There are places I remember all my life, Though some have changed
This is where I live now and then on the bend before the hill I see the deserts and bone-white sun
and I
don't always think of the ash green that is life under the dry light when even water smells of creosote after the rain and life has thorns
Some forever, not for better Some have gone and some remain.
And I am home but some times dispossessed not sure of my welcome not sure of my place
All these places have their moments With lovers and friends I still can recall
but in
the passage I take climbing that hill I can almost feel the breath of England immutable and deep the breath of woods and breeze whisper dance over gold fields and sigh "You have a place under this sun"
Some are dead and some are living In my life I've loved them all
Moby's a Grand Old Man. Goldie is well ... flash. Goldie is graceful, slim and metal-quick. Enticing heron diving behaviour. You can spot Goldie from a mile high wing-by swing by the Ol' Pond
But when you swoop down. He's gone!
Goldie's always willing to show for forage as he nibbles in endless rounds of reeds, stirring things and rippling. You know. Just to see what it will bring: a gossip of dragonflies or a skitter of damsels bottle-blue skipping the lilies.
But when Goldie finds Moby's not far behind!
He ascends from the green cool, portentous, augment-ous slow, powerful, and sweep a dark fin, no sign but the glitter of something lifting from the deep. When Moby climbs the surface distends. The water does not break but envelops and bubbles in liquid swathe wave. In this wetland kingdom Moby is the whale! His lips round out and his jaw distends and creatures small rush in as the water bends All Jonahs are gone swallowed in rippling gulp! Yep! Goldie's all flash, but
Moby's a Grand Old Man 'Cept possibly, Moby's a Dam!
It seems much longer than just a few short months that Si, cheeky bugger, "Tagged" me! Not the best at things MySpace, I did undertake to comply, as he had chosen a unique way to express that request: Ten poems. I finished nine. And planned to complete the tenth far sooner than this. And now, on the eve of Si's intended short hiatus from this place. I finally got hardware issue and software foible to somewhat comply: At least enough to make a stab at the attempt.
The irony does not slip by me. When I had first explained my thoughts for the tenth tag and asked for feedback and a choice, for this first reading of my words. The feedback came from an unexpected few, but not from Si. And now, as he prepares to log out and get on with a bit of life and new undertakings. He may not even be "on" to come in for that final comment on this, the final tag. But, intentions are always good, and I hope mine pave a way towards a good place.
So, Si, whether you ever know it or not ... This one is for you! Much love and hopeful wishes for a new chapter in your life!
Voice
I was younger and my words ranged sweet octaves but I longed for a voice rough with blue and wild life, to sing words that would cage hearts in the key of Minor with every Third flattened by spirits distilled and drunk in Bourbon nights. There are politics of love and religions of lust. When you're shallowed and running fast as a young river, love and lust are the rocks that surprise and the splash was my laughter and the spray my sudden tears and words tumbled and babbled the phrasing was the music of years. I find my way tempered wiser I now speak in whispers, if I say anything at all. But I can hear the echoes of octaves And I can still be startled by the fall of waters caught in childish joy: glissando continuous, notes sparkling I lost my range but found my voice.
P.S. No time to re-take, or lessen the pops, clicks and hisses. And ... Yes! I really AM English!!!
So. Long week. Drizzly days, that pass for July weather here. Some changes and stress that have made this a dragging week. And not too much inspiration to pick up the camera.
Until ...I was sitting in the conservatory watching the evening light fall across the skies. In the California Deserts, this time of year, it would be purple. Here in East Anglia, it is blue. Lilac Blue.
Just outside the conservatory windows is my Stargazer Lily. And as I watched the light change, the petals captured some of the tint from the evening sky. I soon stepped out with tripod and camera. It seems something had inspired me to –at least- try.
The first shots were glaringly vivid. By the time I had exposed for the light, that light had changed. It was now full night. And the incandescent lamp inside the window was creating a different feel.
By now I had one leg of the tripod inside the pot, looming over the blooms close enough for a wide-angle close up.
Accidentally I jostled the stem while the lense was open. The result was so much fun; I did it again. (well, okay. More than just once).
But things started changing as I saw something unfold. It took two nights to get these of the same blooms. But more than that, the hours passed in satori. The soft perfume infused the mood. It was only the change in fragrance and music of night rains that brought me back from whatever astral surface Stargazers can take you.
Even The Clappers ...
Current mood: adventurous
Category: Art and Photography
Very few days are bad, most are good. Many are plain wonderful! As was this one. On this day, I took Res to see "my" woods. Mine, in the sense I live near them.
For over six months I have bucketed down this hill on a run to the shops. I often wondered what was on the other side. But it was only on a tramp through the hills and field behind the Village that I thought ... hmm ... Wonder where this goes?"
A later return with Res gave a whole new outlook: we went further than I had before, plus I knew the name of the wooded hills this time! So, I and Res –as he was part of the experience- share this day with all of you, and a special dedication to our good friend Si – an Englishman who loves England so much it shows in every line of his occasional disappointment in this place we call "home".
Time drops in decay, Like a candle burnt out, And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; -William Butler Yeats
Even The Clappers Have Their Day
"So ... what's the name of this woods?"
".... mutter mumble ..."
"Eh? The Sharpenhoe wha'?"
"Tuh! Tuh! You KNOW there's a Tee on the end of Wha'!"
"Yes. There is! Wha' TUH is the name of this woods again?"
"Sharpenhoe Clappers"
"Hmm ... D'ya suppose it's because we're meant to 'go like the ...' "
"DON'T SAY IT! And we've got to walk a ways to the woods!"
"So ... Where are they?"
"Grrrrr ... just over that hill Just past those sheep!"
"You sure they're sheep now? And not woolly cows?
"Oi! I wasn't wearing my glasses that time!"
Of course, we stopped first in the small meadow to admire the wild orchids.
I'm not completely sure which one of the genera they belong to but more likely it is a hybrid of one of the Dactylorhiza (Common Spotted orchid)
And there are thistles still, and butterflies, and translucent spiders.
And the cool drop in temperature when you leave a sun splashed meadow for the green-dapple canopied stands and woods.
And there is no better one than the Old Man Of The Trees to walk through woods "lovely, dark, and deep". Even if he does say "Pay attention! There will be questions later ... "
(Note: To "Go like the Clappers" is an English expression so old, it may even be ... French! No one knows for sure what a "Clapper" is (bell or rabbit hole) but it means to "go very fast")
Stargazers At Night
adventurous
