For You Jan

28th June 2020

For You Jan -  A Little Ramble.

You are with me, in my mediation, this morning.
You, dressed in purple,pink and red, 
making flames dance daintily or your face.
Diamond stars sparkle below your ears.

 Your smile, encourages, welcomes, comforts me 
good to see you, dear Jan . 
You ask me, with interest,  to tell you more, 
more about the Irish trip. 

More about those trad evenings 
you,  I know,  love everything Celtic. 
So, stay awhile, let me tell you about Jim o the Mill.
An old farmhouse cottage, thatched, hidden,

 along a boreen, way up in the mountains, not easy to get to. 
Round the outside of the house, lights, lanterns, balloons,
 in multitudinous colours, decorate the windows and walls,
like its Christmas.

 Cars line the lanes, fill the fields. 
Musicians gather, eagerly cradle their instruments, 
Ah, I see your eyes widen now, music is always your thing
Shall I go on? 

Others, greet with hugs, ask how each other are, like it’s a family affair.
 But we also  meet travellers who’ve come from afar
Africa, America, Germany, even Bulgaria.  World renowned is farmer Jim.
 A  micro bar, the size of a tiny parlour, open only on Thursdays

Serves Guinness and Cola and Irish whiskey.
We’ve become fond of the Guinness.  The evening unfolds
 music, poetry, storytelling fill the three small rooms. 
Bodies squeeze in too, sit on benches, on dirt floor, or perch on stairs. 

We are in the room where Kathleen is, my cousin, with her fiddle. 
A boy, about ten, with an accordian, as well as a head of curly, red hair,
An American with his guitar.  One begins to play a tune, others join in, 
even if they’ve never heard it. This is an Irish  ramble, all are welcome.

Anyone can play their instrument, or sing or recite poetry or tell a story.
 I look around. You’d love it, the atmosphere. 
In the open hearth the fire gives a soft glow to the spirit, 
far away places imagined in burning sods. 

On shelves, antique looking tea pots, family photos, crock jugs, books.
On walls, fiddles, art work done long ago by children now with grandchildren of their own, and is that a pitch fork, and beside it a hoe,  yes. 
We’re encouraged to join in with songs we know. I know a few, folk, rebel.

My cousin sings for me – Tipperary Far Away, I swallow holding back a river.
An American intones an old Irish balled, haunting,  
hits a hollow deep inside-  I’m off again. I imagine you with us dear Jan, 
shutting your eyes as you do when you listen with intent.

 We leave at 1.30 in the morning, no sign of the night coming to an end. Apparently, you’ll like this, if you’re there in the morning, 
when the sun comes up, they’ll cook you sausages and bacon.
Thanks for listening, until we meet again, so long, Jan, dear friend.

Liberty

16th Nov
Following the prompts on the Poets on the Page web page
This weeks was :
Picture's Worth A Thousand Words , with the picture of the Statue of Liberty.

So in response:

Liberty?

Pictures's Worth A Thousand Words:

Yes, but thankfully most've been said
A copper structure built by Gustave Eiffel
A gift from the people of France
She stands from ground to torch in her hand
Ninety three meters high
She stands for liberty, for strength , for freedom
The Goddess Libertas her icon
She stands tall - torch held skywards lighting
The way for all , or maybe just Americans
She stands bearing a tablet - no, not
The samsung variety- evoking the law
July 4th 1776 inscribed thereon.
She stands looking out across Manhatten
The broken chain at her feet unfettering
The people bound up
Where is the liberty now
Who will stand for the people
A choice between two - no choice

And the one from last week.
The prompt was music

8th Nov

The Music We Forgot   

It was not silent -their chatter was loud 

Like the rumble of thunder in a rain cloud.

But some thins was missing all was not right 

We'd forgotten the music, that extra delight.

Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole 

Romantic, moody, a bit of soul.

They didn't complain but it was made clear

That they would have liked to have more cheer

Music to lift the spirits up high

Music to lift our hearts to the sky,

Next time we'll remember 

That'll be December

2nd day of response - What On Earth Comes Over Us

Day two of answering "A Poem A Day " . So, look to the end to find poem from 2nd April.
And my response:
 

What On Earth Comes Over Us

Waves of Christmas music drift through my head,
It's that time of year again - happiness, tiredness, dread
That things won't all go right.

Where's the list I wrote last night , what shall I get for Aunty Chris?
What size turkey shall we have? Or this year shall we give it a miss,
Oh, I am in a terrible plight.

But what is the whole thing really about, why do we make such a fuss?
Why is the whole world celebrating , what on earth comes over us?
It's only remembering a baby's birth and that happens every day,
But this little baby changed everything as he lay on the soft , dry hay



A poem I wrote yesterday, just for the craic:

JUST SAYING

Love is you taking the bins out,

And noticing what's behind that bout,

Of anger.

Just saying...

Attentive too to times of tiredness,

Not minding that I've not got dressed,

But languor.

Just saying...

Knowing I like a different channel to you,

Giving me my chance as well to view,

For longer

Just saying...

And when the opportunity arises and we're able,

Taking me to dinner to sit at table,

And romance me for ever,

Just saying,

Day 2 of the challenge "a poem a day in April".

                     This April Day

Look out to sea this April Day.
See the horizon curve
Across wide water.
Waves churned by wind,
Break on shores,
Sculpt  fresh  forms.
And wind turbines,
 Like catherine wheels
Turn to the tune,
Of spring.

And just to keep you going, another little story:




                               The Torch                                                      

“What’re you doing?”  Rob moaned sleepily, falling into the middle of the blow up bed, his elbows and knees hitting the cold, hard floor, as Liz stumbled over him.

“I’ve got to go to the loo,” she whispered, groping in the dark, “where’s the torch?”

Rob’s hands felt in the pocket at the side of the inner tent.

“Here,” he said, clicking on the Tesco pocket-torch and holding it up.

“Thanks,” she grabbed it, pointed it at the zipper and quickly opened it.

            She stepped quietly into the outer tent area so as not to waken the girls, whose low, rhythmic breathing assured her they were fast asleep. With the sound of rain on the canvas roof echoing in her head, Liz got on hands and knees and searched for her wellies. Next she slowly swept the torch in a circle. Now, where was her coat? Finding it on the back of a chair she shivered as she put her arms into the damp armholes, making a mental note that she must keep her clothes inside at night.

Wellies and raincoat on, she ventured outside onto the wet grass. Lifting her face to the moon, half hidden in cloud, she noticed that what she thought was rain was only drizzle. From the din inside the tent she expected a downpour.  Another sound, dull and repetitive, drifted from one of the other tents. Someone was snoring. 

Liz held the torch tightly in her clammy hands. She could see only a few yards in front of her, everything else left in unknowable darkness. She picked her way through the first of the two fields she had to get through. A feint smell of smoke from the bonfire of the previous evening wafted in the air, reminding her of the BBQ, the wine and friends singing late into the night. The only reason she’d agreed to this camping trip. 

As she continued on, the occasional sound of cracking twigs from the woods around her broke the silence and made her start.  She tried not to imagine what might be lurking in the black.  Pulling her coat tight around her shoulders she quickened her pace, grateful there was a pathway to follow and greatly relieved when the lights from the toilet block came into view.

On the way back to her tent she wondered if this would be the first and only time she went camping. What she knew for sure was that if they came again they would have to get a more powerful torch.

Now i have to put my think cap on and get writing the poem for tomorrow.

See you then.

Tokaido Road

26th May 2020


Five Years Ago. 

26th May 2015

Hello all my lovely followers.
Just taking a rest from all the packing and cleaning and sorting and dumping and worrying that I've been manically steeped in this last week or so. Soon we are to move, days now.
In the meantime,  let me tell you about a wonderful evening we had last Saturday at the Gulbenkian Theatre in Canterbury.
We went along with friends to a modern day opera, yes, you read that right, an opera. Not normally my thing - all those soprano voices singing in a language I don't understand.
But this was nothing like that. We were prepared for it by having a presentation evening at Beach Creative to tell us about this unique performance. The inspiration for the production was The Tokaido Road in Japan, or rather a set of prints by Hiroshige, an artist who did fifty three wood block paintings of the stations on the road.
Nancy Gaffield, a poet became inspired by the prints she discovered when on a visit to Japan and wrote poems in response to the pictures. ( Tokaido Road by Nancy Gaffield, in case you're interested.)
Putting these two elements together and joining with musicians and other creative people an opera was written.
What a wonderful experience it was, especially as we knew some of the history.
Add to that the meeting of friends and a glass of wine .... well you get the idea...
This is my response to it:

 Tokaido Road

We step into the picture,
From Nihonbashi we accompany Hiro,
Along Tokaido Road.
A road from our dreams.
We cross the bridge.,
Slowly, serenely, absorbed in the scene.
Enchanted, enraptured, we listen to music,
as it  resonates, reverberates,
In our subconscious  recesses,
a reeling rhythm of life.
Music brings joy and pain
Freedom and confinement,
Throwing us onto the way of the road.
Images present themselves,
Without being asked,
A waterfall, windy roads,
Animals  scurrying, birds in flight.
Kites held by anonymous hands,
Escape.
Trees sway gently over the banks of,
The river.
The river that divides,
With fingers that spread across the plain,
That takes to itself,
That has it's story to tell.

We,  in monotonous pilgrimage,
Put one foot in front of another,
Encounter steep slopes,
And mountain pines.
At the summit,
cherry blossom fills aching lungs,
In the heat of the day.
As travelers we continue
On the way,
With Hiro,
But long for release.
The path , at times impossible,
Against us,
Wind , rain, umbrellas taking on new form.
We continue with Hiro,
To the end.
And in the end the mystery,
We are not the same,
We, like Hiro,
Are changed.

Gerry's- A review

Day 30: 30th April, 30th Poem

The prompt for today was to write a review. So I thought I'd try these few words about a little cafe in Ramsgate

Gerry's

Tucked away in

Pretty courtyard-

(Featuring unique
Brick sofa,  

Tate Gallery

Style)-

Unobtrusive,

Nestled in the corner

No hint of its unusual

Quirky, atmosphere-

Gerry's.

On the menu

Music, artwork,

Books 

Conversation

As well as

Teas, coffees

Homemade cakes

Scones and 

Soup of the day, with

Personal service

Gerry's

Soup of the day

Tomato and Basil

Steaming, rich 

Served with thick

Brown bread and 

Butter - lots

Secret taste of

Mediterranean

A haven, hidden

In Ramsgate

Gerry's