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?

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.

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].

Family Trees

When we moved to the Potters House nearly 30 years ago, the back  field was a wild unkempt area, with a few mature trees around the edges. Nini was ten and Ben was nine and the field was all theirs as we had no time then to start sorting it out and tidying it up . What joy for two kids! Well, a Tarzan swing was set  up on the tallest of the sycamores. You know the type that I mean...a sturdy rope slung over a high branch, and then brought right down to the ground a distance away and pinned down with some sort of tent peg. A couple of handles on either side of the rope, climb the tree, hands firmly into the handles and with a forest yell slide down...very fast! It was inevitable that there would be little accidents, and as mum I just kept hoping that it wouldn't be too much. Well with Ben it was the little bones in his foot. Probably a hard landing.  And what can a doctor do about that I was informed, so he just hobbled and looked for sympathy. None from his sister, not much from mum and dad. Too much going on elsewhere. The next to go was Nini and hers was a bit like something out of the Keystone Cops. She climbed another thinner tree and showing off, swung out to be admired. Unfortunately the branch she was holding was dead and down she went. This time it was an elbow that was damaged, though it was quite a while before I was informed as she held the arm close to her side! A greenstick fracture, very painful, I had one myself as a child. The bone is cracked or chipped but there is no break.

So you might wonder, whether this week while all the family were together at the Potters House,  if the grand children would be allowed to climb, now that they are of "climbing age"? Well of course they are! There is a Stag's Horn tree that I have been cultivating for just such a time as this. It's branches start low to the ground and then spread out in a wonderful fashion ideal for climbing. I've even had a go myself and got to the second level!
A neighbour called this week asking if it would be possible to trim the eucalyptus tree on their boundary with  the back field. We had already planned to do it this year and of course this gave Alan the ideal excuse to go climb a tree. Tree duly trimmed and delighted  lovely neighbour ...and happy husband.
So you see it IS the family tree AND  family trees. Now I'm thinking of calling the five grand daughters, " The Fabulous Five", as opposed to " The Famous Five". Especially as I read this week that  many of the old fashioned words are to be removed from those books, and 21st century ones replace them. [ I went out especially to a second hand bookshop to snaffle up some of the original " Fives" ! ]

So far no broken bones and I'm thankful.

A poem for Thursday

We go to Spain every June and stay in the hills up above Marbella in a beautiful apartment belonging to family. We look out over the valley to the "Pueblo" Mijas. There is a bull ring there. I've  never been to a fight, but we once had a look around it and saw the bull-fighters' outfits hanging in the dressing room. They were amazingly created and embroidered with colour and beads and gold worked through it all. I thought I understood perhaps a little more about how the Spanish see this ancient sport. It's full of custom and tradition and theatre. But I could never bear to go to see an animal killed for sport. I'm not a vegetarian and never will be. Does that make me a hypocrite. That's not  a question as I don't need an answer.  But is the influence in Spain that of the outsiders who now flock to have a share in that stunning land of sun and mountain?  Or have the Spanish themselves thought ,"enough is enough"?

Anyway on a lighter note, is this haiku or not ? I need the poetry community to put me right!

bullfighting will go

underground the spanish know -

 how to dig big holes