Thursday, August 19

A Poem for Thursday

We had a week in Florence in a mad guest house, where we had to make our own breakfast and sometimes the owner's as well. The lights were off in the evening as we think she didn't pay her bills. But the madness of it all left us with this daft romantic feeling for Florence. And a love for the narrow streets where we got lost.


.

 Florence

On the fourth day
A star shone in the midnight sky
above the olive tree.
Red wine and pasta memories,
and I wept.

On the fourth day
We walked the via Proconsole.
An Italian Glaswegian
Kissed my hand
and called me precious,
and I wept

On the fourth day
We lay on crisp white sheets
In an Italian afternoon.
Lovers as always
Whispering memories
and I wept.

On the fourth day
We were lost in a maze
Of dark streets and broken containers.
And love found us
In a room with thread
and compassion
To sew us together.
And I wept.


On the fourth day
Giotto and Duccio painted
With pink and orange
purple and blue.
Covering over eight years
and healing memories.
And I wept.

Wednesday, August 18

poetry from the third generation.

This is a poem by my wonderful oldest grand daughter who goes under the name Severus. You can see her profile here.
I think that this poem would be a good one for the Poetry Bus this week. I hope that they accept it as it is.nt mine. you can find the poetry bus on Enchanted Oak.blogspot.com.



Imperfect


Posted by Severus at Tuesday, August 17, 2010

I'm no where near perfect,

Of that there's no doubt.

I often get angry,

And occassionally I'll shout.

I'm not exactly skinny,

And my hair never goes right.

My voice is very tinny,

And I have issues with my height.

Perfect! That I'll never be!

I fall for guys who are no good,

And I turn it into fantasy.

I complain about the nieghbourhood.

I fall out with my friends,

And I argue with my sisters.

I make sure every rule bends,

And the sun gives me blisters.

I don't always listen to my parents,

And I'm sorry to say I make them stressed,

Then everything becomes tense,

And we all put our patience to the test.

My skin isn't flawless,

And my writing's very scrawly.

I can be quite gormless,

And I scream at anything crawly.

But maybe I am perfect.

As much as anyone can be.

Because I'm me completely!

And no one else will ever be,

Perfectly me!

2 comments:

Natasha said...

Love it Kate!



17 August 2010 22:47

Gerry Snape said...

This is wonderful poetry . Get it on the F.B.


18 August 2010 12:22



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Wednesday, August 11

A Poem for Thursday

I bought a book from the shop last time I was at the McWilliams Gallery in Banbridge N. Ireland.
F.E. McWilliams was a sculptor associated with many other well known 20th C. sculptors, including
Henry Moore and Barbara Hepworth.
We, that is Rosie, Alan and myself were there primarily to let Alan see the sculptures, but there is usually a good exhibition of paintings in the other gallery rooms as well.
But this book caught my interest as soon as I saw it.
The poet is Paul Yates and the artist Basil Blackshaw.
Basil Blackshaw's work I knew,  from exhibitions that I had been to with Rosie. But Paul Yates was a new name to me. Together they have produced a book of magic that  captures the essence of the area of South Down that is "MOURNE". [published by Tom Caldwell Gallery Belfast]
Here is one of the poems that struck a chord with me, although obviously it was the Ladies Toilet and at Donaghadee!



GENTS TOILETS
KILKEEL HARBOUR
for Graham and Jude


A
Moog synthesis of oil skin glazed terrazzo acoustics, discotheque
Timpani of flushing stained steel urinals and the relentless air raid
Jazz of flies hunting in packs, psychedelic sun flare automatic
Writing on the walls; And
Through the open window, squalls of swozzled Swahili from
Squabbling gulls, the scream of a car tyre turning suddenly on the
Spot, the kind of sizzle silence makes when it touches against an
Ocean.

Paul Yates.

More Camels!

Two more camels in the studio.
Another has it's boots on but the other thinks it really is The Ship of The Desert  actually the ships of the desert!


They are waiting in the kiln room to be fired to biscuit.
I think that they probably feel a bit above the other fellows waiting on the shelf.
Camels have that look...don't they?

Monday, August 9

From A Railway Carriage [with many thanks to R.L.Stevenson].

Last week the family treated us to a day out on the Heverthwaite Steam Railway, in Cumbria.
There were lots of serious men with even more serious cameras who seemed to have gathered there from the four corners of the earth. And they were examining the tracks and the carriages and all the accoutrements of the wonder of steam locomotives.
But I was taken back in my memories to outings that took me with Aunt Helen, on the train up to Portstewart and the north coast of Ireland . Then even further back to the age of five and the very first day that I was introduced to the joy of rhythm and rhythme. I walked through a door, egged on by my mother, who possibly wanted an hour or two for herself on a Saturday morning, and was confronted by a gaggle of five year olds all sitting in a row facing one way and Mr. Graeme Roberts [teacher] reciting this with gusto!
So here is the updated version courtesy of family.

" Quick get in the carriage before it goes"


" All aboard"

"

Off we go.



Faster than fairies, faster than witches,



Bridges and houses,



hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle,



All through the meadows the horses and cattle;
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;



And ever again, in the wink of an eye,



Painted stations whistle by.



Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,


All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;



And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;

And here is a mill,


and there is a river:

Each a glimpse and gone forever!

So we reached the end of the line and all got off the train,



 and went to see the driver,




 and the fire in the belly of the engine .



And then it was off to the next bit of the adventure.
But that is a story more for Swallows and Amazons and it would take a better man that I am to tell it!


The Poetry Bus

I hope that I'm still in time to get on this week. I've gone for the summer memories and feelings.


Messina

They walk in pairs
       along the edge
      And diamonds sparkle
 in the blue.
              While thin winged swallows
  race across
                  the early moon.
   And scream for joy.

Monday, August 2

the Labyrinth

We have a labyrinth cut into the grass in the back field. We've had it for a few years now and each summer when the reception class comes to the Potters House they walk the course. Well actually some of them jump over the lines and ignore the path altogether. I like that . That children don't always do what is there for them, but make up their own ways of getting to the centre. Today I walked the labyrinth, and thought about so much that is going on in our family, both small and extended. You can't get lost in a labyrinth. You just start at the opening and follow the path back and forth until you come to the centre. It's not like a maze where you have to make decisions. So because of that there is no pressure on the way and you can take time to think as you turn north, south, east and west always getting closer to the centre. I often find myself very emotional as I walk it. And it's an odd thing that there is a real sense of arriving when you reach the centre. It makes you stop and consider life. It's like a closed quiet room where you are safe but alone. I talk to God in this place of safety and peace. Then you wind your way out again passing all the little things in the grass that you noticed on the way in. But now see them from a different perspective. Hopefully with a calmer state of mind.
It's nothing really, just a pattern in the grass. But I like pattern, and the minutae in the dividing lines of  some tiny wild flowers catch the mind and make you stop and observe for that little bit longer than you thought you might.
There is lots of information on this site if you are interested. The first labyrinth in a cathedral was in Chartre,  famous for being in Dan Brown's book The Da Vinci Code. But that is not the earliest, not by a long chalk!
There are lots of maize mazes and I assume also labyrinths to find around the country.Most of them are wonderfully complicated and exciting.  Ours is very simple and a bit overgrown at the moment. I expect one day it will have to go to make way for  a volley ball court like the one that was there when my two were young. But 'til then I'll walk it from time to time and slow down the pace of my life  and realise that ...all will be well and all will be well and all manner of things will be well. [St. Julian of Norwich].