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.

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.

August 31st

Seven swans flying

a silent glide across the grey

the sky a still pool

I was on the bus going from the airport into central Dublin and I saw the unusual sight of seven swans flying. So powerful yet effortless they drove through the sky. It made me think of the Children of Lir, enchanted by their adopted mother, cursed to spend nine hundred years as swans. When their curse was lifted and they became human again, no one they knew was still alive, the world had changed. Such a sad tale.

In the evening I heard this song live. I felt introspective and reflective. I was listening to this album around the time my mum died.

May 26th

The egg sac seething

silk severed weave and repair

afraid of the dark

I went to the Freud Museum, to catch the Louise Bourgeois exhibition “the return of the repressed” before it finished. I really admire Bourgeois work, so interesting and unique, so personal.

There is something ancient and deep seated about her art, from the darkest recesses of dreams and metaphor. It speaks of maternal relationships, sadness, abandonment. It really drags you in. It makes you feel something. Her work is honest and beautiful.

I’ve interlaced some of her words in the Haiku.

"I came from a family of repairers. The spider is a repairer. If you bash into the web of a spider, she doesn't get mad. She weaves and repairs it."

(one of Bourgeois’ spiders in the garden, i took the photo, then I noticed the “no photography” sign, oops)

And also from her textile piece “I am afraid”.

 

I am afraid of silence

I am afraid of the dark

I am afraid to fall down

I am afraid of insomnia

I am afraid of emptiness

 

Is something missing?

yes, something is missing and always will be missing

the experience of emptiness

 

To miss

what are you missing?

nothing

I am imperfect but I am lacking nothing

maybe something is missing but I do not know and therefore do not suffer

 

empty stomach empty house empty bottle

the falling into a vacuum signals the abandonment of the mother.

April 14th

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!

April 3rd

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.