The Poetry Bus

The Poetry Bus contribution.

I've been mulling over the suggestions this week. This thing about arguing with God...I do it most days! But then I agree with him most days also, it depends on the subject or the person etc.
So I  want to combine the first about arguing with God and the third about the bare trees. Because the trees don't stay bare for ever, but like us they need a little snooze to get their energies back!

This is a poem taken from the book ,The Song Of Songs .


The Garden

Once I had a garden in the summer.
Sun and rain caressed it soft and warm.
People came to wonder at the beauty.
Praised the gardener tending it each day.

 And the south wind blew upon my garden so fair.
And the scent of the spices flowed out.


Once I had a garden in the autumn.
Golden was the colour all around.
Yet the very beauty was deceptive.
For the gardener's fire soon had it burned.

And the north wind blew upon my garden so fair.
And the scent of the spices flowed out.


Winter time descended on my garden.
Tightly bound the beauty of the flowers.
Still and grey and lonely in the bareness.
Had the faithful gardener gone away?

And the north wind blew upon my garden so fair.
And the scent of the spices flowed out.


Once I had a garden in the spring time.
Innocense portrayed in every part.
For the gardener never could forsake it.
And I confess the garden is my heart.

And the south wind blew upon my garden so fair.
And the scent of the spices flowed out.

First Sunday in Advent

Charity Gigs.

Nowadays any singing that I do tends to be for celebration or charity.

That's me at a recent 60th birthday bash for a friend.

So in October I was pleased to be asked once again to sing at an afternoon garden party not far from The Potters House.
The charity gig was to raise money for Francis House Hospice for children, which is situated in Didsbury south Manchester. We've had quite a relationship with the hospice over the years, so we know  it takes around £2 m. per year  to keep it open
Attendance in the garden is usually by invitation only, though this year I noticed that some children crept in at the back, drawn in by the music.

The afternoon is organised by lovely Gordon and his beloved Kathy, though Gordon would poo poo the thought that it was his idea and his alone.

Gordon

And Kathy,

always making sure that everyone is happy.

The master of ceremonies keeping everything running along  smoothly.

I love the fact that the ages of the partakers range from children under ten to oldies. I'm probably one of the oldies!
Also the range of musical types is as broad and wide as could be. And I like that as well.

Singing a Peggy Lee number..."Why don't you do right!"

backed by keyboard player extaordinaire Tim Firth.

I've always tended to sing with a jazz influence. But there were classical instumental and vocal performances, and teenagers with rock and pop music.

Keyboard, violin, flute, guitars and drum all had a place in the programme. Singers of classical, folk, pop, rock and jazz lined up to do their bit!

At the half way stage, we had cake and drinks  and amazingly for October, the weather was fine and we were able to stay out of doors for the whole afternoon.

In the middle of the garden a red watering can sat on top of a bird bath and into that container people were encouraged to drop their money or rather to push in the notes!

I think that the thing about these lovely charity dos is that all involved are volunteers. Nobody gets paid and every one has a great time because in some ways the pressure is off. Yet every one comes up trumps for the charity. I wonder where that leaves David Cameron's new political mantra that he has referring to the BIG society. Isn't it just happening quietly all over the place? 

Anglomania – Vivienne Westwood

This came up on my Facebook coutesy of my lovely niece Jessica Weber. I just had to share it , not just for the outlandish fashion, but also for the wonderful historical facts that Vivienne Westwood provides.
Try the link below if you want some good history of the English speaking peoples!

Anglomania – Vivienne Westwood

A Poem for Thursday

The Running Man.

The man who runs

    is running on the edge.

He never glances back.

He takes an even stride.

With every breath

    exactly as the last

He will not be afraid.

He only looks ahead.

Past events

    inhabit other lands.

They will not pull him down

Nor slow his measured pace.

The running man

    stays cool and beats the crowd.

His ears are blocked

To all unfriendly jeers.

Tho' mournful spirits

    call,he does not heed

Their plaintive cry

 To join them in the deep.

They taunt him

    and they whisper of the past.

Of deeds and words

 He rather would forget.

The running man

    stays low and hugs the edge.

Old tales and fables

Cannot harm his flesh,

Nor claim his mortal soul.

There is  an old celtic tale that the souls of the dead go down into the deep and rise up on the tops of the waves as they crash on the beach. They call to the living to join them. I suppose rather similar to the story of the Rhine Maidens who sit on the rocks at The Lorelei.

These thoughts along with the pun ,"the human race", got me thinking about the things that affect us and would try to pull us down.

I love all of these old stories, they have so much depth to them.

for Magpie Tales

Just a very little one about who I am.

Ballyferris

It was another time

and another land.

But I was me

I still am.

Dougie's Poem.

It was always my opinion that mum was the one who fostered my love of music and poetry.
She sent me for lessons in singing, piano and speech and drama from the age of five.
She sat with me through the competitions and exams from the various societies, and coped when I didn't get the best of results or looked pleased when I did!
But an e-mail from my sister this week had me thinking about dad and his artistic leanings.
For a start, he sang from the moment that he got up until he left the house for work. And that was no quiet humming...that was a loud and often headache inducing baritone singing. Sometimes an old Irish folksong, sometimes a rousing hymn....."Rock of ages" ... was a favourite.
Mum played the piano, dad played the fiddle.
Mum painted oils, dad wrote poetry....Ah that had slipped my mind completely!

So here is one of dad's poems about his beloved Corkley in Armagh where he grew up.

                The Land of my Birth

Did you ever hear the call of the corncrake in the corn?
Did you ever hear the cuckoo when you rise up in the morn?
Did you ever hear a cock crow on the sound of Darkley Horn?
Have you ever been to Corkley, the place where I was born?

They say the sun shines brighter there, the moon gives whiter light;
The stars a dazzling twinkle give when they come out at night;
The grass it grows much greener there, the cows give richer cream;
The birds they sing much sweeter there or that's the way it seems;

It's nearly fifty years now since I left my kith and kin;
To settle in the city and a new life to begin;
But every time that I return to the place where I was born;
The chatter of the birds I love but I miss the Darkley Horn.

                                     Douglas McClelland
Photograph taken around the time that he left for the city.

[We've left the punctuation that he put in the poem]