery, no signing important documents' etc etc, I shall leave it at that - apart form saying Hi! and Thanks! to everyone who left a comment on the 'Breavin' On The Window-pane' poem I regaled you with the day before.
As Marion St John Webb wrote many, many more in the same vein, I shall leave you with another little gem from the same book:-

Timothy Jupp

I'm glad I'm gooderern Timothy Jupp,
He screams at whatever I do.
An' Timothy's fatter an' biggeren me -
I don't think he aught to, do you? . . .

He's screamin' again - 'cos we each had a sweet,
an' somehow I've swallowed his too.

You can now go and build up your strength before I get to tell you all about the many delights (!) of Wednesday - as only a napple could...

In Hiding?

In an idle moment this afternoon, I picked up my copy of 'The Littlest One His Book' and began leafing through the well loved pages...
The poems and illustrations are all old friends of mine, but just as with people, there's always the chance to notice something new, despite the number of years shared together.

I suddenly registered the fact I'd been mentioned by name (sort of) in this tale. See how fast you can spot me?

Breavin' On The Window-Pane

It's cold and grey an' still outside,
And everything is wet with rain.
I'm standing on the cushion seat
And breavin' on the window-pane,
An' drawin' pictures with me 'and.
The window's high against the sky -
I can't see out unless I stand.

I've drawn a house an' chimley-pot;
I've drawn a man an chil'den too,
A napple an' a toasting fork,
An' someone who is jus' like you,
And Gran'ma sittin' in the rain.
The pane's so small I've filled it all,
And 'speks I'll have to breave again.

But Jane has spoilt it now; she says
I want a whippin' - an' I don't.
She's rubbed the window clean, and says
She'll fetch a policeman - but she won't.
And now she's gone downstairs again . . .
I'm breavin' on the window-pane.
I'll draw a nugly one of Jane.

Hear (?) And Now

Saturday Soliloquy

The sound of traffic's motorway madness
forms a ceaseless background noise, a hum,
which grows in volume with the gusting wind.
A siren wails - police or ambulance;
an unrelenting Saturday furore
of life lived in the fast lane. Not for me;
I contemplate the August plenitude
of green and luscious plants' late-summer burst,
exuberant productions running wild
before the dying year curtails their growth.
A nearby building site adds noise of drills,
burring and whirring. A car horn toots.
Perhaps the patio door is best left closed
until a Sunday silence greets the world.

K1, P1, K2tog

This title has to be read phonetically - so that it sounds like ' kuh wun puh wun kuh too tog'. For the uninitiated, who have never even SEEN a knitting pattern, let alone attempted to read one, I'd like to give an idea of how fascinating they can become, when you view them in this light.

My cousin, Betty, introduced me to the noble art of pattern reading. Otherwise, I may have gone my entire life simply translating the abbreviations as 'knit one, purl one, knit two together'. This, no doubt, is the prosaic interpretation which many knitters may use. But once get into the habit of Betty's idea, and a knitting pattern will forever be seen in a new light.

When the garment being constructed has a lacy pattern produced by a series of holes, the reading becomes more and more interesting. K1, P1, K2tog, Wfwd, Sl1, K1, PSSO, P1, K1, for example. Wfwd = wool forward, Sl1 = slip one, PSSO= pass the slipped stitch over. So the line would read:-
' kuh wun puh wun kuh too tog, wuh fwud, sluh wun kuh wun, puh suh suh och' , as near as I can come up with relevant sounds.

Now you can all scurry away into a darkened room, armed with a knitting pattern, and practise the art for yourselves. Be prepared, however, for a visit from several little men in white coats, possibly bearing a straight jacket.

I dedicate this poem to my niece and sister-in-law, who have recently joined the ranks of knitters. Long may their needles twiddle.

Knitting Up A Storm

Knit one, purl one, knit two tog …

What an idea for my blog -
a knitter's poem! I declare!
I never thought to see one there.

Slip one, pass the slip stitch over…

knitters swoon in fields of clover
as pretty patterns soon ensue
with clever stitches, two by two.

Rib or garter, moss or plain…

a stitch can have a lovely name,
and lead us on to learn another,
till we join them all together.

Thus a garment comes to life…

occasionally with some strife.
Too large? Or just a little small?
Knitters need be on the ball!

Early Morning Non-Poem Poem.

Four thirty, and I'm wide awake.

Today the bin men come.

Should I put the rubbish out?

Their juggernaut appears at seven.

If I fall back fast asleep
and miss the whole shebang,
I'd have to wait for fourteen days
until they come again.

In Pensive Mood

It's not often I decide for sure what I will write about next. I prefer 'following my nose', or my intuition - or do I mean inspiration? This morning is no different. Although childhood games would have been the logical follow on from the previous post, that was not the subject that fought its way to the surface of my mind, once I sat before the screen. Instead, I had to let loose an idea which had been triggered by an email I received a couple of days back, in reply to a comment I'd left on Kathleen's blog.

I had a hovering image in my head of birds migrating, and it wouldn't let me be. The thought of a trigger mechanism which dictated when they would begin, and where these epic journeys would lead, made me think how similar my plight was, as I set my mind free to fly through the realms of inspiration. I never know where it will alight, or what the outcome will be. I have to simply trust the flight will end somewhere, and give a positive result.

You begin to see the similarities? When birds, or butterflies, come to that, brave the elements to fly untold miles across the face of the Earth, what assurance do they have that their efforts will have been worthwhile? None at all. But could they ignore the inner, overwhelming desire to find out? I think not.

This, then, is the result of my latest foray into the land of poetry. It's another of those 'works in progress', I suppose, so bear with me if it's a little rough round the edges. It needed to hatch from its egg today.

Fly Away

Birds collecting for migration;
they'll be off soon to find the sun.
I follow, in imagination,
travelling with them. We are one.

Each body fuelled by inborn urge;
'Up, away, come fly, come fly!'
From the first day they emerge,
this silent voice they can't deny.

It drives them; gives them strength to fight
against the wind's capricious play,
mile after mile in ceaseless flight
they'll valiantly pursue their way.

Could they choose, would they ignore
this inner, overwhelming force;
adapt, and face what lay in store,
as seasons follow their set course?

The Games Children Play

6.30 am on a Sunday morning, and here I am, in front of the computer, wondering 'Now, how to amuse them today?' as the line goes in that wonderful poem by A A Milne. What, you've never read it? Then here goes:-

Sneezles

Christopher Robin had wheezles and sneezles,
they bundled him into his bed;
they gave him what goes with a cold in the nose
and some more for a cold in the head.

They wondered if wheezles could turn into measles,
if sneezles would turn into mumps;
they examined his chest for a rash, and the rest
of his body for swellings and lumps.

They sent for some doctors in sneezles and wheezles
to tell them what aught to be done.
All sorts and conditions of famous physicians
came hurrying round at a run.

They all made a note of the state of his throat,
they asked if he suffered from thirst;
they asked if the wheezles came after the sneezles -
or if the first sneezle came first.

They said, 'If you teasle a sneezle or wheezle,
a measle may easliy grow;
but humour or pleasle the wheezle of sneezle,
the wheezle will certainly go.'

They expounded the reasles for sneezles and wheezles,
the manner of measles was new.
They said, 'If he freezles in draughts and in breezles,
then phtheezles may even ensue. '

Christopher Robin got up in the morning,
the sneezles had vanished away,
and the look in his eye seemed to say to the sky
'Now, how to amuse them today?'

As I wrote the title of the post, I fully intended to waffle on about a few childhood games my Gran and my Mum told me about, once upon a time. But having copied out these verses for the uninitiated amongst you, ( if there are any?), I thought 'Enough is enough!' I shall desist from elaborating upon those until another day, and let you simply revel in the Sneezles - the germ free way...

P. S. Splellchecker has just had a fit - sneezles and wheezles are not for him!

Coronation Day?

I've heard of the crowned heads of Europe... But never in my wildest dreams, did I expect to be amongst their number. However, Blogland never ceases to amaze. What did I find this morning, but that Bernie had plonked a glittering crown on my unsuspecting head. I wondered why I'd found it so difficult to raise my brainbox from the pillow as I opened my eyes this morning...

Bernie, dear Bernie, I can tell you have but lately decided to visit my Blogland castle. Otherwise you could not have failed to hear me maligning the whole awards industry. All those poor pixels being pushed around to create a plethora of IT Oscars, make me weep. I never add to their burden by making them rush to umpteen other Blogbods.

As for the attendant rules and regulations of how many secrets we should reveal about our noble kingdom, or our Royal Selves, well ! Noblesse does most certainly not Oblige on this count.

The Royal Coffers are becoming full to bursting with 22 carat, gold plated awards, and frankly, the insurance premiums are beginning to bother me. No more, kind subjects, no more, prithee.

Toilet Humour, Possibly....

In the world of today I'm sitting at the computer. Set your time warp button back to 7th April last year, and you will find I was in front of the same computer then, pondering, while two workmen were endeavouring to bring my bathroom into the twenty first century.

I moved into this house in July 1992. The previous occupants had decorated the bathroom walls with a thick, pseudo wood effect paper, which was probably vinyl of some sort on top of a springy, backing layer about a sixteenth of an inch in thickness. There was no way I could afford to replace it, so to camouflage various holes left there by the removal of their bathroom fittings, I spent an hour or two with the closest matching pattern available in sticky back plastic, trying to match the 'grain' of the pseudo wood as I laboriously patched over the gaps. If I say so myself, the end result was pretty good. Unless you knew where to look, the patches didn't scream 'here I am!' So we lived together harmoniously enough.
With the lump sum payment I got when I retired from the Inland Revenue, I promised myself to get the old bath removed and have a proper shower cabinet instead, together with a modern toilet and basin.

A couple of years ago, I began the search for a reliable firm to carry out the transformation. Thanks to the Internet, I managed to do a lot of research into the ins and outs of available choices of fixtures and fittings, which left me with the task of finding a plumber/ builder to carry out the renovation. Hmm….

I originally tried to arrange interviews with four candidates for the job; the first kept calling me 'darling' and was disqualified out of hand; the second failed to materialise; the third suggested I visit his showroom, but when my son attempted to take us there, we never managed to find it, and the fourth 'phoned back with a quote for the whole job - nothing down on paper- and with a ' nudge, nudge, wink, wink, ' said he'd not charge VAT if I paid cash. As a former Inland Revenue employee, this was an absolute no-no.

So it was back to square one.

Eventually I saw a charming gent from Aqua Bathrooms, got quotes, plans, plus details of fixtures and fittings, and the work began, at last.

It went really well - until the loo had been plumbed in, and they asked me to come and look at the work. AARRGGHH! The wrong loo had been delivered, and instead of the wonderfully streamlined, curvaceous one I'd asked for, there before me sat the most atrociously bulbous, ridged and convoluted monstrosity beyond my wildest dreams - or rather- nightmares. No problem, said the plumber. It could be changed.

Off went another order, and a further week went by to await its delivery.

Then the offending loo was removed, and new one plumbed in. It immediately became obvious, the pan was slightly skewed, as the purpose designed seat only touched the rim on one side, and each time one lowered one's posterior in its direction, there was a disconcerting 'clonk' as the seat settled on to the pan.

Off went another order, and a further week went by to await its delivery.

Then came a call from Aqua - the newly delivered loo was as badly mis-shapen, if not worse, than the other. So we were back to square one.

Off went another order, and a further week went by to await its delivery.

Have you noticed the tedious repetition of this hallowed phrase, folks?

Fortunately, this loo, of a different and highly reputable make, was absolutely fine, a joy to behold as well as comfortable to sit on. But who else, I ask you, would need four loos to find one acceptable?!

I cannot speak highly enough of the firm, Aqua Bathrooms, who contended with all this trauma. I wouldn't hesitate to recommend them to anyone, but I'd warn everyone off choosing a glamorous looking loo made in Portugal. The catalogue picture may be a delight to the eye, but the actual article could turn out to be anything but!

A Saturday Surprise Of The wrong Sort!

Finally, one part of the medical profession has agreed that a blood glucose reading of 7.4 put me on the diabetic scale. The other part, the Hormone Watch, has yet to have their wicked way with me. Anyhow, Friday morning saw me closeted with the nurse, while she explained the do's and dont's, gave me half a tree's worth of booklets and leaflets, and a cunning device for DIY measuring. This had the happy name of FreeStyle Lite. And yes, it did have a capital letter in the middle of a word.

She also provided a prescription for the little strips that work by capillary action to suck my blood(!) and the lancets that make this possible without need to slit my wrists for a sample. Fine. I duly presented Boots Chemist with the slip, and toddled home with the resultant bag of goodies.

I then had great fun reading all the literature, and trying out the new gadgets. Here I need to explain.The tiny needles are encased in a blue plastic holder, which slips into the round hole in the electronic monitor.

When I opened the box of 100 lancets, they were grey - and square. And we all know of the square peg-round hole syndrome.
I failed to convince Boots, when I phoned, that there had been a mistake, and was asked to take everything in on Saturday, for them to inspect.

At this point, Sod's Law came into force. Saturday was grey and wet. No walking in Birkenstock, bare toed comfort, for boots, raincoat and hat were obviously needed. My little black leather ankle boots had hibernated in the shoe cupboard, but on inspection, seemed to be wearable still. Off I trotted, once clad, and eventually the Boots pharmacist agreed the square/round problem, and said they'd have words with the surgery on Monday.

I headed homeward, trundling trusty shopping trolley before me, head down against the elements. By the time I reached the homeward straight, I noticed my two feet were not making the same sound as I walked; the right seemed to squelch. I put this down to my favouring one foot, due to somewhat wonky right knee, and thought no more of it.

Once inside the front door, I took off soggy mac and cap and headed down the passage to sit in a chair so's I could unlace the boots. This is where the surprise came in. Both soles had disintegrated, the right one more than the left, and when I glance back down the passage, there was a trail of crumbled, black, sponge like substance left in my wake... Just as well I'd not had to walk through any puddles. As it was, my right sock had just begun to show signs of sogginess, though the left was unscathed.

I've never had a pair of boots die on me before. It goes to prove the old adage, there's a first time for everything.

P.S. Please note, folks , they were NOT Wellingtons! I don't have Wellington shaped feet. I have Birkenstok shaped feet - wide and square at the toes.

Comments Sometimes Need Special Answers

I've never felt it satisfactory to reply to comments left on napple notes, by leaving a comeback in the same place! Who has time to read a post and comments for the second time, to see whether the Blog Owner has answered a question?

Many of my readers, who have supplied an alternative email address, will know I carry on conversations with them 'behind the scenes'. But occasionally, the urge to 'answer back' to a follower who remains a little incognito, is too strong to ignore.

Yesterday gave a good example. Friko said, and here I quote:-

"Poetry is so very hard to translate; who said "poetry is what gets lost in translation"? I am no poet, don't even consider myself a writer; I have, however, tried to read translations of foreign poetry to members of poetry groups who do not know the original language and it's always fallen flat. Words that can move me to tears leave them cold.
I hate that that should be so, I hate that I can't "make" others see and feel and taste and smell the poets who mean the most to me.
Oh dear, Jinksy, you have hit a nerve."

This so exactly captured the reason why I wrote out the translations as near as possible in the order of the original. And why, after Kathy B! had said:-

"This is so beautiful and the literal translation is wonderful to read.
It's interesting to read something exactly as it was intended to be
read, albeit minus some of the cadence that might have been in the
foreign, original words. Hopefully that made sense."

I emailed her this reply:-

"I could give you the gist of the rhythm of the first verse of Pastel:-

dah di di dah di di dah dah di dah
dah dah di dah di dah di dah dah
dah dah di dah di dah di di dah
dah di dah dah di di dah di dah dah

Hopefully, that makes sense, too!"

I think Friko will understand this, maybe better than anybody.

Moving from French to German for a moment, there's a verse by Goethe which etched itself in my memory, too, in some long ago German lesson. Once I'd got to Art College and discovered the delights of brush lettering, the first two lines are the ones which gave me a phrase to use in a project to practise the new skill. But that's another story. Here's the poem:-

Über allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh',
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest Du
Kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur! Balde
Ruhest du auch.

I did a literal translation of this too, for somebody else, but it was less than satisfactory, as the difference in syntax between English and German destroyed the 'soul' of the poem. That's why I finally settled for this rendition:-

Peace lies over the mountains.
No movement is discernible
in the tall treetops.
Woodland birds call, then roost.
Wait patiently!
Soon peace will claim you.

And the conclusion from all of today's mitherings? I guess Weaver's prompt to explain what inspired me to write poetry, has highlighted the exact reason. It's not the beauty of any one language, but its inherent lilt and flow that captured my heart from the earliest years, when, with bombs still forming a background to life, a very special Auntie would read me the poems of Marion St John Webb and A A Milne.

Voila!

As promised, following yesterday's Blogland detour through some French poetry, I have endeavoured to give literal translations; I've left the words, as much as possible, in the order in which they were written, rather than re-arranging to the accepted, English syntax. In this way, I hoped to give a better correlation between the original, and my version.

Literal translation of Pastel by Theophile Gautier

I love to see you in your oval frames,
yellowing portraits of beauties from an earlier age,
holding in your hands, roses - a little pale -
as befits flowers a hundred years old.

The winter wind, in touching your cheeks,
has made your carnations and lillies* die.
You have nothing left but spots **of mud
and on the sidewalk*** you languish, all sullied.

It is past, the gentle reign of courtesans.
La Parabere, along with La Pompadour,
would only find rebellious subjects, now,
and in their tombs Love is buried also.

You, meanwhile, ancient portraits one forgets,
you sniff your bouquets of flowers with no scent,
and smile with melancholy
at the memory of your gallant conquests.

*1) i.e. made your pink and white complexions 'die' - in the sense of expire, or fade.
** 2) hints at the idea of beauty spots?or maybe fly-blown, as a describing a mirror's black specks?
***3) on the quais, or walkways of bridges which span the river, maybe even riverbanks?



Literal translation of Chinoiserie.

It is not you, no madame, that I love.
Nor you either, Juliette, nor you
Ophelie, nor Beatrix; not even
Laure the Blonde, with her great, sweet/gentle eyes.

The one I love at present, is in China.
She lives with her old parents
in a tower of fine porcelain
by the Yellow River, where there are cormorants.

She has eyes tip-tilted towards the temples:
a foot small enough to hold in the hand:
a skin more translucent than the parchment of a lamp:
the nails long, and painted bright red.

Through her lattice she inclines her head,
which the swallow in flight comes to touch,
and each evening, as adroitly as a poet,
she sings of weeping willow and peach blossoms.

This poem was inspired by the painting on a Willow Patterned, fine porcelain plate - or so I was lead to believe, so the words 'in China' have a double meaning.

I hope this gives you a flavour of the actual French language, a feel of its lyrical flow. It would take a greater poet/linguist than I to write a grammatical English poem which could catch even a fraction of the nuances of the original. You see, I had to resort to a French word in that last sentence anyway, as I could think of none better!

Thursday With Théophile

...Gautier, that is. I thought today, especially for the curious amongst you, I'd let you see one of those favourite, French poems that I mentioned yesterday. Here it is.

Pastel

J'aime à vous voir en vos cadres ovales,
Portraits jaunis des belles du vieux temps,
Tenant en main des roses un peu pâles,
Comme il convient à des fleurs de cent ans.

Le vent d'hiver, en vous touchant la joue,
A fait mourir vos oeillets et vos lis,
Vous n'avez plus que des mouches de boue
Et sur les quais vous gisez tout salis.

Il est passé, le doux règne des belles;
La Parabère avec la Pompadour
Ne trouveraient que des sujets rebelles,
Et sous leur tombe est enterré l'amour.

Vous, cependant, vieux portraits qu'on oublie,
Vous respirez vos bouquets sans parfums,
Et souriez avec mélancolie
Au souvenir de vos galants défunts.

While I'm at it, I've decided I may as well post another of Gautier's poems that I love. If nothing else, it may make a few of you use your grey cells in a new way, as you endeavour to translate. Nowhere does Blogger say we have to stick to the English language, what, what, what?!


Chinoiserie

Ce n'est pas vous, non, madame, que j'aime,
Ni vous non plus, Juliette, ni vous,
Ophélia, ni Béatrix, ni même
Laure la blonde, avec ses grands yeux doux.

Celle que j'aime à présent, est en Chine;
Elle demeure avec ses vieux parents,
Dans une tour de porcelain fine,
Au fleuve Jaune, où sont les cormorans.

Elle a des yeux retroussés vers les tempes,
Un pied petit à tenir dans la main,
Le teint plus clair que le cuivre des lampes,
Les ongles longs et rougis de carmin.

Par son treillis elle passe sa tête,
Que l'hirondelle en volant vient toucher,
Et, chaque soir, aussi bien qu'un poëte,
Chante le saule et la fleur du pêcher.

I promise to tell the stories of both the poems, eventually, once I've let them confound you for starters. Who knows, there may be talented, multi-lingual Bloggers who won't be able to wait to leave a comment and translate the lot today!

Wednesday With Weaver

Wow! (Thought I may as well keep the 'W's' well in evidence, as a starter.) Thanks to the Weaver of Grass, I rashly agreed to join in today's challenge to write about INSPIRATION. Hmmm. Yesterday, I dutifully typed and printed a hypothetical post, ready for transcribing to Blogger. (I still can't get anything to copy and paste successfully into napple notes - no inspiration there, then....)

But now, in the early hours of Wednesday (5.30am), and in the cold light of day, the two pages of A4, on which I quoted one German and one French poem among other things, lost their charm. All, that is, except for the last paragraph, which seemed to be the most relevant, and I quote:-

I simply love words. The older I get, the more I read, the more words have etched themselves into my conscious, or unconscious, mind. Now Blogger has given me the perfect arena for letting them spill out. But I wouldn't class Blogger.com as inspiring - though many of it's Blogaddicts are! For which I thank you all...

When all is said and done, inspiration can come from absolutely anywhere, anything. As long as one keeps an open mind and a sharp lookout for anything which triggers the flashing , Eureka! sign in the brain, inspiration will always be available. Now, stop reading this and go and find some.

Live And Learn

That's what it's all about, no matter which area of life you care to mention. Thanks to Gumbo Writer's interview with Harvey Stanbrough this week, I have discovered a great source for more learning. At one point in this interview, if you've not read it, Mr H. kindly offered to send a PDF file to those interested in the art of writing.

As a result of my being bold enough to request a copy in an email, I've had an ongoing, behind the scenes conversation with the gentleman since then. Thanks to a chance remark of his, I had the perfect nudge to write the following lines:-

Oh, To Be An Open Book!

If I were published in a book,
however would I breathe?
While people flipped my pages,
I might get a reprieve;

for as they turned a leaf or two
I'd inhale with all my might.
This hasty chest expansion
might last me through the night.

By counting all my many lines,
they'd maybe guess my age...
I know, if they erased a few,
I'd not be in a rage!

As The Weaver of Grass is currently asking for people to talk about their sources of inspiration, I thought this would tie in very nicely with her idea. I nominate 'The Chance Remark' as an ideal starting point for prose or poem. Why not go and visit her, and find out more about her cunning plan to get everyone writing? She does some exceedingly worthwhile posts herself, on the pen pushing front!

I'd also like to say a big thank you to the people who have become followers over the past few days... though some of you haven't left me a clue as to how I may return the favour. Nevertheless, you have caused Blogger to count to 100 on his less than perfect fingers; I noticed yesterday, you see, that he managed to make the total 101, but this morning, although I spotted yet another new face in the picture parade, he only makes it total 100. Either people are deserting me in disgust, or Blogger still hasn't mastered the art of arithmetic.

So, speak to me, newcomers - you'll find my bark is far worse than my bite...

Short, But Not Necessarily Sweet

A Reflection

The one in the glass is a stranger.
Who could they be? Should I know?
Possibly. There is a danger
the face is nobody but me!

Q's Done It Again

He sent an email, asking 'What am I?' I thought Blogland should tell him, so here's his question in full:-

I hold sprinklings of dust and occasional hair
pulled out in frustration, or computer despair.
I carry remnants of biscuits, a sandwich or three:
splashes of fruit juice, coffee or tea.
My glossy key tops are like footprints in sand;
some letters worn off by repetitive hand.
The eventual demise of my N, O, P, Q
means it's out with the old, and in with the new.

Only polite answers please - remember I am his Mummy, no matter how old he gets! As such, I am allowed to be a lazy moo, and use his brain power, rather than mine, to fill today's blank blogpage. I wasn't born yesterday. Anything for an easy life...

Chip Off The Old Block

Having written the title, I thought I'd better go straight to The Phrase Finder and probe into the origins of such a delightful saying. This is what I found:-

Meaning

A person or thing that derives from the source or parentage.

Origin

There are at least three variants of this phrase. The earliest form is 'chip of the same block', where the block in question may have been stone or wood. It dates back to at least 1621 when it appeared in a sermon by the Bishop of Lincoln, Robert Sanderson:-

"Am I not a child of the same Adam...a chip of the same block, with him?"

This seems to be interchangeable with 'chip of the old block' (See John Milton's An apology against - A modest confutation of the animadversions upon the remonstrant against Smectymnuus.)

N.B. The author of this gem then pointed out he'd included this book title simply for the pleasure of seeing one which was longer than the quoted line he'd taken from it:-

"How well dost thou now appeare to be a Chip of the old block."

He went on to tell us, it remained 'of ' rather then 'off ' until the 19th century, when the earliest reference he could find was in the Ohio newspaper The Athens Messenger, June 1870:

" The children see their parents' double-dealings, see their want of integrity, and learn them to cheat...The child is too often a chip off the old block."

I shall ignore the use of the verb 'learn' as opposed to 'teach', as well as pray it was not my want of integrity my No.1 Son was copying when he sent me the following lines in an email yesterday:-

Ode to a Biro!
by Q

There was a young Biro in plastic
whose life had been simply fantastic.
It was faithful through all,
with its medium-tip ball,
but unfortunately, I've just gone and snapped it!

I trust my own first-born chip didn't leave too great a dent in his Ma-block...The jury is still out on that one.

Jumping On The Bandwagon

I am beginning to feel some of my readers are guilty of this crime. Though come to think of it, what is a bandwagon? And if several readers jumped at once, would it collapse, or merely overturn?

Perhaps I should stop following this unproductive line of thought, and focus on the accepted meaning of the phrase. As I understand it, it's a way of describing a somewhat copycat mindset.
It would seem, after noting my fairly fast following up on their suggestions for poetic subject matter, that several Blogpersons are challenging me to pit my wits against unseen forces of inspiration on a somewhat regular basis.

More than once has Gumbo Writer prompted me in this fashion. Sometimes I can reply 'by return', as it were, but occasionally it takes a while to get my thinking into gear. Such was the case recently, when in an email of hers, she remarked that my phrase 'the larks and owls would never meet' sounded as though it should warrant a poem of its own.

Eventually, the cogs and wheels whirred, and I emailed her the resultant lines - for her eyes only, as you might say. But then I got to thinking, why limit readership? Why not cast it on the waters of Blogland's Inland Sea, securely corked in typical green glass bottle, and let it wash up on some far distant shore as fate, time and tide decreed? (Thinks:- Do inland seas have tides?)

Therefore, thanks to Angie and my clanking cogs, I give you:-

Larks and Owls

The Larks and Owls would never meet,
should each to his own rhythm keep.
Larks, who wake a break of dawn,
long before it's midnight, Y..A..W..N.
But Owls, who choose to lie abed
until the sun its beams have shed,
at dark, revive to full alert;
they're lively, witty, brisk and pert.
Then, night-time Owls come out to play,
while morning Larks all hide away
beneath their duvets, sound asleep,
as Owls their nightly vigil keep.

Bon Voyage, little green bottle... may you have a safe journey to those distant realms. And if you happen upon it yourself, Oh! Unknown Castaway, please reseal it after reading, and return to the deeps. Who knows where it may land next?

As Phoenix Requested

This is me talking to/about a couple of my pencils, as per comment/ suggestion left on my last post. I should probably explain, I have pencils at all points of the compass, so it was no easy task deciding which I should engage in conversation. I eventually opted to concentrate on the one which had produced the Enigma poem, the most recent of my efforts - until today, that is.

To be totally contrary, though, both of the following were tapped out on the keyboard; no back of envelope (traditional) or pencil (optional) played any part in their composition.

Ode To An Old, Wooden Pencil

Oh, Pencil! How your black and red
draws words and pictures from my head.
The painted stripes are dented, scratched,
but still your black lead stays intact.
You once belonged unto another,
who chewed your end. It made me shudder.
But when I found you, sad, forlorn,
I docked your tail. You were reborn.
Now, detrimental teeth marks gone,
and pristine eraser placed upon
your nether regions, you're renewed -
one cannot tell you had been chewed!

Blue Clutch Wonder

Nought point seven millimetre,
Pentel two oh seven;
a wonder of the modern age,
a pencil straight from heaven.

Turquoise barrel, silver clip,
twelve leads inside his shell;
consistency of breadth is his,
he always serves me well.

His point is ever crisp and sharp,
yet soft and freely flowing,
with leads advancing one by one;
spare refills keep him going.

No sharpener need spoil his head,
and splinter pointed dome,
for on this marvel of design,
his headgear's made of chrome.

Signposts And Curiosity

"Curiouser and curiouser!" So said Alice in Wonderland, one upon a storytime. For those among us who have more than our share of The Elephant Child's ' satiable curtiosity', a signpost can be our down fall, once our trunks have sniffed a whiff of something interesting...

Blogland leaves these tempting pointers in unexpected places, and we can find ourselves wandering in fields of fantasy before we have time to control the dash of the mouse upon which we ride. I was leisurely investigating blogs old and new after I posted my pennyworth (!) on Tuesday this week, when an Aerial Armadillo had me following one such signpost to the Clarity Of Night.

Before I knew it, I was inveigled into grabbing a used envelope, the back of which was imploring my pencil to waggle out a few words on the subject of In Vino Veritas. This was to comply with rules of a competition set up by Jason Evans. The closing date was only a day away, so my pencil needed to move quickly; eventually producing enough drawn out black lead lines to create the following:-

Enigma

Her glass is filled with wine.
He asks "Will you be mine?"
She, bashful, pale and shy,
lifts glass, and drains it dry.

She hears his words, so false,
spin round her, like a valse.
The Devil's Advocate
has left his help too late.

"You will not be in charge
once truth is set at large!
Beware what comes to pass -
In Vino Veritas!"

The enterprising Mr Evans has put an alphabetical list of numbered entries on his blog, with the chance for Blogpersons to vote for their favourite five submissions. With a total of 158 to peruse, this will be no mean task...Whoever manages to read all of them, will deserve a special prize for their tenacity of purpose, no less.

It's About Time

...I stopped revelling in other people's words and and got down to the business of chiseling a few more of my own in the marble halls of Blogland: or impressing them on clay tablets: or painting them on papyrus: or on a cave's rock face.
When you contemplate the variety of methods humans have used, doesn't it just show how great has been Man's urge to put his thoughts down to share with others? Since the beginning of time an underlying ribbon of communication has woven its threads around the world.

And this Time thing. When did it stop being governed by internal, unconscious rhythm, and turn into the rat race of modern quicker- faster- save time mentality? But then the advantages of this speed become obvious.

Imagine a pre-historic Blogland.

Immediately the whole concept of world wide, near instantaneous communication system becomes laughable. I chisel my message, tie it to a four footed messenger, or the back of a turtle, or leg of an eagle and send it on its way...to... Otherland. There's Authorblog, off in Aussie land, for example, who wouldn't stand a kangaroo's chance in hell of ever reading my equivalent Verse and Worse sample. Doesn't bear thinking about, eh?

Awareness of Time starts to look like a necessary evil in our evolutionary march through life...Although I gave up wearing a wristwatch many moons ago, I have to admit to being a trifle obsessive about clocks. I like their tick, tock, background noise, and it took me a long while to accustom myself to the clock radio beside my bed, because of its tock-tickless state.

It was while pondering in this fashion, that I came to write the following:-

Timepieces

Clock in the hall, steady and slow,
measuring ages as they come and go.
A grandfather clocks towering height
guards the pendulum's swing, left, right.

The clock on the mantelpiece studies life,
the daily routines of husband and wife,
of children and friends who clatter around
quite unaware of its rhythmical sound.

Clock in the kitchen - almost ringing;
bubbling saucepans, kettle singing.
Everything timed, no second wasted;
plates of hot food wait to be tasted.

A travelling clock in the spare room waits
for a guest to arrive. In the hands of the fates
its destiny hangs, and the decision
of when it may once again work with precision.

So all these clocks of which I speak,
each with its character, quite unique,
throughout the house are the guardians of time,
who remind us, to waste it would be a crime!

(Then what am I doing writing this, when I should probably be doing something else?)

Late Edition P.S.

It's 7pm here now, and anybody reading thus far after this time ( or its equivalent elsewhere in the world) please do make sure you read the comment Q has left ... I think you might enjoy it as much as I did!

I Feel Like Dora The Explorer

If this post title leaves you a trifle puzzled, I'm sorry. My smallest granddaughter once initiated me into Dora's cartoon land, and has occasionally waved merchandise under my nose with blatant Dora logos embossed on its various plastic horrors.
You will gather I favour more traditional, less consumer driven toys. However, that's another story.
Although I've never watched the TV programme, from the title, I assume Dora is an intrepid explorer. That's what I've felt like the past couple of days, flitting round Blogland, peeking at various pals latest offerings and reacquainting myself with their goings on.

While visiting one of my longtime favourites at http://weaverofgrass.blogspot.com/, what should I see but a photo of a combine harvester, along with Weaver's delightful Kraken poem. Then, Lo! and Behold! I found http://crystaljigsaw.blogspot.com/ with a green giant of a tractor on the heading banner.

They reminded me of something I wrote back in the days when I trundled up and down the South Coast railway line to work, and often saw combines and tractors busy in the adjacent fields.

Clean Cut

Harvest dust cloud
shrouds barbershop tractor
noisily creating
crew-cut stubble fields.

Heads of ripened corn
stand to attention,
waiting to be cropped.

No blonde tipped stalks
will be left, to weave
magic-movement patterns
under the teasing comb
of a warm summer wind.

Boss Is A Dirty Word

I may have shown who is boss, and enjoyed making Blogland sit on the naughty step for a while, but I now have the feeling I'm being treated to a bit of my own medicine. You see from choice of vocabulary in that phrase, that medical matters are impinging on my consciousness. I think I have been banished to the naughty step belonging to the NHS. I have obviously been remiss for not making more noises to gain their attention before now. Their radar has now registered my presence, and I'm being bombarded by flak from all directions.

This would be a little more encouraging if the gunners got their act together, and concentrated the salvos so they came from a single direction. Sadly, this does not appear to be the case. Our local surgeries have recently undergone major changes - some for better, some for worse, it seems. My GP, who has known my ins-and-outs (!) for more than 35 years, has moved on to more managerial realms. You might think a letter would have been sent, to inform me whose list I would be transferred to, but no. In fact, I only knew of his departure from a friend of mine who had received such a letter.

This did not bode well, once I blipped on the radar screen, as I'm sure you can imagine, and now I'm dodging bullets while trying to establish a rapport with doctors to whom I'm virtually an unknown entity.

My supposedly 'restful holiday' break, has proved to be a whirlwind of to-ing and fro-ing, at the mercy of medics... apart, that is, from a few great days when NZ relations were in my neck of the woods, together with No1 Son, who played chauffeur for them. Son is much improved, I am happy to report, so pills seem to have had the desired effect in his case, at least! Only wish I could say the same about me. But I live in hopes?!

I'd like to say a BIG thank you to all my Blogpals who have left messages during my AWOL act. I make no promises as to frequency of posts for a while, or to regularity of ward rounds among Blogland's lunatic fringes, but will flit like a will o' the wisp as time and inclination dictate. Normal service will be resumed as soon as I begin to feel normal. This could take centuries as, in truth, I have yet to discover how normal feels... I even wonder whether I would recognise it if it bit me on the behind...

Abracadabra

...Or now you see me, now you don't!
I'm relegating Blogland to the naughty step for a couple of weeks, while I ignore its daily screams for attention. Occasionally, one has to show who is boss.

Turning A Blind Eye

Having got my teeth into this subject of animal welfare, I can't let it go just yet.

On the news yesterday, there was a whole family in the UK who have just been prosecuted for keeping over a hundred horses in squalor on their farm in Amersham, even to the point of allowing some of them to die of hunger and thirst in their disgusting stables, then simply leaving them to rot where they fell.

It is unbelievable that neighbours or visitors to the farm didn't call in the RSPCA before things got so bad. How many blinkered human beings looked the other way, instead of making a stand? Even younger members of that family were condoning the atrocious behaviour of their elders by their continued silence. The farmer and his wife had several grown up sons and daughters. They had to have been aware of their father's cruelty, yet they remained silent.

This same silence was being kept by all those people in America, who had to be aware of those poor moneys being treated like human babies ; owners of shops where the doting 'parents' spent a fortune on baby clothes; supermarkets where the check out girls oohed and aahed at the tiny creatures, but made no attempt to call in animal rescue organisations to investigate such abnormal behavior.

Has the world lost all sense of common decency? Hopefully, not Blogland. I urge everyone who reads this post to talk about these animal welfare issues, to bring them to the notice of as many people as possible; to keep a weather eye open for any similar instances of cruelty and to have the courage to make a noise about it, rather than remain silent.

The animals have no choice. They can't speak for themselves. We can speak on their behalf... please do.

Misplaced Affection, Monkey Style.

I've been waiting to blog about this, ever since I watched a documentary a week or so back with a title along the lines of 'My Monkey Baby'. It had to be American, I thought - and it was.
It was hard to believe any country would allow such goings on.

The first story, was of a young couple just setting out to buy their 'baby'. They drove hundreds of miles to pay around four thousand dollars for a tiny, two week old monkey, from a woman who obviously had a thriving business going. Her small, untidy house had an annex with several cages of breeding pairs of monkeys which supplied her with 'stock'. The cages were simple wire enclosures, like crates, and although their inmates were fed and watered, the cruelty of confinement didn't bear thinking about.

The new 'Daddy' had suffered a less than perfect childhood, and never wanted to have a child of his own, so in his early twenties he had a vasectomy. But he soon found he wanted the chance to lavish care and affection on a newborn, and persuaded his partner to go with the 'monkey baby' idea.

Once collected, 'Mummy' secreted the tiny bundle inside her coat, as they checked into a motel for the night. The feeding bottle they were using had a teat designed for a human baby, obviously, and the unfortunate primate had difficulty fitting it into its tiny mouth. It spent the night spread eagled on 'Daddy's' chest, clinging to his T-shirt for dear life.

The next couple were retired. It was the woman's second marriage, after the death of her original husband. They both spoke of 'our daughter' and fed the unfortunate creature, as far as I could see, with a diet of cakes, sugary snacks and lollipops. 'She doesn't like bananas', insisted 'Mama'.
Their wills made provision for the animal to be cared for after their demise - but with the diet they were giving it, I'd imagine it would never reach the 50 year life span it might have attained in the wild.

The third was a 'single parent'. Her own grown up children were no longer in contact with her, so her monkey baby was company, as well as surrogate daughter, now she was a widow. At least she
fed it a reasonable diet, but did spend a fortune on ridiculous, frilly garments she made it wear, changing them several times a day, as though it were a doll, a plaything. Which of course, to her it was.

The last couple had several monkeys, and they had the freedom of the house to wander in, with a large caged area to which they were banished occasionally for 'bad behavior'. They were only subjected to wearing garments when out in public, although nappies were used indoors - until the wearer decided they had enough, and removed the offending article...

With so many children in the world, crying out for love and attention, this misguided 'caring' leaves me speechless...