December 31st

we start in winter

dark days of gale, frosty breath

in watery sun

 

till the axis tips

into her majestic arms

and we are bathed in

 

her spring coat of green

the world bursts in bright colour

and a smile conquers

 

our hearts through summer

the moors alive with new birth

till the autumn fall

 

of gold leaf litter

the fungi bloat in shadow

the nourishing rain

 

and the coming cold

the flakes of new snow tumble

we end in winter

 

That’s it. All done. Thank you to all of you who have read my Haikus. Much love to you and your loved ones for 2013. xxx

December 30th

the wispy tufts of

the old man’s beard in verges

hedge sparrow wind breaks

Old Man’s Beard is a common species of climbing plant which seeds in winter. The seed is covered in a tufty whiteness. I hadn’t ever noticed it before, or rather, I hadn’t paid attention to it, my distracted mind filtering it out, but D educated me. It seems to be very common in the hedges. I can imagine little Hedge Sparrows (Dunnocks) nestling in it, like a big Santa beard!

 

(image – RSPB website)

December 29th

 

the breath of wanting

love the great leveller cleaves

a sword to the soul

the crown slips silent

shamed in his palsied grasp, dull

in her tender glow

the barefoot beggar

girl, august and comely eyed

the King at her feet

 

I’m really pleased with this three-tiered Haiku, it’s in tribute to one of my favourite paintings. King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid (1884, Edward Burne-Jones). It currently forms part of Tate Britain’s Pre-Raphaelite exhibition (Victorian Avant-Garde) although it has been on permanent display for a while in the main galleries.

I went to the exhibition today and to see it in the context of the other works was wonderful. I could have picked any one of a number of subjects, but this work always strikes me.

In summary, King Cophetua is transfixed and falls in love with a beautiful beggar girl Penelophon. In Burne-Jones’ painting, he paints her in a prominent position, elevated above the King, as if on a throne, he is her vassal. She looks beyond him, beyond the painting, she doesn’t meet our gaze either. She has a regal dignity, but also a humility. She is utterly beautiful. And he, seeing she ignores him, dares not approach, dares not be so bold as to sit next to her. He appears to remove his crown, to become the beggar, imploring her to be his bride. Love is the great leveller and this touching painting captures it so wonderfully.

Burne-Jones’ great friend William Morris was a staunch and principled socialist, so there is speculation that this painting is a homage to him, but whatever the inspiration, it sings. There is a tenseness and a tenderness, it talks of love and lust. And a hopefully happy future for the couple (and yes, they did live “happily ever after”).

Burne-Jones is my favourite of the Pre-Raphaelite painters, the subtlety of detail, the level of emotion conveyed in seemingly sullen faces. And the eyes, I am always drawn to the eyes. They take my breath away.

(image from Wikipedia, but images/painting owned by Tate)

December 28th

old faces return

wind scored by sixty winters

wretched gathering

December 27th

from corrugated

accommodation come the

dainty steps of pigs

elegant trotters

skip and sink in the mud so

dull against your pink

The pigs just the other side of the dual carriageway didn’t look so keen to wallow in the mud. They were a shocking pink colour on such a grey day. Like they’d just got out of the shower!

December 26th

 

the cynical gaze

of a secular wisdom

a child’s faith prevails

 

Today we watched The Miracle on 34th Street, the original version from 1947. This is the second time I’ve seen it, and a lot more subtlety shone through for me. I often thought the newer version starring Richard Attenborough was almost its equal, but now I can see it is inferior to this magnificent original. It’s funny, sad, it pulls at your heart strings and has a wonderful ending.

Why? Because it feels real, because certain things are rightly left unexplained, you can take your own meaning from it. The modern version dumbed down somewhat,  spelt it out, (spoilers, so stop here if you haven’t seen one or other of the movies) there was a “real” miracle in that somehow Kris Kringle was able to purchase the dream home little Susan Walker wanted, for her mum and dad-to-be. It’s ridiculous, syrupy nonsense, forgivable because it’s Christmas and you don’t mind suspending belief for a big shot of feel good.

But the original, oh my! It blows it out of the water. To me, Kris Kringle is just a well meaning old guy, who indeed suffers from the delusion of thinking he is Father Christmas. This is a story of positive mental illness. He doesn’t create miracles, he just makes people feel good about themselves, encourages them to take a risk and make a difference. And the final set play? He probably made it happen through some phone calls, research and then encouraging the couple to take a certain (literal) route to their destination.

What makes the film lovely for me, is some modern elements which still resonate loudly today.

1) The ugly commercialism of Christmas. Kris Kringle fights this, he pursues the true spirit of Christmas, of generosity and goodwill. The pressure of buying the right toy, the fads, the pushy marketing, he rails against this.

2) One of the main characters is a single mum and a successful one at that. Doris Walker (Maureen O’Hara), working at Macy’s department store in a senior management role, is a great role model, strong, respected and a fabulous mum.

3) Science vs Faith. Doris is also a firm believer in telling her little Susan (Natalie Wood) the truth. That there is no Santa Claus. From a commercial perspective she is rightly happy to employ Kris Kringle, he is a marketing masterstroke, but she’s perplexed and frustrated at his attempts to try to convince her daughter as to the existence of Santa. It’s implied, but I think she is an atheist too.  

4) Mental illness. Now, if you, like me, believe Kris Kringle to be a well meaning but slightly mentally ill old man with a gift of making people happy, then this film gives us another positive role model. It’s stated in the film, you should only be locked up for a mental illness if you are a danger to yourself or to others. But Kris Kringle is wholly altruistic, so it is ultimately cruel when he is compelled to whack the evil company psychologist on the bonce with his umbrella thus getting himself locked up and leading to the fabulous courtroom scenes where he is represented by the savvy and endearing love interest for Doris, Fred Gailey. Of course, you may well believe Kris Kringle really is Santa, which is fine too…

You can be an atheist and enjoy this Christmas movie! It’s about faith in general, in the human spirit. The newer version pushed it right in the spiritual/ religious space, which spoilt the subtle premise… Sometimes you just need a friendly nutter with a beard to give you that little shove. Then the miracles happen! All in all, the original is a beautiful movie. Kris Kringle, played by 5’4” World War 1 veteran Edmund Gwenn is brilliant, he won an Oscar for his performance. Here he is teaching his studious young ward how to pretend, in this case they are being monkeys, in a very funny scene.

And with that said, I hope you’ve all had a lovely Christmas!

December 25th

I thought of last year

when we ate, an empty place

at our sad table

December 24th

the drifting crow cloud

amorphous silent passage

memories of war

I saw a huge murder of crows, just drifting high, silent wingbeats, moving on to somewhere new. It reminded me of old wartime newsreels, squadrons of aircraft in the second world war. I thought of my mum who lived through the occupation of Pireas and Greece in the second world war. Did she ever have flashbacks? She was only a little girl. She was scared and hungry through the cold winter. Most of our generation has never had to live through war, I’m grateful and guilty.

December 23rd

warm cloaked adventure

cheerful visitations to

family and tree

 

We were dropping off presents today!

December 22nd

an ugly red smear

two wary shadows unfurl

spill black in the air

Two crows skulking over crushed roadkill, staking each other out, floating at each other in a non-violent contest. The sky was grey, the rain was falling. I didn’t get to see who won, who broke first. I drove on. Little dramas of nature are all around us. We (sometimes) only get a tiny window into them, it allows us to apply our own comprehension and fiction. It might have had nothing to do with what I’ve written of course, but it just goes to show, what does “truth” actually mean? I guess historians ask themselves this question, or I hope they do. I wont debate it, as I’m not clever enough to philosophise!

December 21st

 

midwinter dawning

ice age hill shrouded in mist

backlit with a jewel

I drove past Pegsdon Hills today. The mist was covering the top of them. The sun was muted behind it, diffusing the light such that it looked like the whole hill was alive with a wild glow. It was stunning. Clearly I couldn’t take a picture as I was driving and I had so much work to do, I couldn’t stop, but for that brief moment my mind was free of meaningless first world problems. Nature and natural forces are inspirational.

I always feel happy on midwinters day, it’s the time of year when the days slowly recover. I’m acutely aware of the encroaching darkness as the days shrink and the miserable rain and cloud come in. So today is the shortest day, tomorrow the day will be longer, imperceptibly so, but the thought of it makes me happy. This has been a year of reflection and sadness, I hope by March with the coming of colour and Spring, something will thaw in me too.

December 20th

never see daylight

empty stencilled quotes mocking

bug eyed sleep deprived

“The greater the obstacle, the more glory in overcoming it” – Moliere

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel” – Maya Angelou

These are two empty ironic quotes stencilled on the wall in one of our work meeting rooms. I’ve been stuck in this Slough dungeon for two days. Daylight has been missing from my life. I’m a shadow. I arrive in twilight, I leave in darkness. I’m a bug eyed, sleep deprived bush baby clawing at nothing, my head full of heavy pain. The train there and back again, a grimy windowed realm, all stations to purgatory. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for having this job, but it’s all relative.

This is the world of bids, it drains the brain, brings headaches. The quotes just infuriate me. How do (some) colleagues make me feel? Angry.

December 19th

what secrets hidden

behind the eyes of the hive

children hurrying

Sometimes I look at people and wonder what their lives are like, whether they are happy or sad. Whether they feel fulfilled. Whether they have tried their best, whether they have regrets. Sometimes I feel an intense sadness, for seemingly no reason whatsoever, there is something I pick up, in someone’s face, the way they walk, it may just be a reflection of what I’m feeling deep down. But it’s a despair, a pity. I sense something powerfully lonely about it all, about individuals, about a place, where so many millions of people live, yet so many people are on their own.

We are all children of routine, the morning rush at Paddington an example of it. Rushing, time our master. It’s the way of the world. I had a spare half an hour waiting for my train. It’s fascinating when you step outside of that and just watch. And somehow ever so sad.

December 18th

the child inside dies
with wisdom comes the sadness
kindness in my dreams

December 17th

 

neon lit city

your broken teeth don’t detract

from your winning smile

 

Despite the ticket server crashing (probably was put together in the 70s by Kraftwerk themselves), I managed to get tickets for Kraftwerk at the Tate Modern in February. So excited by this. People who say they are cold or emotionless I think just don’t get it. Neon Lights is one of the most beautiful love songs ever written.

December 16th

murky water swirls

on its ragged path to sea

blue bolt over grey

breaks monotony

iridescent kingfisher

fades in the hedges

Saw my first Kingfisher of the year, D and friends were taking a winter dip in the river Cam in Cambridge. It was only a moment of bright blue whizzing across the murky water. It was all over well before I could get my cameraphone ready, but here is a pic of the sunrise.

First pic by me. Kingfisher illustration from RSPB website.

December 15th

 

bashful lights peeking

from the Christmas tree filled with

bright birds winter warmed

Our Christmas Tree is up, one day we’ll have enough bird decorations to avoid needing baubles. A christmas tree, in my own home, always makes me happy.

 

December 14th

their generation

falls, hears the happy laughter

in the lemon groves

December 13th

 

from the tattered box

as old as me chipped and tired

mum’s nativity

 

I’d enviously

peer at it imagining

the great games I’d play

 

I would shove the sheep

out the stable far from King

Herod’s tyranny

 

And sneakily I’d

position my plastic toy

soldiers to guard Him

 

they’d have shot his men

like in the Victor comics

Budda Budda “Arrghh!”

 

The three wise men would

tentatively approach Him

safe from their grenades

 

my brave company

British commandos mostly

and a few Vikings

 

I’d be told off when

mum’s silent panther steps would

catch me red handed

 

I’d always return

to play the Jesus war game

this year I’ll be good

December 12th

a jackdaw’s viewpoint

surveying, head tilted down

shrieking in judgement

I always think there is something lawful about crows, the way they strut around and examine you forensically. They have a judgemental air about them. Stick them in a curly wig and give them a courtroom!

December 11th

the fog condenses

the young of the fairy folk

ice shards suspended

We were playing football, tiny shards of ice just sat drifting in the air, it was most bizarre. I think the fog was freezing. It was beautiful when you looked through the cloud of these crystals towards the flood lights.

December 10th

tumult of groans for

the platform alteration

waddle, grumble, scowl

What a miserable monday morning. It was freezing, all the commuters at Flitwick doing their normal huddling round the tiny stretches of platform where the train doors will open (prior to the train arriving). Oh it makes me sad to see people indignify themselves so. So it cheered me up when they made a platform alteration as the lights of the train in the distance were getting brighter and brighter. Cue the mass migration of the miserable gnus running up the stairs and down the others to get to the other platform before the train left without them. Oh it cheers me to see people’s routine shattered, especially when they are acting like bell ends.

December 9th

candle collective

the sandpit memorial

aglow and alive

December 8th

The city evolves

I’m a phantom, out of phase

flickering, fading

 

the blur of colour

conveyored faces and smiles

I don’t recognise

 

laughter and music

I’m backed into the corner

eternal voyeur

 

Last night, I felt old, out of place, slightly out of sync with modern times, phased out, not quite material, flickering like a busted telly standing in the corner. I was out in Islington, a few friends, after the Arsenal match. We went for a meal of tapas followed by a few drinks. I guess we chose the wrong pub!

December 7th

the old church tower

reflected in the mirror

of the blue floodplain

We drove through the Box End area of Bedfordshire, a flat expanse now intersected with a new bypass. The road is built up higher than the field level, clearly for a reason as the plain was flooded on either side of it. The day was cold, but still and sunny, the sky was blue and it was mirrored in the pools of water. A stirring scene!

December 6th

that autumn harvest

of sloes plucked and pricked after

the first biting frost

slung and barrel sloshed

slow weeping their heady tears

in sugary gin

with the fire spreading

around the blood, red faced smiles

a rain repellent!

 

A little tribute to Sloe Gin. We met up with friends for a festive catch up. Our friend Neil had a glass of a Spanish version of Sloe Gin in our favourite Clerkenwell restaurant Medcalf. I had a dessert wine but should have got that too! It was slightly aniseed-ish, but not overpowering like a pastis or ouzo. Was a lovely subtle drink. So warming on a winter’s evening. Debbie made some Sloe gin at home, we still have some left. The process of collecting and making it, from the astringent sloe berries, mixed in a sugar and gin solution. Sloshing it around every once in a while. In a few short months, it is ready. Delicious.

When we left Medcalf, the rain was battering down. After that sort of drink though, there is a force field of red faced warmth, burning the rain before it hits you!

December 5th

the first snow settles

dusts the fields and naked oak

trickle melts and falls

This is the third Haiku (or possibly 4th) I’ve written about the beautiful oak tree visible from our back garden. In fact, I would say it’s the fourth, now I have a pic for each season. Click on the Oak tag below for the others. It’s a haven for all sorts of birds, it’s wonderfully symmetrical with branches filling out a rounded space, like the synapses and contours of a brain.

But big day today, we had our first snowfall, although it melted by the afternoon.

December 4th

Sleeping cormorants

fairy lights on the far bank

Orion’s display

I was out in London, the moon and lights on the South Bank shone over the Thames. And when I got home, Orion distinctively shone out of the dark sky.

December 3rd

mistletoe thriving

in the sun blessed barren trees

winter kisses wait

December 2nd

crimson and luscious

thrushes feast on yew berries

burst on the frosted

brittle leaf litter

the ice queen’s breath builds pretty

crystals on the oak

We went to Wrest Park, it was cold and icy, but quiet and serene. Inside the walled gardens, a warm haven in the sun. My photos below (all photos © Mel Melis)

The goddess Iris (below)

Pretty ice crystals on the oak leaf.

December 1st

 

The yellow smog chokes

a city stained and belching

soul drained of colour

I’ve been writing about the great smog of 1952 in one of my many unfinished novels. My parents arrived in London in 1955 and although the smog was not as bad as 1952, which actually killed thousands of people through the oppressive pressure and poison it contained, they were still thick and ugly times. The clean air act of 1956 helped to eradicate those monstrous fogs.

I remember my mum and dad saying one of their neighbours, who also had come over from rural Cyprus to live in the Pentonville area, near Kings Cross, was so terrified by the fog, he thought London was ablaze. Which was understandable, as he didn’t comprehend and hadn’t ever witnessed a fog like it before.

November 30th

the glitter of frost

smothers the morning hurry

secret warmth returns

 

When it’s just above freezing, but the sun makes you feel warm? That!

November 29th

eastern horizon

lazy sun clambers into

a bright winter sky

November 28th

belligerent crow

beleaguered red kite drifting

carrion pleasures

I watched a crow harangue a Red Kite today. It was seeing it off. Maybe they’d both spotted something to eat. Who knows.

November 27th

a stack of gulls climb

shoot through grey rain ready skies

puncturing the clouds

November 26th

small steps to the edge

of the waterlogged moorland

where the horses graze

November 25th

 

chatter and whistles

starlings gossip on the line

animated dusk

The vocal range of starlings is pretty impressive. There were four whooping and whistling and chattering to one another. Their mimicry is impressive, they can even copy people’s speech with enough exposure. You can youtube examples of this, but be warned, their voices are proper horror film evil sounding.

November 24th

Degenerate art

a procession of mourners

pay their last respects

I was reading about “Degenerate Art” today, the label applied by the Nazi’s to any art which didn’t fit their ideals on realism, classically influenced art or promotion of the Reich. This meant that most modern art would be labelled degenerate, including art by such eminent German artists as Max Ernst and Otto Dix (both first world war veterans). Artists fled Germany, were prevented from working, or were in extreme cases, executed like poor Elfriede Lohse-Wächtler, through forced euthanasia.

The Nazi’s put on a show of Degenerate Art with dismissive labels, to instruct the populace as to why the works were degenerate. As this BBC article states.

An exhibition of confiscated works titled Entartete Kunst, which took place in Munich in July 1937, was advertised as "culture documents of the decadent work of Bolsheviks and Jews".

When I was on a Munich walking tour some years ago, the guide said that the Degenerate exhibition had several times the number of visitors as the officially endorsed Nazi art gallery next door. It seems the German people were not all taken in by this propaganda and were (privately) curious to make up their own minds.

Many art works were sold, many were destroyed.

Hitler himself was a frustrated artist, before taking up politics, he led a life of someone he would have labelled “degenerate” once he’d got into power. He painted detailed architecture and landscapes, his work was fairly boring it seems, lacking in emotion. Paul von Hindenburg, Hitler’s predecessor as Chancellor, one of the military and political heavyweights of the early part of the 20th century called him the “Bohemian Corporal”, due to his failure at becoming an artist and his low rank during World War 1.

It’s interesting to compare Hitler’s work (of which only a few examples of survive or are attributable to him) with Churchill, another keen painter. Churchill, suffering depression, his “black dog” for most of his life, saw art as a way of release, of coping, of coming to terms with the darkness. His book, “Painting as a Pastime” is a treat (D has a copy which is wonderful). You can feel that in his work, which although quite naive, is expressive.

Hitler, you can imagine, with his dedication to detail and buildings seemed emasculated and stifled by his inability to express.

Above: The Courtyard of the Old Residency in Munich (Adolf Hitler, 1913, Watercolour)

Sunset Over The Atlas Mountains (Winston Churchill, 1935).

November 23rd

 

the tap of metal

on porcelain waiting for

my love to wake up

November 22nd

 

Dark and beautiful

the trees twinkle with the pale

glow of Christmas lights

photo © Mel Melis

November 21st

 

rose glow of comfort

caress the saturated

peat drunk on rainfall

November 20th

the bickering gulls

driven inland by cold coasts 

scream at each other

There are more gulls around this time of year, Bedfordshire is far from the coast, they come inland, more food, more fields, more pickings. I’m not sure if it’s more temperate, but perhaps it’s less blustery and bearable for them. They do make noise when they’re excited!

It’s mostly black headed gulls (who actually have white heads this time of year as it’s outside of breeding season), but you get the occasional herring gull too, slightly bigger, with the red spot on the beak which their young use as a target to peck at to get some more delicious regurgitated food.

Black headed gull (top) and Herring Gull illustrations from RSPB website.

November 19th

 

feline, fox and crow

prowled around the hidden nest

veiled by summer leaves

The tree opposite has revealed a nest after shedding its leaves. I’d like to think whatever bird built it managed to rear their young successfully, the local hunters oblivious to the morsels growing up behind the leaves. But in all likelihood the nest got invaded as it’s right on the lane, cats being the biggest threat. You never know though!

November 18th

 

inactivity

lazy whispers mind confined

the sloth devil grins

November 17th

Memento mori
the vanity of excess
and the peace of death

What an incredible exhibition Death: A Self Portrait at the Wellcome Collection is. I’m going to visit again as it’s quite a sensory overload. It’s a celebration of death, it’s not at all morbid in my mind. Some of it is sad and tragic of course but on the whole it’s about attitudes to life and our inevitable death, how we cope and the celebration of life.

One of the exhibits - “Death the Friend” by Alfred Rethel (wood engraving 1851). This is quite a compassionate piece. The old bellringer has died. Death waits till dawn and rings the bell on his behalf, paying respect to the fact that the bellringer has to some degree, been working for him all his life.

November 16th

from Poseidon’s purse

they drag the big eyed harvest

gasping on hot wharfs

the omniscient

God so fickle and angry

buries them with waves

I popped into the British Museum, I haven’t been there in years, it is an astonishing place, putting aside the dubious origins of how some of the antiquities ended up there, it is a magnificent collection.

This mosaic (Roman, approx 100AD) really caught my eye. The pieces of stone were so tiny, it allowed for fantastic detail. N.b – I know I use the Greek “Poseidon” as opposed to “Neptune”, but I prefer using the Greek names

November 15th

patient jackdaws roost

stewed fog brew settles heavy

on the muddy moors

the treacle trickle

faint sounds of the river Flit

meandering on

I’m glad I didn’t have to commute anywhere today, the fog was thick and miserable.

November 14th

 

pocket full of crumbs

oat cakes for the hissing swan

but he’s left the pond

Felt quite sad that the Swan has gone away. Left our pond. I guess it was rather small for him (or her).

November 13th

 

hungry wide pupils

throat barbs ploughed, antagonised

restless, sapped of sleep

I believe it is a bit of a no-no to punctuate Haikus. You’ll have to let me off. I’m ill. Got a raging sore throat. Didn’t get much sleep.

November 12th

 

an eye blinks turquoise

from the fisherman’s drag net

the dancing satyr

I went to the Bronze exhibition at the Royal Academy. I’ve been to a lot of the big hitting exhibitions this year and Bronze is right up there. There were so many pieces covering 6000 years of history, unsettling old pagan pieces, pre-classical from northern Europe, of unknown function, all the way to the modern day where Bourgeois (one of her wonderful spiders seemingly skids across a wall), Moore and Matisse amongst others, were represented. The exhibition paid respect to both Asian and African artefacts too, the Nigerian pieces were astonishingly beautiful.

Perseus and Medusa (a copy of Cellini’s original) was also imposing, him holding aloft her serpent head, with serpents seemingly also spilling from her headless neck as he stands triumphant over her fallen corpse.

But my favourite piece, was the first piece, which get’s a room of its own as you enter the exhibition. The Dancing Satyr, a Greek classical piece pulled from a fisherman’s net off the coast of Sicily, fairly recently (1998). He’s incomplete, the leg he balanced on, both arms, part of the head and his tail are all missing, but this does not diminish him. The powerful realism really struck me, the definition of the muscles in movement of something beyond human, the detail in the face and hair. It was quite astonishing really.

It’s a great exhibition. Well worth going to!

Photo from the Royal Academy Website

November 11th

 

when the sun breaks through

to kiss your flayed skin you dance

dead eaves exalted

 

the pilgrimage tree

shimmers in gold leaf litter

slowly falls apart

 

There is an old dead tree in the woods near us. It sustains so much life. We’ve watched it slowly fall apart over ten years.

We feel quite attached to it. Photo I took below ( © Mel Melis)

November 10th

spark frazzled old dust

the beast labours underground

through plague pits and sin

 

What do the tube tunnels cut through? What sinister secrets does London have buried under her?

November 9th

pockets of forest

cavern pools and ocean depths

survivors linger

Sir David Attenborough picked 10 animals to save on his “Ark” as part of a new programme celebrating his incredible 60 years in (BBC) broadcasting. I admire him greatly.

From the scaly Pangolin, to Darwin’s Frog where the male gives “birth” to the young and the wonderful Sumatran Rhino to name just three, he passionately delivers a case for each animal under threat. Bit of a mean premise for the show though, asking him to choose, as I’m sure he would prepare a defence to save the many thousands of species who are at severe threat of extinction due to eco-system destruction or hunting. It’s a wonderful programme though, as it always is when Sir David is involved.

Photo from the BBC website.

November 8th

the murderous pulse

folded vision, stabs of light

darkness the healer

November 7th

pumpkin army strewn

the rot of grinning faces

compost casualties

A week after Halloween, you still see the occasional pumpkin face, toothy grinned with empty sockets, discarded, peering at you from a grass verge or smashed in a border.

November 6th

 

the first frost melted

in the rising cocksure sun

whilst I slumbered on

a cherub asleep

in the blackout sanctity

of my feather bed

November 5th

 

broken necked clothmen

paraded, stuffed with paper

tonight they will die

murder bonfires made

pushed in prams, propped on trollies

penny for the Guy

As a kid I thought it kind of sinister that other kids made effigies of a man who was to be executed through fire. Dragging him through the streets asking for money, his disturbing strawman bloated body, stuffed with paper and old cloth, filling out a pair of grubby old discarded trousers and threadbare jumper. He didn’t have hands and feet, just stumps tied with string, to stop his innards from spilling outwards. His head was a sackcloth bag, with a crude face painted on. It was fairly hideous. And he was normally smiling, you wouldn’t expect a condemned man to be smiling. This was a man we were going to plant on top of a bonfire and burn to death. Smiling would be last thing he’d be doing. We pushed this abomination along on an old trolley or in a pram. “Penny for the guy” kids used to shout. “Here’s a shilling, now fuck off and get that evil looking thing away from me!”. I never made one myself, but sometimes I used to tag along with some of the other kids in north London, I never kept the money for myself as it wasn’t my Guy, I was just grateful to be part of this disturbing ritual.

Now that this tradition has all but disappeared, I kind of miss it, it’s an interesting part of social history. Barbaric if thought of in isolation, but in historical context, fascinating. I want to burn effigies of people on a bonfire

As for fireworks, I’ve never been fussed about them. I read too much into them. The nihilism of their pointless lives extinguished so soon! Also I associate fireworks with feeling sad. When you’re a kid, you want what other kids have and so I wanted fireworks too, but I never asked for them. Our family were hard working, working all hours. Fireworks (like bicycles – I’ve never learnt to ride or ever owned a bike) would have been considered a frivolity, an unnecessary expense. I don’t begrudge my parents this, I knew they worked hard, saved and scrimped, so I never demanded anything of them which might be considered a luxury, but that didn’t stop me feeling sad. So on November the 5th I used to sit in the dark and look out of the first floor back window and try to catch glimpses of other people’s displays. If there was nothing in the terraced back gardens, I’d look to the skyline and try to catch the explosions of distant rockets bursting, note the colours, the greens, reds, blues, brilliant whites, the mortars pop pop popping into the air and exploding. For those really far away displays I’d hold my breath in expectation, the silent burst of light, then a moment later hear the boom or crackle. I’d be excited by the magic of science, the speed of light and the speed of sound, the sync ever so slightly out. And then I’d go to bed. The next day some of the kids at school would marvel at the displays they’d been to, but a lot of kids were like me, they watched the fireworks from their windows too.

November 4th

 

Life’s clamour settles

behind the eyes, industry

and dream hammers forge

I’m on holiday for two weeks. A staycation. I want to be inspired to write. Or I’ll just write anyway, even if it’s gibberish. There is always something worth salvaging!

November 3rd

 

flawed fallen angel

the goatherd of paradise

tainted by mortals

I watched a documentary “How the Devil Got His Horns”. It was another brilliant BBC programme. Basically it concentrated on the art history of the Devil, Lucifer, Satan, whatever you call him.

How the rarely mentioned character in the Bible took on more and more significance over the ages. Early depictions of him, were actually as an angel in the sense we would understand, beautiful, fine featured, feathered wings, even with a halo. But the image got more horrific and corrupted over time, horned, goat legged, sharp fanged, forked tailed, inflicting terrible tortures upon sinners. I can imagine the illiterate entering church and looking at these horrific frescoes and conceptualising eternal damnation. I can also imagine the wild imaginings of artists to make their devil more horrific, more violent and shocking. On the one side, for those commissioning the works, a prime example of fear used to control of course. On the other, the artistic license to have fun with a creating piece of work and really go to town on it!

The Devil is a complex character, I’m no Theologian or Philosopher, I’m not a believer, but I imagine that the Devil is much like anyone, neither “good” nor “evil”, just flawed, just as Jesus was flawed, but always doing his best, hanging around with the lowest of society, promoting equality and love, which led to his global appeal.

If the Devil was banished from heaven, then the last place you should send him to have a think about his actions is where us lot live. There’s no chance of redemption hanging around with us bunch of fucked up mortals.

From the BBC Website, detail from the frescoes painted by Luca Signorelli in Orvieto Cathedral. Considering how realistic and contemporary this looks it’s actually quite surprising this was painted in the early 1500s.

November 2nd

the meek sun revives

stone hearts warm and swell with blood

Lazarus life light

On cold days the sun provides that warmth to lift even the coldest heart, to force a smile, to melt, even by a tiny amount, a sadness. Here are some photos I took in Centenary Wood and the place I keep returning to, the Pond on the moors. That solitary swan seems to be living there now, it makes me sad to think he or she might have lost their mate.

All copyright to photos © Mel Melis

November 1st

dragged back thunder clap

shattered shards of pond scatter

as regal wings boom

By Flitton pond, we watched a Swan clean itself, thrashing and preening, when it rears up, it’s magnificent. When it claps its wings together, the noise is surprisingly loud, you can almost believe the old wives tale that they are able to break your arm!

Photos I took below © Mel Melis

October 31st

 

fell witches titter

monsters batter at the door

greedy zombie roars

wash them away rain

make it thunder make it pour

skidding werewolf paws

It’s Halloween, we used to make the effort and D would bake biscuits and cakes, carve pumpkins, but we haven’t last few years. We just hide in the dark and wait for the trick or treaters to wander off! We didn’t actually get anyone knocking this year though, for two reasons. One, I think it’s all very well run round here, if you have a pumpkin in your window that means you can knock. Parents accompany the kids, it’s all very polite and respectful. Secondly, it absolutely hammered it down *evil laugh*

October 30th

Frost at the fringes

promised return, patient days

waits in rain and dew

 

There’s a discernable drop in temperature!

October 29th

moonlight bathes the fields

wary beasts flat to the ground

owl shriek breaks the still

October 28th

 

in the sun shunned wet

the earth stirs and rises up

slender stalks shoulder

the secret places

where sad old trees go to die

teeming with colour

 

Went for a walk in the moors and woods. If you look closely, the fungi are everywhere. In those sun shunned secret places. I don’t know much about identifying them, but they are all beautiful in their own way. Here are some photos I took (copyright: Me!). These are real scenes of autumn, the colours of autumn.

October 27th

A foundling token

pressed into her grubby palm

mother’s shame, renamed

I went to the Foundling Museum in Bloomsbury. It’s somewhere I’ve never been before and covers the history of the building, which was London’s first home for abandoned children and the first public art gallery. It was also inspirational for Dickens in some of his works.

One of the most moving parts of the collection was the foundling tokens. Mothers would pin a little token to their child’s clothing, thus if they were able at some stage in the future to reclaim their child, they would use this token to identify the child that was brought in. As the child was given a new name upon entry into the hospital, this was the administrative method they used for identification. The children were not allowed to see or keep their tokens, in case it gave them some clue in later life to their identity. A photo of some of the tokens.

With the child would come a letter of petition, frequently illiterate, the mothers would ask a friend to write them a letter, requesting the hospital take on their child. Poverty, rape, abandonment, the death of a husband and the lack of work led to this desperate act by many mothers. Transcripts of some of their tragic letters are also on display.

There was also a letter from a mother who had married a farmer and found her feet, coming out of poverty, she wanted her child back. The tragedy was her child had died years before. The register shows that many children died, despite the care of the hospital, diseases were still rife. Many though did leave the hospital to employment to become maids or apprentices, or joining the armed forces. Some even became rich and contributed as a benefactor to the hospital in later life, never forgetting the experience that built them.

The art is also impressive, there are prints and painting by Hogarth. Hogarth was a social satirist and pulled no punches in his depictions of poverty stricken London.

The Enraged Musician (shared via Wikipedia) is below, showing the gentleman unable to practice his music due to the din from the people in the street below. The woman on the left is bare breasted, pregnant, holding her child, a little boy is peeing and various street vendors sell their wares.

More famously, a print of Gin Lane is also on display, it actually depicts the Bloomsbury area of London. Note the old man and the dog sharing a bone, the Gin shattered mother dropping her baby, the poor selling whatever they own to the pawnbrokers, the burial in the distance and the man dying in the gutter, his faithful hound by his side. Hogarth works are so detailed and rewarding when given time. This page on the British Museum website gives more info.

The accompanying Hogarth poem for this work is as follows:

Gin, cursed Fiend, with Fury fraught,

Makes human Race a Prey.

It enters by a deadly Draught

And steals our Life away.

Virtue and Truth, driv'n to Despair

Its Rage compells to fly,

But cherishes with hellish Care

Theft, Murder, Perjury.

Damned Cup! that on the Vitals preys

That liquid Fire contains,

Which Madness to the heart conveys,

And rolls it thro' the Veins.

I could write so much more, but I’ll just leave this post to say it’s well worth visiting.

October 26th

star constellations

connected in the dark sky

depths of soft velvet

 

a bag of tangles

fine threads and buttons orphaned

sad dabs of a life

 

retrieved and rescued

snipped and stacked in love’s labour

rehomed, remembered

 

I’m very proud of this three tiered haiku. It’s probably my favourite of the whole year. We inherited mum’s threads and buttons when sorting out her old house. I watched D carefully extricate the tangles from each spool, snip and stack them carefully in a new box. She’ll use them and I’m proud she’ll use them in her art and work. It feels right, some continuity, of unbroken use, she also inherited the same from her late grandmother.

We went through the buttons mum had, the little keepsakes she kept with the buttons, my dad’s ancient hand made penknife, the village they were from was famous for them, and other little curios whose use or meaning are now lost with my mum and dad’s passing. We also have her wool and knitting needles. Her nimble fingers busy to the day she died. And three baby jumpers she’d knitted, complete bar the addition of buttons. People were always having babies of course and she wanted to have a stockpile to hand out.

And then a broad bed sheet, of cotton, made by my mum’s family, but with inlaid silk supplied from my fathers side of the family, specifically my grandfather. My grandfather subsisted through woodcutting, harvesting silk worms, diving for sponges, hunting and fishing, with the occasional lute and song performance at weddings/gatherings. An old way of life. I have vague memories of him, having only met him on two or three occasions, he lived in a different country after all, his cloudy blue eyes under bushy white brows, big sun browned forearms and upright back. The outdoor life was good to him. And his wife, my redheaded freckled granny, my dad said he was conceived under a lemon tree when the couple ran off together without seeking permission of engagement from their respective parents (or so he claimed!)

We are all the output of generations of our history, their fears, desires, loves and morality. No one is perfect. But I’m proud. My mum and dad did their best, most mum and dads do. And when they are gone, the things that we raged about, disagreed with them about, seem less important, melt away. We are left with the emptiness of loss, the warmth of fond memories and a sense of guilt, time, the great plague of modern life. Making time for those you love. It isn’t fair, but we can’t make it perfect, even with foresight. We can only try to do our best. Flawed as we might be, flawed as they might be, those special people will always love us.

October 25th

The finality

when I threw away your cards

bundled love hoarded

October 24th

the miserable

piss-stink underground car park

dim lights, despair, Slough

Yes. I had to visit Slough. Not my favourite place in the world. At least my Haiku is merely observational, as opposed to the all out eradication called for by well loved Poet Laureate Sir John Betjeman. His poem is comedic genius, read aloud it’s really fun. If I was from Slough, I would be proud of it! In full below…

 

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough!

It isn't fit for humans now,

There isn't grass to graze a cow.

Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens

Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,

Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,

Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-

A house for ninety-seven down

And once a week a half a crown

For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin

Who'll always cheat and always win,

Who washes his repulsive skin

In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak

And smash his hands so used to stroke

And stop his boring dirty joke

And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add

The profits of the stinking cad;

It's not their fault that they are mad,

They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know

The birdsong from the radio,

It's not their fault they often go

To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars

In various bogus-Tudor bars

And daren't look up and see the stars

But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care

Their wives frizz out peroxide hair

And dry it in synthetic air

And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough

To get it ready for the plough.

The cabbages are coming now;

The earth exhales.

October 23rd

hills hide the dragon

his breath crawls from old dark vents

seething in the fog

Whenever I see fog, especially that rolling fog which seems alive, I think of the film Excalibur, directed by John Boorman. Silly really, but it makes me think of the Dragon, which Merlin (the wonderfully cast Nicol Williamson who died this year) uses as his source of power. The film is cheesy but also elemental in it’s impact, brutal, violent, touching, heroic. It’s a great romp which combines both the Celtic mythology and the romantically influenced chivalrous take on the Arthurian legends from such authors as Sir Thomas Malory which came centuries later.

Merlin and Guenevere played by Nigel Terry and Cheri Lunghi (rights to photo- Excalibur movie)

In the film, Merlin is eventually tricked by the beautiful half sister of King Arthur Morgana (played by the timeless beauty Helen Mirren) and beguiled, so she inherits and learns the Charm of Making. It seems the actors were not on the best of terms to put it mildly, which Boorman used to his advantage in filming. There is a very believable (uncomfortable) dynamic between them in their shared scenes.

Merlin and Morgana (Nicol Williamson and Helen Mirren), they both look thoroughly annoyed to be sharing this intimate moment. (rights to photo –Excalibur movie)

So back to Morgana… After stealing the charm of making, she wielded the power of the dragon, the dragon’s breath to make magic and wage war on her brother (King Arthur – the underrated Nigel Terry) with their own incestuous offspring Modred. It all culminates in a final tragic battle, but I’d be spoiling it if I told you more. What I will say is it has a smattering of well respected British luvvies hamming it up to high heaven and uses a fantastic score, Wagner’s the Death of Siegfried and Orff’s Carmina Burana are exceptionally placed. I’d recommend it. Great movie.

But yes, the fog, I drove through it, thick as treacle. Whose to say there was no dragon out there? Belching fog all over Bedfordshire, before retiring to slumber back under Pegsdon Hills (I’ve convinced myself a dragon lives there).

Finally, here is a scene at the beginning of the film where a mortal weary Merlin allows Arthur’s dad Uther (Gabriel Byrne) to go and conceive him with someone else’s wife… tut tut. But despite this displeasure at such mortal lust, Merlin knew, with the power of his “sight” that a great King would be made of this union…

October 22nd

 

before dawn the world

stands silent bar the fox steps

a puff of breath dies

I woke up early this morning, not by choice, couldn’t get back to sleep. 4.30am, I savoured that truly magical time before dawn where people are sleeping, but out in the fields; adventures, life and death, survival. To me it was a silent time, but outside I knew things stirred and died.

October 21st

 

droplets congregate

drag her delicate trap down

visible, useless

spider slick with mist

the crystalline deposits

on her silken threads