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

October 20th

 

tufted feathers stand

up on his downy young head

exuberant Jay

A Jay jumped out onto the grass verge as I was driving. He looked so long and awkward. A young one for sure, his legs lanky and thin, a little look of surprise and wonder in his face as he or she scooted around, possibly for a place to bury food for the winter. He had a punk crest on his head, where the wind had blown it up momentarily. It made me smile.

pic from RSPB website

October 19th

ankle deep in rain

cobbled back alleys echo

dark conversation

My friend Bossman got me a private view ticket for the Shepard Fairey opening night at the StolenSpace gallery in East London.

East London, despite the modernisation still has something of the Victorian sinister about it.

In amongst the warehouses you can imagine foul deeds taking place. And yes, I did drop my foot ankle deep into a cobbled puddle.

The queues were huge, people without umbrellas were getting soaked. Everyone seemed to be grumbling, so we went to a pub and killed some time. A few minutes before closing, we managed to get in. Here are a few of my shots from the event.

October 18th

 

granite admiral

lion guards shrapnel punctured

black bronze vigilant

I was at a customer location and from the meeting room I could clearly see Nelson’s Column. Not the ground level, not his four bronze lions, bomb damaged in the second world war, just the jagged outline of the London skyline with his upright stance in the midst of it.

London is a wonderful place, dunked in history, rich areas shunted up against poor, culture, religion, music, art. Despite the abundance of traffic, people and noise, I can disappear there. I can find some peace in knowing I am a speck of dust, unseen, wandering, watching, thinking. I’m not so naive to suppose that others share my experience, I can go home, to D, to be loved and to love.

I know that for some, London can bring sadness, an aching loneliness, that despite all of the faces, some of whom you know will like you, even love you, you will never see them again. Just a split second of eye contact, on the escalator, in the throng of commuters, in the rush of the city. Time.

October 17th

the folded blade dragged

red tears soak into the earth

the mask indignant

I was out with a couple of Japanese colleagues, conversation covered a number of areas and we somehow ended up talking about Yukio Mishima.

Mishima was a complex, fascinating man, a poet and novelist, a nationalist, obsessed with death and seemingly fighting an internal battle about his own sexuality. He was striving to take Japan back to the age of Bushido, and after a failed coup in 1970 and with modern Japan perceivably careering away from the traditions he desperately wanted to protect, he wrote his death poems and took his own life, through the grisly method adopted by Samurai, seppuku.

He seemed out of place in a post war Japan. And this is what fascinates me about the content of his work. There are so many books to read out there, I am slightly ashamed I haven’t read more in my life, but there’s another body of work to pick from, another unique troubled author’s work to explore. The outsider is interesting, whether I agree with their world view or not, trying to understand another’s motivation, ambitions, loves and fears is compelling. And Japan to me seems unique, their insular island psyche, relatively untouched for centuries, remaining apart from the world for so long. Mishima wanted to distance himself, his country, from others and pushed himself, deeper, further into history and tradition in an ultimately futile attempt to achieve that. Perhaps the spectacular style of his demise was his plan all along. A statement. Self destructing, with controlled serenity.

October 16th

pigeons flee the field

stocky shapes accelerate

away from danger

Wood Pigeons look ungainly when on the ground or teetering on the small platform of a feeding table, like portly drunk businessmen negotiating their way to the the toilets in a packed wine bar. But in the air they are agile, they can reach some speed when they have to and are surprisingly manoeuvrable. With that weight comes muscle and power, they look fat, but they aren’t. This bulk allows for explosive bursts of speed. As I drove towards Flitwick a number of them got spooked and jumped into the air and flew over the road above me. They really shifted it.

pic from RSPB website

October 15th

the blue spark ignites

reverence of fire makers

soul nourished, bones warmed

We lit our first fire of the Autumn. It’s getting cold.

October 14th

through a dark filter

sun retired, heavens cleansed of

clouds in starry night

October 13th

 

When the moor succumbs

to bitter progress, they’ll dig

and find the bog man

 

I’ve not been entirely happy with my Haikus of late. I went for a run and lo and behold, some inspiration. Running is thinking time. I wrote a poem about the mind cleansing solitude, the creativity to be garnered from a run, away from all that distracting technology which clogs our lives, how it touches something ancient, something physical, brings us closer to the animals were are.

Today I considered what it would be like if I were lost on the moor, sunk into the peat, only to be discovered hundreds of years into the future preserved like one of those bog men. What could they deduce about me? Would they work out I was more than just a stupid jogger who broke his ankle and sunk into the mire? Probably not and to be honest they wouldn’t need to, as they’d be right!

There is an 8-haiku (5-7-5) version of this work on my main blog as it is more of a narrative poem. The abridged version single Haiku version is here.

October 12th

 

burgundy bursting

through the blaze of bronze and gold

a road edge lustre

When describing how amazing trees look at this time of year, I’ve so far avoided using “russet”. I’m sure that time will come! It’s hard to not be contrived… for me anyway!

October 11th

the old hand traces

frail outlines in the wood grain

a kiss in the fields

We went to the Edvard Munch exhibition at the Tate. I love his work. I’m planning to write a longer review on my other blog, so I wont linger on such terms as ‘melancholy’ and ‘troubled’, but suffice to say I’m so glad we caught the tail end of this beautiful exhibition.

There were some incredible pieces of work there, but the one which moved me the most was perhaps a modest piece Munch worked on in the last few months of his life, he was 80 at the time. In 1943 he made a woodcut called “Kiss in the Field”. As was Munch’s style, it was a title and motif/style he’d repeated over the decades of his career. But this one was so feint as to almost be invisible, the grain of the wood was prominent, the spectral outline of the image just about recognisable amongst the powerful shapes within the wood itself. I could imagine his frail old hands working. It made me feel sad.

(photo I took from the exhibition catalogue)

October 10th

Rooks rest on the line

flown the roost, contemplating

the sunny day’s tasks

October 9th

 

Screaming tomatoes

the gasping cries of turnips

Do plants have feelings?

A silly Haiku today. I was reading the latest issue of Fortean Times and an article speculating (in that amusingly sceptical way only the Fortean Times pulls off) whether plants have a nervous system / feel pain caught my eye. (written by David Hambling)

The fact that L.Ron Hubbard performed (seemingly serious) experiments on tomatoes to ‘prove’ this seemed utterly bizarre. The reference to an interview Alan Whicker conducted with him asking whether he considered it cruel to prune roses also made me laugh. However it also covered the history of the research, from the work of Darwin too, who later in life worked in this very field. This magazine is gold. A mine of fun facts on strange phenomena and, screaming tomatoes aside, serious research thrown in too. Sometimes fact is stranger than fiction.

Pic from Fortean Times article.

October 8th

each storm drop painful
boulders on mottled toad skin
brown-grey, born from clay

I saw a toad crossing the road as I was driving in a heavy and sustained rain shower, it was only a brief moment, reflected in my headlamps. It passed under my wheels (yes, it was safe, from me anyway). I could tell it was a toad as it was walking in that awkward measured way of theirs. It was probably trying to find somewhere to hibernate. In the Spring they’ll make the long walk back to their spawning ground, like they do every year, to breed. Another perilous journey to come after the long sleep.
For my longer narrative poem, check my other blog Storm Toad. It’s a long skinny poem, looks nothing like a toad at all, but I think it has a measured meter about it, the slow plod, plod, plod of the toad's determined walk.

October 7th

 

Restless Little Owl

calls to Selene’s bright shilling

the oak slumbers on

There was an owl, probably in the oak, in the early hours. The moon, even though it wasn’t full, was bright. Shining right through the tree. I noticed my breath steaming for the first time this autumn. It’s getting cold.

October 6th

the sheen of night rain

blue sky cut by vapour trails

the road a river

October 5th

 

eager wind pursues

the huddled ones listening

to the scythe’s rattle

the beating rain and

rumble of the angry clouds

makes the timber wince

anticipating

the October Country guests

…this is their season

 

As it’s October, I’m dipping in and out of this fabulous collection of Ray Bradbury short stories. He died this year of course, but his body of work speaks for itself. The blurb for the book evocatively captures the essence of it:

“…where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnight stays. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country where people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty paths sound like rain…”

My little Haiku conglomerate is my humble tribute to him.

October 4th

 

the railway arches

scrubbed of their coal blackened past

the dead builders craft

Every time I visit St Pancras station, I notice something new, whether I’m inside or out, there is always some detail, a little embellishment. I wish I took a photo, but I was in a rush so I can’t share it with you, on my next visit though, then yes.

Today I saw how beautifully clean the arches were, which now house cafes and shops. Also, some Victorian mosaics, restored and gleaming, high up near the new glass roof.

The work put in to make St Pancras so modern, yet sympathetic to the age in which it was built, is to be applauded.

I felt kind of sad, as I guess that many people died making such a magnificent structure back in the day, then my mind wanders, who remembers people like this? Their families did I’m sure, but are they commemorated in any way? Or is their memory lost to time.

October 3rd

 

in the dark before

dawn the fish people watch us

from shingle shorelines

drip drip as they walk

gasps from their little used lungs

cold blood translucent

green hued gills gently

billow at their scaly necks

as they plod inland

I’m writing a story about the Fish People. I’m quite enjoying it. Here’s a triple Haiku horror about them.

October 2nd

 

the red rain of leaves

trees shed their summer colours

ready for the cold

October 1st

 

lovers or rivals

two buzzards circling closer

becoming one wing