A beautiful walk

It’s day 6 in my personal challenge to blog every day for a week on Bookstains. 

I heard a song ages ago.  It was one of those songs which keep going round and round in your head, but try as you may, you just can’t see to remember where it came from!  I couldn’t even remember many of the words, which would have at least given me a clue.  All I had was the tune – and the words ‘walk’ and  ’beauty’.  However Eureka!  Here’s where it’s from:-

She walks in beauty, like the night
        Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
    And all that’s best of dark and bright
        Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
    Thus mellowed to that tender light
        Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
                                   

    One shade the more, one ray the less,
        Had half impaired the nameless grace
    Which waves in every raven tress,
        Or softly lightens o’er her face;
    Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
        How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 
                                    

    And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
        So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
    The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
        But tell of days in goodness spent,
    A mind at peace with all below,
        A heart whose love is innocent!

Lord Byron

This is where I heard that tune that has been going round and round in my head -‘Vanity Fair’ a DVD which I watched ages ago.  The poem, written by Lord Byron was penned upon  see his cousin Lady Wilmot Horton in a mourning gown.  There are many YouTube versions of this poem and also narrations, but this one is the one that I originally heard.

 

Video from ermachango with thanks

More beautiful poetry here 

Notes from the ‘The Life of Lord Byron’ by Thomas Moore 1835 here

The Listeners by Walter de La Mare

 

One of my favorite childhood poets is Sir Walter de la Mare.  the first poem which we had to memorise at school was ‘Five Eyes’ and to this day, I still remember it line for line.  De La Mare was born at Charlton, Kent, England 25 April 1873 – 22 June 1956.  He came from  quite a well off family.  His father, James Edward de la Mare, was an official of the Bank of England. His mother, Lucy Sophia (Browning) de la Mare was related to the poet Robert Browning. He was educated in London at St. Paul’s Cathedral Choir School, which he left at age 16. From 1890 to 1908 he worked in London in the accounting department of the Anglo-American Oil Company. His career as a writer started from about 1895 and he continued to publish to the end of his life. His first published story, ‘Kismet’ (1895), appeared in the Sketch under the pseudonym Walter Ramal.    The Listeners is one of his most famous poems – full of atmosphere and imagination.

Read about this poet Walter De La Mare Society and here

Video edwardcsargeant with thanks!

Poem: Kissing the air

How to air kiss

 This poem was written about this habit we have aquired of air kissing when greeting people.  It may well be healthier and less germ ridden than hand shaking (here’s the social etiquette for those who aren’t sure)

Liz Brewer, a social etiquette expert on ITV’s Ladette to Lady, says a single air kiss next to a friend’s cheek was the most acceptable for the British: “It is important to go for the right cheek, as that way you are greeting each other heart to heart… If you go for the other cheek it is less friendly.”

She says the air kiss is best for people you don’t know well as there’s no contact – but for the very confident there is the two-cheek option.

It’s the false sentiment behind this air kissing that I have a problem with – and it’s that’s which inspired this poem.

Kissing the Air

Complacency props up this world

As effortlessly it sighs.

Disguised concern yawns unfurled

Underneath the lies.

Life’s an overstuffed easy chair,

An affectation beyond compare,

A big pretend of love and care -

Kissing the air.

  

Sophistication puffs us up

And fills our sails with wind.

Our stiff yet honest awkwardness

Flies loosened and unpinned.

Mouthing platitudes we don’t share,

Twisting our smiles whilst feeling despair,

 Blinded by duplicitous glare -

Kissing the air.

 

One cheek or two? we start to fret

As we approach our prey.

Caught in this mindless etiquette

In which we have to play.

Meaningless words which go nowhere,

Playing our game of solitaire,

United by the guilt we share -

Kissing the air!

 

©L M Roberts 2011

Quote from here image from here

Poem ‘I could sit in a chair all day’

Wouldn't mind sitting in this chair...

Here’s another of my ‘experimental’ poems.  Definitely more of a performance piece than static (see the irony) poem. I wrote this the other day, funnily enough as I was sat in a chair   I was thinking about all the stuff that I really should be doing and thinking to myself “well, it’s no good sitting here – there’s too much to do….” when inspiration stopped me in my tracks from doing anything but write about me sitting in a chair all day! 

I could sit in a chair all day,

I could sit in a chair and get carried away

Just sat in a chair all day.

 

I could sit in a chair all day

I could sit in a chair and rant and moan

I could sit in a chair and cry into the phone

As I sat in my chair all day.

 

I could sit in a chair and cry.

I could bring several tears to a plexi glass eye,

And still sit in this chair all day.

 

I could sit in a chair all day,

But my worries and cares would not melt away,

If I sat in that chair all day.

 

I could sit in a chair all day,

Until doctors came in and took me away.

‘Cos I sat in a chair all day.

 

I could sit in a chair all day

And weep with regret as my life slowly froze

I could sit in a chair all day

As silvery cobwebs covered my clothes,

I could sit in a chair all day.

 

I could sit in a chair all day

‘Til my limbs ceased up and withered away,

‘Til my mouth went dry with nothing to say,

‘Til my heart and my blood turned a dull shade of grey

As I sat in that chair that had turned into me

And myself became glued

And I couldn’t get free

And my eyes became leather

And now couldn’t see

Me

sat in this chair all day!

©Lynda M Roberts 2011 

Thanks to Vincent Van Gogh for the use of his chair (the image from here)

A Criminal Act

 

alas..not mine

 

A Criminal Act

I am amazed at how many photographs, letters which should have been kept by a family have ended up in total strangers hands.  If a person holds ancestral photographs which have nothing to do with their family, wouldn’t they make it their business to find out who’s these albums belong to (clue: the person who last lived in the house…).  How could someone throw other people’s old albums – images of someones ancestors in the rubbish bin!  Yet it happened to a relative of mine and not for the first time.  Some people must have no conscience.  The albums mentioned were pictures taken of my ancestors by my Nana who would group her nine children, light the camera, run round pose with them AND develop the photographs.  They were inadvertedly left in a loft in Liverpool and when the relative missed them, was told by the new owners that they had thrown them out…..

They don’t belong to you

Yet you can accept their custody

As your right to bin

And dispose

Of my right to my ancestors

High handed,

Blind, misguided

Insensitive one

Who so casually

Disposes of someone elses family history

Of which you have no entitlement

No empathy

And no right

But by default

My memorials, pictorials,

Chronicles and images

Have ended up in your careless hands

My ancestors stand in front of your future

And curse your careless hands!

©Lynda Roberts 2010

Found photo from this blog thanks!

Poem ‘In the balance’

 

ivory netsuke

The inspiration for this poem came from a collection of netsuke I saw recently in the Victoria and Albert Museum London.   Because the Japanese costume has no pockets small everyday objects were carried in pouches or boxes suspended on a cord secreted behind the obi (belt).  The netsuke was tied to the other end to prevent slippage.  These little intricately carved objects act as weight.  They are works of art in themselves and very beautiful to look at as well as being practical.

I was struck by the way a netsuke could be used as a metaphor for life.  The balance, weight – even the threads all speak about life and our experiences.

Life in suspension: the weight of cares tugging at the threads, unravelling and crashing the graven image – shattering.  It inspired me to write something, a poem perhaps.  What could be more fitting than a Haiku.

In the Balance

 

Our pathways are carved

Life whittles, chips amd fashions,

It’s knife quick and sharp.

 

Hope flies suspended

Holding fast the silken cord-

Grasps the fraying thread

 

Weighed down by lifes cares

The binding cords unravel

Our love outweighs all.

© Lynda M Roberts 2010

I have wrote a post about netsukes over on Echostains here

Poem: ‘Don’t let the Child out’

I was watching a film the other day.  There was a burial scene.  These words were spoken as the ashes were sprinkled.  They’re from The First epistle of  Paul to the Corinthians, Bible, 1 Corinthians 13, verse 11

When I was a child, I spake as a child,
I understood as a child, I thought as a child:
but when I became a man, I put away
childish things. For now we see through a
glass, darkly; but then face to face: now
I know in part; but then shall I know even
as also I am known.

It got me thinking about what is childish and what isn’t.  As we get older we are expected to behave in an adult way of course, but our emotions can still be child like.  We know this, so have to suppress them.  We are encouraged from time to time not to take ourselves too seriously and to be more childlike (but not too much..)   This poem is about this suppression:-

Don’t Let the Child out

 

Freeze up the feelings to stop the drip dripping,

Filter the words and stop them from slipping

Bite back the anger that’s burning inside

Bury emotions you’re trying to hide. 

Lie to yourself and pretend you don’t care

Dodge from the spotlight of life’s tragic stare.

Just rise above it - prove you are better

Follow this formula down to the letter 

Only wear adult size stiff upper lip

Try to be sensible – don’t let this slip

Even when really you just want to shout

Stop all from seeing you let the child out.

 

© Lynda M Roberts 2010

Image by the imaginative children’s photographer Ann Geddes.  This image here

Poem: Flash Fiction: Death of a toy

Inspired by Adam Dustus (a source of inspiration to a lot of poets), I thought I would try some  Flash Fiction.  The first time I saw mention of this was by Adam’s example.  What is it?  Flash Fiction is storytelling, but in snapshot form. There’s a smashing explanation of how to write Flash Fiction  and make it work here - and there’s great fun to be had with it too!  So, armed with inspiration and instructions I decided to start with the exercise about a child catching a red ball, using the tips the author gives.  This is what happened :- 

Death of a Toy 

he only wanted to play

Slavering child 

Shiny red ball 

Biting vinyl 

Rolling, licking 

Hairs sticking 

Exploring fingers, 

Chubby hands 

Embracing roundness. 

Footsteps falter 

Overreach and fall 

Over confidence gone. 

Game over. 

Car over. 

Punctured friend lies wounded. 

Tears come, 

Lip quakes, 

Hands wrung, 

Frustration spills 

Feet stamp 

As cries soar 

For unhappy toy. 

  

I have 49 words.  I was going for the 55 word count, but I was so intent on not wasting words like adjoining ones like ‘and’ ‘a’ and ‘ but;, that I am a little short.  Maybe next time.  I am definitely going to have another try at this, this time with my own subject matter.  The big red ball image is from here

Haiku: Sunsplashed

The sun has come out. I’m whispering this in case it hears me and pops back in again.  It’s very temperamental and only makes fleeting appearances.  To celebrate it’s return to the dark North of England, I wrote this:-

Sunsplashed

1

Greetings this morning

Buttery stuttery sun!

Touching us with life.

2

Your golden smile shines

In unblinking cloudless skies

Waking our spirits

3

Dwarfed by your presence

Golden shimmering fingers

Wash us with their touch

4

Life’s light glows vivid

A grand illumination

Regal and truthful

5

Great and shadowless

Your light, miasma’s echo

Stands in silhouette.

 

  ©L. M. Roberts 2010

Poem: Mapping the past

Manderley

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley.  No, not really: not Manderley.  Pemberley perhaps?  No, these big stately looking houses, imagined and real are open to the public.  The house I went to isn’t open to everyone.  I actually went to my Nanna’s old house in Liverpool.  I didn’t even have to leave my chair to do it.  I used a Google Street View Map tool to get there – it took me seconds.  That house is now a hostel.  I walked down the road I no longer recognise.  The garden which seemed so big has shrunk.  I wish I could enter the door and go inside and find my Nanna – but I know that I’m just being silly.

'Pemberley' really Lime Park

That house has haunted me down the years.  The walls have seen and heard many a family drama.  It was a large family -  seven sons and one daughter.  Now all gone, including my father.  Only the house remains, the walls saturated in our history.  I see my Nanna  sometimes in my mind, always busy – but she was never too busy to have time for me.  the Google Street view is my route back in time: my ball of string -  a time machine.  What a wonderful tool it is.  This poem was inspired by that trip:_

The footsteps trek backwards in brick, orange red

Their dust though forever remains

My past caught like jewels, in times silvery thread

It  whispers  forgotten refrains.

 

The welcoming door, now black and forbidden,

Its threshold now shoos me away

Won’t let me go where my memories lie hidden

Lit brightly, one long ago day.

 

I know what’s beneath all those layers of paint,

The black and white tiles in the hall

Childs fingerprints linger so small and so faint

On stairs that I still can recall.

 

The garden seems smaller, the roses long gone,

The curtains are closed on my past,

A shadowy place where the sun always shone

Where memories remain and hold fast.

 

They speak in a voice only I understand.

They sing and they call me by name

I still see them smile as they take up my hand

Unchanged and remaining the same.

©L. M. Roberts 2010

 Explore the world at street level with the Google Street View  here