After the glory
Blossom trampled in the mud
Sloes swell and take shape
Rain Rain Rain! Was cooped up working at home. I thought of missing out on all the fun in the moors. The blackthorn blossom would have fallen, tiny sloe berries would be forming in its place.
Disconsolate wail
sick yellow light stains the air
oak breathes and listens
A cat wailed outside our door, Katie (our cat) wasn’t impressed by this, sometimes she’ll get up and investigate, but she just raised her head from the sofa and looked at me, almost suggesting I look out the window for her, as she was too lazy to get up herself.
Which I did of course, you shouldn’t defy a cat right?
I peeped through the curtains, couldn’t see any living thing, whatever cat it was it was probably annoyed at being hammered by the unrelenting rain and just coincidentally happened to voice its disapproval outside our door. My view was just the usual dim yellow of the street lamp, polluting the road and cars like a set from some cheap noir film. It was all two tone, yellow and black. The only thing I could hear was the patter of rain.
Our oak door, sturdy and alive was stretching itself into spring, it shrinks and groans with the seasons. Whatever cat it was, our door was fast shut. Behind this barrier, I thought about catching some sleep. Katie looked at me, satisfied with my work, she told me I was allowed.
While the blizzard raged
raw pained hands frostbitten black
wrote letters of love
Went to the Scott Polar Research Institute in Cambridge today. This is the last week for the Captain Scott exhibition they are running. And what a gold mine it was. It covered a brief history of polar exploration, looking at artefacts from the likes of Ross, Perry and Franklin but also included such rare items as Scott’s last journal was on show, on loan from the British Library. A selection of the last letters each of the men who died is also there amongst other photographs and artefacts.
There is something calm,dignified and although a cliche, terribly British about their demise. So calm in the face of losing their friends, watching each other weaken, knowing they will never see their loved ones again. Even though their hands were probably shredded, blackened and crippled by frostbite, they wrote. Scott himself wrote to all of the families and loved ones of his party, telling them how brave they were, how proud they should be of them. His guilt at not being able to save them seeped out of his handwriting.
Edward Wilson, one of the party, was an incredibly talented man. Physician, Naturalist, Botanist and Artist, the letter below just made my heart ache. They knew they were going to die, they wanted to tell their friends how much they cared for them. Although the original letter was on show, I’m sharing a photo of the transcript of it.
And the famous last journal entry of Captain Scott. “For God’s sake look after our people”
Finally one of Wilson watercolours, Paraselena Jan 15. 1911. 9.30pm Cape Evans McMurdo Sound. This is also on display in the exhibition. A set of skis for every lost explorer.
Sheep sewn like buttons
rain flattened bodies shiver
curls drip in their eyes
tumbled in valleys
they look toward the hill crest
beckoning blue sings
Two Haikus squashed together today. Although strictly you don’t have to follow the 5-7-5 structure, I have to date. So it was quite nice that these two worked so well together.
The story behind today’s offering is as follows: As I drove home from work in the horrible dark rain, I saw a flock of unhappy sheep on the lower slopes of Pegsdon Hills, they were utterly drenched, the poor things, looked like they had sunk into the earth, squashed little cotton buds, mushrooms or indeed buttons sewn into the hillside. They looked like they were freezing cold, you couldn’t see their faces because their fringes were slapped in their eyes. I wasn’t sure whether they could see a little hint of a blue sky at the crest of the hill, but it was there. Sadly it was late in the evening, so whatever brief respite from the rain they did get, wouldn’t have dried them out.
Golden revival
synchronised bows, gentle waves
a tranquil sea swells
Haven’t been for a walk in the moors for a while due to the rain, so when there was a spot of calm we went for it. The rape had really grown! Some pics I took.
Can you see the nest in the middle tree in the photo above?
In the library
a sunny child explorer
is picked by a book
Rainy days are book days. I’m not a kindle person, I feel traitorous to that smell of new books, or the feel and smell of the battered lived in books that adorn my collection. A new purchase of mine is the Magic Of Reality by Richard Dawkins, illustrated by one of my favourite artists Dave McKean. That’s not to say I wouldn’t own the App which goes with it, it sounds fab, but alas I do not own an iPad, otherwise I’d be right there in that interactive world! But it would be to complement the book, not to replace it.
The Magic of Reality has that quality to inform and entertain, to keep you captivated. It covers the science of grand concepts beautifully and of course it is furnished with absolutely lovely art. It fired neurones in my brain which released happiness associated with childhood. Those wide eyed times when a trip to the library was a proper day out. Wandering through the shelves, being drawn to an evocative title, a story of true adventure or books where you could peel away the layers of skin for a subject and understand what makes things tick (literally so in the case of anatomy books).
Those were times where it felt books were precious. When the book chose you.
Sky ribbons glide by
bound by sinew and feathers
an effortless kite
Got a really good view of a red kite as I was driving today. It was flying very low, gliding. They look so delicate, as if they weigh next to nothing. “Kite” is so apt, you can imagine someone reeling them out on a long line and taking pleasure from their slow manipulation of the air currents.
Red Kites used to be endangered in the UK, but interestingly they were one of the most common birds in urban london, picking up the detritus, feral, important in the clearing of disease carrying carrion. It was sad they were driven back to small pockets in Wales.
It’s great they’ve made a comeback and are slowly spreading east. So distinctive and beautiful in the sky, with their broad wings and forked tails.
(image from RSPB)
Candles snuffed out with
a simple silent gesture
and friends faces fade
No, this isn’t about death! I’ve just deactivated facebook for a few days. Got a lot on at work. It’s becoming a bit of an unnecessary distraction. Will be back in a week or so I’m sure. Just find that even that 30 seconds to check what’s happening in fb world is interrupting my concentration. Will see if it helps me to concentrate in other writing too. I’m fighting becoming a victim of this “instant gratification” culture, but I think I’m already hooked in that current, like a pig who can’t swim, lolling and bobbing about, occasionally getting a bump from a rock. So I need to train myself to withdraw and watch, chill out, listen, think, observe.
These Haiku’s are cool, but they are snapshots, little snippets of a stream of consciousness, more often than not cobbled together in minutes, sometimes seconds. Some I spend time on, hours, procrastinate over, but it doesn’t necessarily make them better or worse. I can’t judge the value, getting too close to them, worried about them being meaningless. So I think some time free of distractions will focus me and give me the opportunity to get back into longer blog posts and short story writing. Seeya here tomorrow, but not on facebook (maybe on twitter though, not zapped that!)
Gaze turns to the oak
eater of storms and vivid
in the solar glare
The oak tree visible from our back window is impressive, that distinctive shape, the arc of branches, that sturdy trunk, unyielding. It’s anytime going to be sprouting green, at the moment it still hints at winter, with it’s barren appearance. It does not detract from how magnificent it looks. Especially when the sun bathes it in light and the clouds behind it are black and threatening. Only an oak can hold it’s own when the weather makes war with itself.
Here is a pic of it I took earlier this evening.
Down hellish spirals
the virtuous pagan bounds
perpetually
After the football yesterday (a drab 0-0 draw vs Chelsea) I took my usual brisk stroll to Caledonian Road tube station. Unless I’m feeling particularly lazy, I take the spiral staircases down to platform level. I do it as fast as I can, bounding, sometimes two at a time. There is nothing like a leg burning descent to get the heart pumping and the mind racing. Although ascending is tougher, it hints at light and redemption. A descent however, (taking aside the pragmatic need to actually catch a tube train to reach a destination!), feels more sinister, feeding the primitive danger receptors in the ancient parts of our brain.
I thought about Dante and his layers of hell. And of William Blake and his depictions of it. According to this website, Caledonian Road has 134 Steps, making it sixth deepest in the tube network. In your face Moorgate! (seventh).
And here is one of Blake’s incredible images of Hell. The Lovers Whirlwind. 1824-1827. (pen, ink, watercolour). Just like the Piccadilly Line! Truly mesmerising. I’d love to see all of these works in full someday. Caught sight of a few of them in the Tate (Britain) last year.
(image from wikipedia)
Tentative caress
then a roaring rage of hail
crashing onto glass
I like watching people run for it when the sky opens. There was quite a powerful hail shower when I was in the Stevenage office. From humble starts the hail suddenly unleashes. I only take a small bit of pleasure watching people skip through the car park, getting pelted!
Under palace view
he swims between the raindrops
to build their warm nest
I went to get my passport sorted, a four hour appointment, bit pricey but convenient. I decided I would walk back to the office in Baker Street from Victoria Station. In St James Park near Buckingham Palace, I stood and watched as two coots were building their nest, the male (I assume) was collecting grasses from the edge of the pond, then swimming back to the little haven island, beak full, where the female would gratefully receive the bundle and arrange them lovingly into the cosy bowl of their nest. I watched them repeat this a few times, until the the heavens opened. I then made a dash for the nearest tube station. It’s the sort of little detail I’d have missed normally, but I’m seeing so much more this year, I’m really looking at things. I’m being rewarded for my patience. I’ve never seen birds in the process of building their nest before. It felt kind of special to witness.
Pics I took, not great quality, with my iphone.
When I die I want
my body to feed the earth
trees born inside me
I was thinking today, how cremation seems such a waste. I’d like to be buried so what nutrients I contained be returned to the earth, seeds germinating in what was the shell of my body. Obviously only when I’m dead, I’d be quite frightened if I was buried alive.
I think a combination of reading Murakami, the rainy cold change in the weather and listening to Mogwai in the car has contributed to these thoughts. But it’s not negative in the slightest, not an obsession with death, just an observation. Tomorrow I might think about Houmous or South London. Could be anything.
A half moon and stars
memories incubating
in the wells dark depths
No spoilers, but Murakami’s “Wind up bird chronicle” is oppressively compelling.
The frost melts to dew
timid birds find their voices
in the burning dawn
We went for a dawn walk today, we saw the sun rise and heard the birds sing. A Willow Warbler warbled in a willow (really). We didn’t see any otters. The river flit is on the edge of their travelling range. Would be lovely to see one.
Pic I took of Flitton Church and the sun rising behind it.
Another two haikus today, lucky you! The second one made me laugh, not that I think it’s great, I’ll leave you to judge that, just that it’s silly and appealed to my sense of humour. First haiku..
Marsh marigolds drag
themselves out of the darkness
to kiss the king’s lips
The big pond and the ditches and pools in the moors are glowing yellow with Marsh Marigolds (also known as kingcups). The ones in the pond have tadpoles congregated round them, in the shallow areas where the perch can’t eat them I assume.
Another pic, I had to lean down from the platform over the pond. I put my bum in danger of getting wet. All for my art.
Onto the second haiku, there are little calves, multi-coloured beautiful little things. They rarely stray from their loving mothers, seemingly tucked under their hind legs, suckling away. So cute.
Bovine procession
the little one says “Udders!”
“Run to our mothers!”
The photo is fun, they started scooting to where their mums were gathered when they got a bit spooked. I imagined the three of them having adventures like the famous five, except there’s three of them and they’re cows. Then one of them started mock humping the little one, I was trying to take another cute innocent shot, but the “curious” fellow kind of spoiled that. The incident mangled the Enid Blyton image for me somewhat. I wasn’t going to share this photo, but as I had to see it, then so do you!
Ps – Just published and noticed the offending part of the image is obscured by my layout on the right. I think this censorship is entirely appropriate, when this blog gets older and dips down below the layout content, then you can see it, until then, trust me!
Stormcocks drive away
the would be thief, their proud chests
puffed out and burly
Two haiku’s today. And some photographs from our lovely walk in the moors. The first one is about a pair of Mistle Thrushes who we witnessed chase off a magpie. I don’t think they would have built a nest yet, perhaps they were just defending the tree they’d decided to root in. Stormcock is an old English name for them. Quite an evocative one too as it honours their behaviour, singing from a high vantage point, even in the worst weather, almost in defiance or celebration of it. They seem fearless and fearsome birds. Unafraid to wade in. And they way they present themselves, chests out, head high, confident, noisy and musical. I’d never seen one before, so was quite exciting for me.
Silhouetted crow
black feathers consume the sun
dying in embers
The second Haiku relates to the following photo I took. About crows again, I keep going on about them. “Why don’t you marry one?” I hear you shout. It was just a lucky shot. but I’m very proud of it.
We also saw a skylark at ground level, I’d only ever seen them high up, singing their little hearts out. It disappeared into a field of rape. It sung, sung and kept singing all the way down, till it landed. Then it shut up. It landed in the vicinity of this patch!
A sunset pic
A puffball(?) on the trunk of a dead silver birch.
Finally, a pretty little long-tailed tit, whispering away with its mates in this hawthorn blossom. It sat long enough for me to zoom right in on him.
It’s more important
to show compassion and love
kindness is magic
I watched Ricky Gervais’ new pilot, set in an old peoples home. His character Derek (also the name of the show) is a gentle, middle aged man with learning difficulties who works there. It seems to have divided opinion between those who hated it and rated it. Some reviewers have given it a mauling, because of the controversial subject matter, but also, I think, in part because for some, Gervais is unpalatable. Somehow insincere or perceived as churning out the same fly on the wall mocumentaries.
Yes, Gervais can be annoying… but, I disagree with the negative reviews, the subject matter is dark and although there are some slapstick elements, it’s not overtly a comedy and doesn’t disrespect Derek or people with learning difficulties. It didn’t dilute any love you feel for Derek or how much you end up rooting for him and caring for him. In half an hour, you are totally on Derek’s side. Gervais for all his cringe making comedy creates characters with warmth, who you really empathise with. They feel real, they aren’t saving the world, they don’t claim to be heroes, they are just normal people, trying to get on, with the same fears and doubts as the rest of us.
When Derek’s favourite resident, Joan, passed away, after he’d gone out to buy her a lottery ticket and a scratchcard, I was choked up, fighting back the tears. He was so delighted that she’d won £10, only to find out she had died. With shaking hands he put her winnings in her purse and spent some poignant moments with her. The best bit of writing and acting in the episode for me was when an emotional Derek reminisced about Joan. It looked like his tears were real.
Derek said “She said 'Kindness is magic Derek, its more important to be kind, than clever or good looking.' I'm not clever or good looking, but I am kind.”
There was something so desperately lonely about Derek. So wanting to be loved and accepted. So yes, Kindness is Magic.
The crow and the gift
a bed of twigs for the young
from small beginnings
I saw a Crow flying, carrying a twig, birds are building their nests.
Roused from their slumber
bearded green men stretch their limbs
verdant hands open
Driving to work I noticed the trees looked like people, some of them had beards or cloaks made of ivy, they were no longer naked, forced to stand through the dark winter. Leaves were growing on their cold limbs. Their arms were stretched up rejoicing in the Spring. This time of year is wonderful. I keep saying it don’t I?
Sheets of rain rattle
the thirst quenched by the doom day
for colour to burst
It rained, it rained a lot. All day. But you have to keep telling yourself this is a good thing. We have had an exceptionally dry winter. The land needs a drink. Felt ill too. But did watch “Made in Dagenham” in bed with the brilliant Sally Hawkins and Bob Hoskins. When I grow up I want to be a suffragette.
She falls from the sky
flint arrowhead cuts the air
and rends tiny hearts
I was looking out the window of the train, in the distance I saw a bird of prey attack, dropping like a stone, disappearing behind the horizon into some nameless field.
Reared up on hind legs
taut and lissom hare surveys
green and pleasant land
Was it a hare we saw in the grass on Pegsdon Hills as we drove past? Probably not, it was dusk, we didn’t get much of a chance to study it, but I’d love to see one, they’ve always eluded me. Once I did think I saw one, it was certainly rabbit/hare like in shape and it seemed to be striding rather than hopping. It looked big. But part of me doubts the way I perceive things. Until I’m 100% sure, I can’t say I’ve seen one. It might be my brain planting a wish into the way my eyes interpret the real world. Can’t say for sure.
Hopefully I’ll catch them boxing at some stage this spring, that will be a sight to behold. I make no apology for quoting the great talent that was William Blake in this Haiku :)
(pic from bbc website)
white wall of blossoms
blackthorns bowing and swaying
my guard of honour
When I go for a run or walk, I always take the same route, always run it the same way, I guess I’ve got a little bit of OCD or something :) Don’t know why I don’t reverse the route sometimes. You see a whole lot more, you are faced with the spectacle of new perspectives, stuff that will stop you in your tracks. I noticed something today which made me turn back, I was aware of a long row of blackthorns, all were white and bursting with flowers. I stopped running and turned back to look at the row and took in the view I’d never seen before, not from that angle anyway. It was beautiful. I then carried on my run.
Going to try and get a photograph of it in the next couple of days, it’s in Centenary Wood nearby, it wont be there for long.
Eyes writhe in the swirl
of dark clouds whispering rain
for the broken earth
It wasn’t a very nice day, it occasionally spat a few drops onto the ground. The sky matched my headache, filled with heavy oppression.
Offensive chickpeas
scoffed noisily on the train
shut your cake hole dude
I take umbrage with bad manners. It really is something that irritates me. Three examples in the last couple of days.
1) A guy in our London office, he’s got his feet, his dirty shoes, perched on the edge of the low table in what we call the “comfy” chairs (they aren’t comfy, they are just low and you have to lean forward to get anywhere near your laptop otherwise you just sink into a spongy mire and possibly sucked into an alternative universe). Anyway, his shoes. I was offended by this as it is disrespectful to any colleague who might happen to sit there after him, but also to our office cleaners, why should they have to scrape the residue of his poo feet from the surfaces? It’s downright rude. I considered shouting “GET YOUR FUCKING FEET OFF THE TABLE!” to him, but I desisted as he was on a call. So I just simmered about it at my desk, because although I like good manners, fairness and respect all lifeforms, I am not particularly brave, or good at confronting people.
2) A guy just sits on a stool next to me at the table in the pub. Now usually it is good manners to ask “do you mind if I sit here?” or “is anyone using this chair?” before you plonk your polyester suited crumpled fat arse into my personal space. He went away eventually, as my vibes of fury were flying into him.
3) There was a guy eating chickpeas on the train. Now usually, I wouldn’t be offended by people eating something as low key as chickpeas, but it was the *way* he was eating them. I believe there is an etiquette to food on trains. Stinky hot food should be avoided. I hate it when people bring burgers onto the train. Or some other rancid conglomerate of semi fried mystery meat. Inert food, that’s cool, like a sandwich with minimal vapours of stink, I’m totally fine about it and yes, I abide by my own rules. So why was he annoying me? Because he was eating them noisily. Even above the screaming metal of train on track and the constant rattle of the carriage, all I could hear was SLURP-MUNCH-MUNCH-MUNCH-GASP-MUNCH-MUNCH ad infinitum. He didn’t need to eat with his mouth open, he didn’t need to chew like a camel, he certainly didn’t need to slurp them! It’s a fucking small nut like thing dude! It’s not slippery, it’s a dry round thing! And finally, he didn’t need to have to gasp for breath whilst chewing because the fucker was eating so fast. I amused myself by mimicking him. It was kind of crazy, but it passed the time.
Patchwork foal staggers
to the warmth of his mother
stitched from rags and socks
I was driving to the office in Stevenage, I remembered a couple of years ago I used to look forward to a certain stretch of road, this was at the time when my visits to that office were far more regular. Every morning I’d look out for the foal in the field by the side of the road, just past Hitchin. It was so gangly and fluffy. Like a toy. It used to stay close to its mother looking especially timid. As the weeks and months progressed, it got bigger, grew more confident, I’d see it playing sometimes, running along, throwing his head from side to side. Little snapshots of the foals life, watching it grow up, in those short seconds each day I was driving by. The memory made me smile.
There’s more ponies in that field now, and another foal, but I can’t be sure if it’s the same family group. It’s like my memory is that of a feeling or an emotion rather than any image or pictures in my mind. I can’t even exactly be sure what the foal looked like now.
Lustful combatants
fence post duellists belly barge
posture and display
There were two male wood pigeons on the fence between the back gardens, battling for love. A bemused female watched them fight, looking mightily unimpressed by their efforts, wondering if there was another wood pigeon she could choose as her mate.
Wood pigeons are wobbly inelegant fat gits. Their fight was noisy, but fairly ineffective. Just lots of thudding and flapping around. Not sure who won. The fattest one I would guess.
(pic from RSPB website)
The blackthorn archway
promised enchantment, a door
distant bells ring out
What a beautiful walk this morning. One of the blackthorn trees on the edge of the moors, bathed in the warming sun of early spring, was flowering. It must sit in a sun trap, as the other blackthorns nearby were not as magnificently decked out as this beauty. The sky was a clear blue, the morning chill was ebbing away. There were birds everywhere. Woodpeckers (Green and Great Spotted), Buzzards, Chiff-Chaffs, Treecreepers to name some of the more unusual ones.
Managed to get some (I say this humbly!) wonderful photos. Here are four, two of the blackthorn tree in question, one of a feisty wren who took exception to my presence and sat above my head singing loudly at me (I assume telling me in musical terms to “piss off”). And finally a teeny baby frog Debbie found on the moors. It is very early for a juvenile frog, when most of the new brood seem to have only just hatched into tadpoles, seething in the shallow ponds and stagnant parts of the river, not sure how it emerged so quickly as I doubt something this small crawled up onto land last spring.
Everything will die
Lanterns lit for old loved ones
Cut flowers wilting
I’m reading a novel by the Japanese writer Haruki Murakami, the Wind-up Bird Chronicle. I’ve only just started it, but it’s like nothing I’ve read before. It’s very existential in its approach, written in the first person, the main character seemingly blunders around, trying to make sense of life through a series of surreal encounters. It has a sense of impeding tragedy about it, it feels lonely, detached. I feel sad reading it. But it’s very compelling. Little acts, little descriptions all seem to weigh heavy with significance. Today’s Haiku really has nothing to do with what I’ve read of the book so far, other than it was inspired by it in terms of the unsettled feeling within me as I read on.
If I was forced to look for and pin some meaning to it, it might be that the thought of giving someone cut flowers always has troubled me. They are a gift which is either dead or dying. They may open up, they may fill the room with colour, but ultimately they will brown and die and there is little you can do about it. Much better a pot plant! If you kill that, then you’re just flippin’ useless (or the plant detested being around you)
White horses gallop
Leaping over the coral
Unremitting wave
Was looking at one of my birthday presents today, a book from Debbie about Hokusai’s great wave. It’s a wood block (cherry wood) print from the Japanese Edo period (approx 1829- 33) of (as you would expect) a great wave. It’s caught at its apex and it looks like it will crash down onto the insignificant boats below it. Mount Fuji looks tiny in the background, giving the impression that the boatmen are far from shore and are facing a likely death.
It truly is a testament to the raw strength and power of nature. The British Museum has chosen it as one of their 100 objects from their radio series “A history of the world in 100 objects”, number 93 in fact. I’ve got them all downloaded on my iphone as podcasts (free). Well worth a listen. The podcast itself gives some Art History background to the image, talking of Japan’s insularity at the time the image was made, giving some sense of allegory about the image and Japan’s place in the world.
Looking at the print literally however, I’ve always had a healthy respect, I’d go so far to say, a fear, of the sea. I don’t like being out of my depth. I’m not a great swimmer. The ancient fear of being smote (smited?) by a sea god still lingers somewhere in my psyche. I wouldn’t take the sea for granted.
But, being by the sea, the smell of salt, soft sand underfoot, seafood, the sound of gulls, the persistent lapping of the waves, there’s no better place to be for me. It’s fair to say that I do like to be beside the seaside.
