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.

April 25th

 

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.

April 16th

A half moon and stars

memories incubating

in the wells dark depths

 

No spoilers, but Murakami’s “Wind up bird chronicle” is oppressively compelling.

March 30th

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)

February 18th

 

Hummingbird darting,

Skims page, Bronze, red cloak flower,

Nectar, Earth, Water.

 

I was writing a blog about one of my favourite books earlier today, Persian Fire. I read it when we were on our honeymoon in St Lucia. Reading about ancient battle whilst sitting watching the hummingbirds flitting about is a beautiful memory.

Today it was hammering it down with rain. February is always the saddest month for me, where winter arcs, where the cold is worst. But March is coming. That means Spring.

January 20th

Dragged through pain, blindness,

Hot tears falling, reminders,

Hollow thoughts of home.

 

Was getting a little bit excited, you know, in a controlled stoic, square jawed, polar exploration way about two important Captain Scott exhibitions this year, to commemorate the 100 years of him and his team reaching the South Pole, but also of his death, expiring in the icy wilderness on the long slog back. One is at the Natural History Museum and the other at a museum I was ignorant of until a couple of weeks ago, the Polar Museum at the Scott Polar Research Institute, Cambridge.

I’m looking forward to seeing Scott’s diary (on loan from the British Library) with that poignancy in his last letter to his wife and final line, his hand so shaky through weakness “For God’s sake, look after our people”. Also, the photographs of Herbert Ponting and all the artefacts and scientific specimens collected.

My Haiku however is a tribute to Irish polar explorer Tom Crean, a mainstay of Scott’s expedition as well as others for both Scott and Shackleton. He seemed to be a big gentle bloke, one of those guys you always want on your team, even tempered, reliable and utterly trustworthy. Crean was a member of the support party for the final push, so was ordered to turn back despite being so close to the pole (168 miles), so devastated, he and two others followed the trail back to base (Edward Evans, William Lashley). They got lost and needed to take a long detour, meaning their food was in short supply. The Haiku references his heroic solo walk, 35 miles in 18 hours in terrible conditions to get help for his colleagues, Lashley was weak, and Evans was sick with disabling scurvy and snow blindness. The hot tears were Crean’s, he thought Evans had died. Evans later recounted “his hot tears fell onto my face”.

The illustrated children’s book Tom Crean’s Rabbit is a wonderful true story, about him trying to find a safe warm haven for the rabbit on Scott’s ship Terra Nova as they voyaged south. Well worth buying. By Meredith Hooper and Bert Kitchen.

 

 

Tom Crean (pic from Wikipedia)