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.