July 31st

melancholy sinks

and a smile slowly burgeons

the eyes speak mischief

Looking forward to my couple of days off, cleared the decks, got up to date with my work, put my out of office on … and relax.

July 30th

 

naked athletes run

laconic warriors box

under golden skies

I do like the Olympics, but the whole commercialism of sport pisses me right off. Many fans have missed out on tickets because sponsors have lapped up loads. I don’t really see a trickle down of wealth coming down to your average worker or independent trader as the money seems to have corralled by some key corporations.

I wonder what the Olympics would be like if we reverted to the Ancient format of the games, with Chariot racing for instance. I’m not that keen on naked running / wrestling, but hey, if it makes it authentic, why not. (other people competing, not me!).

As I watched the games, I took this photo from our living room window.

July 29th

The sky blacken-warped

masses and oppresses them

cowering in caves

Thunderstorms are scary. It pricks at something ancient embedded inside us. Reminds us that we are not the boss. Natural events can fry you, drown you, starve you, kill you in any number of ways, as well as inspire you. No wonder we started worshipping the sea, the sun and nature, afraid of offending the whimsical feelings of a God.

July 28th

damsels and dragons

wings crackle then dart away

red and blue shimmers

The pond over in the moors had little electric blue damselflies flitting about on it. Also bigger chunkier red dragonflies (or possibly another species of damselfly – I’m no expert I’m afraid, much as I’d like to learn more about them, but they move so fast so I couldn’t get pics!). When their wings beat you can hear them crackle or clap before they dart off at seemingly impossible speed. They are pretty beefed up power wise for their size. This is their season, they’ll become more and more prevalent for the rest of the summer.

July 27th

sacks of pollen gold

weigh down the bumble worker

the precious labours

Poor bumble bees haven’t got long to live now. The seasons nearly up. They are amazing animals, their ability to fly in the first place due to the incredible muscle strength of their wings. And the big pollen baskets they carry on their legs, which they eat in their nests. They seem somehow impossible. It’s all about sharing for them, makes me wonder what this planet would be like if a hive animal became the sentient species. All your base are belong to us!

Love Bees. And touch wood, I’ve never been stung by one.

July 26th

gasps of burning air

scorched in returning sunglow

blistered but unbowed

No, haven’t joined the French Foreign Legion, I’m not in the Sahara. Just that I feel I’m coming out of my lethargy, I’m trying to get fit again. I’ve turned a corner. And the blister is real and it bloody hurts. Probably formed itself playing football on grass in Leeds over the weekend, but it popped when I played footy tonight. Not nice. But I’ll be brave.

July 25th

fanned flat for ant bath

squadrons pour out and crawl clean

drones and new born queens

I saw a blackbird lying flat against the floor, nervously darting glances this way and that. I thought it had been hit by a car, its wings looked broken. I asked D for her opinion, she suggested it might be “anting”, that is, lying near an ants nest, letting them crawl over him to spray formic acid over his wings. It’s like a disinfectant for them, cleansing them of mites, bacteria and such.

Indeed it flew off shortly after, so indeed he was uninjured. She’s very clever knowing all this nature stuff!

It was hot and the ants were flying. This sudden exodus used to fascinate me as a small boy in my parents garden. The big queens and the more slender drones, flying off, mating. The drones would die and the queens would scrape off their wings and perhaps be lucky enough to found their own colony.

It was alien and fascinating to me. I wonder where I’d be in life if I did follow my dream to study entomology? Probably very poor!

July 24th

broken memories

snippets of cloudless skies form

as the cool air rolls

 

I don’t remember doing much, my senses must’ve been dulled today. But it was nice and I drove with the air con blasting and my music playing.

July 23rd

goldfinches chatter

standing on the thistle heads

communal seed meal

When Goldfinches sing they sound like they are having a right camp gossip, lots of tinkly high pitched ooh’s and aah’s. It was like they were going out for dinner on the seed heads. They seem to be very social birds.

I can’t remember which Greek philosopher said it, in fact it might not even be a Greek philosopher, but anyway, one of his tips (whoever he or she was) for a happy life was sharing a meal with other people. Eating alone is just a function, of feeding the engine, but combined with some social interaction, some stimulation of the mind means you are also feeding your essence.

But don’t speak with your mouth open, because that’s rude.

(Goldfinch pic from RSPB website)

July 22nd

vine tendrils ascend

conquer evergreen thicket

delicate fingers

July 21st

cream winged copper eyed

resting after collisions

fairy dust scattered

Never seen one of these moths before. It’s a Swallow Tailed Moth, it came into the house, drawn to the light, the windows were open as the night was warm. I was nervous about rescuing it, Moth wings are so delicate, they are easily broken, leaving a residue of what people call “fairy dust”, the substance which folklore suggests gives them (and fairies) flight and magic. It rested after bumping into the light fitting a few times. I think it got out again, as I didn’t see it later that evening. I hope it did anyway, these particular moths are only active for a few days in July. It was so beautiful, with a white/cream fur and metallic coppery eyes.

July 20th

the clouds begin at

the mouth of the dull chimneys

spewing in drizzle

Ferrybridge Power Station (I think), Yorkshire. Taken on the Motorway, heading towards Leeds.

July 19th

 

the season’s passage

sun arcs feed the oak monarch

England’s wooden walls

Back in April, I wrote about the Oak visible from our back window. I can see it when I work, when the sun sets (and it isn’t raining!), it usually gets bathed in light and looks magnificent. It’s now totally green.

July 18th

 

Fake sweetheart letters

wiping out a lonely life

reborn killed again

I watched a documentary about Operation Mincemeat. In second world war London, a homeless, illiterate, mentally ill man had taken his own life. Ordinarily this would generate no interest, he had no one in the world, there was a war on, he’d be scooped up, put in the mortuary then buried, probably in an unmarked grave.

But, this man inadvertently became something of a hero in death. He was the right man, had the right look and was the right age (34) for British Intelligence. He would be used as a decoy, dressed as a British Officer, dumped off the coast of Spain and be washed up on the shore, in his possession would be supposed “secret” papers detailing an upcoming Allied invasion of Greece (when the real invasion would take place in Sicily). The hope and expectation was that nominally neutral Spain, would pass on these documents to the Nazis, whom General Franco has a cordial relationship with.

It worked, the Nazis moved several divisions into Greece expecting a full scale invasion there. It meant the battle of Sicily was won far easier by the Allies and it probably accelerated the victory in Europe.

But, there’s something so desperately sad about this story. Glyndwr Michael, for that was his name, had no one. He was lonely, illiterate, depressed. His death record listed him as “lunatic”. But in death they breathed a whole full life into him, to give the role his corpse would be playing some credibility. He would become Major William Martin of the Royal Marines. He carried a photograph of his supposed beloved (they named her Pam) and also love letters from her. Which leads to the second part of this sad tale, to me anyway. It revolves around the lady who wrote the fake love letters.

Hester Leggett, the most senior lady in the small team of British Intelligence ladies, cruelly nicknamed “the spin” (short for Spinster) was given the task. Somewhat of an irony to the girls who worked for her it seems. I quote from this marvellous blog post (which is a quote within a quote as they quote from what looks like an excellent book on the subject by Ben Macintyre)

“The job of drafting fell to Hester Leggett, ‘The Spin,’ the most senior woman in the department. Jean [Leslie -- also interviewed in the documentary -- whose picture was used as that of Pam] remembered her as ‘skinny and embittered.’ Hester Leggett was certainly fierce and demanding. She never married, and she devoted herself utterly to the job of marshalling a huge quantity of secret paperwork. But into Pam’s letters she poured every ounce of pathos and emotion she could muster. These letters may have been the closest Hester Leggett came to romance: the chattering pastiches of a young woman madly in love, and with little time for grammar.”

An example of one of her letters also appears in the book (see below). It just made me feel so sad, that this unpopular lady probably had dreams of love and escape at some point in her life, but the opportunities passed her by. And here she was playing the role set for her, pouring her heart out to a lover she not only knew was made up, but also dead!

As for poor Glyndwr Michael, he was buried in Spain with his alter egos name, with full military honours. Until fairly recently, no one knew his real name. But a dedicated researcher, on release of documents under (I believe) the 50 year secrets rule, found it out. Since then, the gravestone in Spain has been updated with a footnote giving his true identity and his name has been added to the war memorial in his home town in Wales. Poor man, in life he had no one, but in death, the unpleasant and frankly disturbing use of his body helped to win the war.

July 17th

 

“I’m just visiting”

said Apollo as he raced

the sun chariot

A rare pleasant day, not too hot, a gentle breeze, the sun was out too. Respite from the rain.

It’s getting to the time of year where I often think I’m repeating themes. I haven’t checked back, but I’m pretty sure I’ve written a Haiku about Sun Chariots… I know I’ve mentioned Apollo, but it doesn’t matter to some degree, this is how I feel today, this is what I wanted to write.

July 16th

 

flying squirrel launched

sailing from the curtain rail

four paws splayed in air

The cat was sitting next to me whilst I worked on the PC yesterday. I thought of her as a kitten, she could run effortlessly up the curtains like spider-cat. Coming down was the fun bit.

I wrote a longer poem about her, probably the soppiest thing I’ve ever written, I emailed it to D, it was for her. I don’t want to ruin my hardman reputation by publishing it!

July 15th

All seems still bar the

skittish skaters skirmishing

the surface ripples

---

the sound of people

muffled and lost in tall grass

shredded by the wild

entangling brambles

impenetrable thorn quilt

diminishing path

Not one, not two, but three haikus today. Two of them are a pair, one, the pond skater one, was originally meant to be stand alone, but if you read all three together, they complement each other and transition well, much like a walker leaving the relative peace of the pond and diving into the overgrown path to be torn by thorns and brambles.

So… The sun was threatening an appearance so I decided I’d go for a walk, I watched the pond skaters duelling on the surface of the big moor pond for a while, they would fly at each other, over the meniscus of the pond, wheeling elegantly and racing off in another direction to see off another adversary, they were all dancing, protecting the unmarked boundaries of their territory. It had been raining all day. D is away in Ireland, she would have been proud of me, as I listened intently. I heard the distinctive song of Chiff-Chaff and a Yellowhammer. Blackbirds and Wrens, their volume belying their tiny size. I crossed the stone bridge over the Flit, the water was running faster than normal, understandably due to the rain. It cascaded towards the faraway North sea, ultimately this little river would flow into the Ivel, then the Great Ouse then out into the flats of the Wash.

I walked the first moor, then thought I would tackle the second. Not via the main route, but by the little path, it was Sunday afternoon, which meant dog walkers. I’m normally personable, but I didn’t want to see anyone today. So I took the little path as hardly anyone bothers with it and the bird watching is better. I walked round the edge of the field of juvenile Alders, still stick thin but very tall, twice, sometimes three times taller than me. Even the grass was almost as tall as me. it should have given me fair warning. The path got more and more difficult to track, the wild had been reclaiming it. No one had battled through the thicket to clear it. It truly was a deer path now, no human had walked it in weeks it seemed. Back in March it was clear enough to run through it. But now, there were points I had to push through, through thistle and bramble. Nettles stung me. Thorns cut me. Snails ended up in my hair, passengers from the damp dark foliage.

I was lost. I’d lost the path. But I wasn’t phased. I was happy. There was a serenity in that. I tramped onwards, using one of the tributaries of the Flit as a marker to my right. I used my watch compass and having some idea of my position, negotiated myself out. I saw red brick between the trees, that meant civilisation. But I enjoyed my time in the grasslands. Getting lost when you are heading nowhere in particular has its own sweet reward.

Some photos from my adventure.

The Pond, Pond Skaters battle here.

Some thorny thistles blocking my path. Note they are around seven feet tall.

This used to be the path, now it’s a seething mass of impenetrable pain!

July 14th

 

will each beat gladden

hearts with the white noise of rain

benign wistful choirs

The worst summer. Come back sunshine. I spent a day holed up indoors thinking as the rain battered everything.

July 13th

So jealous of me

possessive apostrophe

misused not amused

I was having issues with my possessive apostrophes, so I wrote a silly haiku about one being so possessive it got jealous. I know, cheesy… but it made me laugh ok! :)

July 12th

 

furnaces belching

ghost trees stand in factories

watch their bodies burn

I visited the British Library after work, conveniently it’s pretty much next door to the gothic beauty of St Pancras station, where I get my train home.

The current exhibition Writing Britain, Wastelands to Wonderlands is well worth a visit. The curators have selected some absolute treasures of the British Library collection from the genius of British and Irish writing. it celebrates the land through the beauty of the words written in honour (or more rarely, in spite) of it.

It’s inspiring and almost overwhelming, the complete list of works is available here. It’s a powerful testament to this land.

My Haiku quotes a tiny element of a longer poem I’ve written on my other blog. It humbly references one of the themes of the exhibition, the loss of green places to the spread of industrialisation.

The British library’s promotional vid/intro to exhibition

July 11th

moody sky bloated

ground bound ugly bitter grey

manifestation

July 10th

a chill needle bites

a dab of heat to quell it

elusive summer

Or more aptly, rain, rain and more pissing rain.

July 9th

soldier beetles touch

the cow parsley canopy

meadowsweet dreaming

First time in a long time, many weeks in fact, we walked on the moors. There is a wildness about them, the rain, that nourishing rain has burst the fields and moors aflame with colour. The plants and animals are thriving.

D is good at recognising plants and animals. So I learn a lot from her.

Soldier Beetles on Cow Parsley (although it might be Hedge Parsley, she’s fairly sure it’s of the cow variety). Solider Beetles are notoriously frisky, always getting it on with each other, although these lot are fairly sedate.

Meadowsweet. With it’s unusual smell. Kind of like vanilla, but not like vanilla at all. It’s a smell of it’s own. It hogs the sides of the river and its tributaries.

A pretty pink poppy, growing in the rape seed field. The yellow flowers of the rape are long gone, leaving the little pods containing the seeds from which the rape seed oil will be made. In this case it will contain a teeny bit of poppy too…

July 8th

dismal gasp of breath

realisation propagates

dry rot laughs inside

July 7th

Plump superheroes

sci-fi skinny lycra pups

gather unashamed!

Went to the London film and comic-con yesterday with my good friend Sal. We have a lot of fun there, been going for a few years now. Although not brave enough to ever dress up ourselves, you have to respect anyone that does. It’s such an inclusive and accepting an atmosphere. They (we?) might be nerds but they are probably the friendliest people you’ll ever be likely to meet. So don’t judge them.

The only mean thing I’ll say about it is that it’s always fun watching slightly overweight guys uncomfortably queuing for the toilet, unsure as to whether they’ll have enough time to peel off their lycra costume. But that’s just my quietly Machiavellian sense of humour rather than any lifestyle judgement on my part.

Some pics I took below. The marvel character were told to piss off out of shot by the photographer, so only DC guys were allowed to gather round the batmobile. There was a forlorn looking ghost rider, two spider men, a lady thor and a loki just out of picture.

Bunch of jokers.

I worried about the guy with the realistic looking rocket launcher. I’m sure if I carried that round on the tube anti-terror police would have me riddled with bullets within minutes. Cosplaying for people who have a darker complexion (like me) is a dangerous business. Choose your cosplay characters wisely my ethnic minority brethren!

July 6th

my insignificance

in the majesty of stars

a lonely vigil

I popped into the new Edvard Munch exhibition at the Tate Modern after work. I rushed through as I wanted to get a taste for it, as a member I can visit anytime for a more leisurely (although leisurely may be the wrong word) visit at a later date. Munch is one of my favourite painters. The collection they’ve pulled together for this exhibition is great. There is an intense loneliness about his work.

For example, Starry Night. Initially it seems this is a celebration of stars and clear crisp nights. And indeed it is. But what appears to be the artists shadow thrown across the ground just speaks of loneliness and melancholy to me. How we are alone. It moves me. As does most of his work.

(pic from Tate website)

July 5th

Sleep sound reassured

ubiquitous wood pigeon

velvet pillow song

 

There’s something comforting about the cooing of wood pigeons. Warm days in the summer garden.

(pic from RSPB website)

July 4th

with tongue flick eye blink

a snake in commuter grass

fang strike seat secured

 

I find the whole experience of commuting deeply unpleasant. It just highlights to me how self centred humanity is, or perhaps has become. The rush onto the train to grab what few seats remain, which although in isolation appears just a minor act, is fulfilled with such fervour and foaming mad intensity, that is genuinely unsettles me.

It just stinks of selfish competitiveness. The beady eyed horrible passengers reek. I don’t want to be near them.

People are ugly on the inside. I was looking round the carriage, people smacking gum, reading the newspaper, playing on their phones and I felt like shouting “WHY DON’T YOU ALL FUCK OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE!” which in itself amused me, as I’d labelled all of my fellow passengers as filth, which is clearly ridiculous, I’m sure someone was looking at me thinking the same thing. Luckily I’m far too polite and law abiding to ever have a Falling Down style meltdown :)

The Haiku I’ve written kind of pisses me off too, as I’ve anthropomorphised snakes, giving them values which only we humans possess. They’re just living their lives, trying to survive. It’s weird how we detach our own character flaws and offload them on animals or aliens in writing, to make ourselves feel better. The bible has a lot to answer for. Snakes have been persecuted for thousands of years. Yet we continue to assign morality and values to creatures who have no concept of them. This isn’t particularly fair!

July 3rd

In apathy’s sea

come little waves of delight

ease love’s paucity

I wrote a bit of my novel today, these are just a few words which describe the feelings of the central character in the few paragraphs I attempted.

July 2nd

the rambling rector

heavy scent heady flowers

white bundles afloat

 

the old rambling rose in the garden is just bursting with smell and white flowers at the moment. It seems to defy gravity, the weight of its flowers should be sagging it down, but it isn’t, it’s joyously exposing itself to the sky, climbing up to meet it. I think the mix of showers and sun (and we’ve had both today) is doing the world of good for the plants. I’ve mentioned it before but the garden has never been this colourful.

July 1st

belligerent flame

climbs out of toppled candle

and the dance goes on