distracted

every single time I turn this blasted thing on it turns itself off again. . . I'm reading another rather excellent book (not as excellent as The Lacuna, but still well worth picking up) (if the life of a teen as recalled by a grown-up is something that is relevant to you)
and I've ditched knitting and crochet for my summer keeping-my-fingers-busy-activity: the beauty that is an Ehrman tapestry. . . at the moment Magic Forest: actually, it might be Enchanted Forest, I'm not sure. . .

which reminds me of this. . .

A song of enchantment I sang me there,
In a green-green wood, by waters fair,
Just as the words came up to me
I sang it under the wild wood tree.

Widdershins turned I, singing it low,
Watching the wild birds come and go;
No cloud in the deep dark blue to be seen
Under the thick-thatched branches green.

Twilight came: silence came:
The planet of Evening's silver flame;
By darkening paths I wandered through
Thickets trembling with drops of dew.

But the music is lost and the words are gone
Of the song I sang as I sat alone,
Ages and ages have fallen on me -
On the wood and the pool and the elder tree.

Walter de la Mare

I hope you have some enchantment
in your day today

(-:

lemon drizzle cake anyone?

"oranges and lemons" say the Bells of St. Clement's "you owe me five farthings" say the Bells of St. Martin's
"when will you pay me?" say the Bells of Old Bailey
"when I grow rich" say the Bells of Shoreditch
"when will that be?" say the Bells of Stepney "I do not know" say the Great Bells of Bow
here comes a candle to light you to bed and here comes a chopper
to chop off your head, chip chop chip chop - the last man's dead
(some mistake, surely? Ed)

so, I'm baking again! what are the chances of the POVS actually being interested in my cooking? well, it doesn't really matter. . . apparently this cake improves if carefully wrapped, so I can always save a slice for you, dear reader, for your Friday treat. . .
.
. . .can't I
.
"The reason for the sinister last three lines of the lyrics of Oranges and Lemons is easily explained: they were added to the original rhyme, some time before 1783 when the infamous public execution gallows* (the Tyburn-tree) was moved from Tyburn-gate (Marble Arch) to Newgate, a notorious prison for both criminals and debtors, hence 'when will you pay me?'.
.
"As the words to the poem indicate, the unfortunate victim would await execution on death row and would be informed by the Bellman of St. Sepulchre, by candle light, hence 'here comes the candle to light you to bed', at midnight outside their cell, the Sunday night prior to their imminent fate.
.
"*The origin of the saying 'on the wagon' - meaning a person has stopped drinking alcohol - derives from the transportation of prisoners Tyburn Gallows on a wagon, they were allowed one last drink in a pub on the way to their execution. If offered a second drink by a sympathiser the guard would reply, 'No, they're going on the wagon!'"

O Mistress Mine Where are you Roaming?

O Mistress mine where are you roaming?
O stay and hear, your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further pretty sweeting.
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love, 'tis not hereafter,
Present mirth, hath present laughter:
What's to come, is still unsure.
In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me sweet and twenty:
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

OUR WILL

Roaming In Thought (after Reading Hegel)

Roaming in thought over the Universe, I saw the little that is Good
steadily hastening towards immortality,
And the vast all that is call'd Evil I saw hastening to merge itself
and become lost and dead.
[The end]

WALT WHITMAN

the lake isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
and live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a-glimmer
and noon a purple glow and evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day,
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
.
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

You do not have to be good.You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies,the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers.Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

Mary Oliver

When I have fears that I may cease to be
before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,Before high-piled books, in charactery,
hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
huge cloudy symbols of a high romanceAnd think that I may never live to trace their shadows,
with the magic hand of chance;And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
that I shall never look upon thee more,Never have relish in the faery power of unreflecting love;
then on the shore of the wide world I stand alone,and think till love and fame
to nothingness do sink.

JOHN KEATS

If I could tell you.

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
.
If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
.
There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.
.
The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose all the lions get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?

If I could tell you I would let you know.

WH Auden

Each lover has some theory of his own
About the difference between the ache
Of being with his love, and being alone:

Why what, when dreaming, is dear flesh and bone
That really stirs the senses, when awake,
Appears a simulacrum of his own.

Narcissus disbelieves in the unknown;
He cannot join his image in the lake
So long as he assumes he is alone.

The child, the waterfall, the fire, the stone,
Are always up to mischief, though, and take
The universe for granted as their own.

The elderly, like Proust, are always prone
To think of love as a subjective fake;
The more they love, the more they feel alone.

Whatever view we hold, it must be shown
Why every lover has a wish to make
Some kind of otherness his own:
Perhaps, in fact, we never are alone.

WH Auden

Learning Absences

Being alone is also to be learnt
Long time or short time.
Walking the length of the house, shutting
The doors and the windows
No longer calling casually over one's shoulder.
Returning to find no trace
Of the other, companionable living -
Bread smell, the stove still warm, Clothes on the line like messages,
Or messages written and left on the kitchen table:
"We need to keep watering the cumquat."
Or, "I have paid the milkman."
At night, at this season, lingering at the window
Not being certain where to find Halley's Comet,
And looking a long time at the darkening sky.

Rosemary Dobson

and interpreted by the very talented dinah. . .

Walk (from Spring Day)

Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer away without touching.
On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass marbles,
with amber and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet clashing noise. The boys strike them with black and red striped agates.
The glass marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into the gutters
under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus in the air,
but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the street,
and a girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The dust and the wind
flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. Tap, tap,
the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among the flowers on her hat.
A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of the way. It is green and gay
with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water over
the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells of tulips and narcissus.
The thickening branches make a pink `grisaille' against the blue sky.
Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each other and sheer away just in time.
Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front of the white dust,
leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead of the wind,
jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green.
A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air, sharp-beaked, irresistible,
shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and sunshine
tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky is quiet and high,
and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air.

Amy Lowell

I'm Nobody! Who are you?

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you -- Nobody -- Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise -- you know!

How dreary -- to be -- Somebody!
How public -- like a Frog --
To tell one's name -- the livelong June --
To an admiring Blog!

Emily Dickinson

(Ed: I think someone's tampered with the last word)

A Visit To The Asylum

Once from a big, big building, when I was small, small,
The queer folk in the windows would smile at me and call.
And in the hard wee gardens such pleasant men would hoe:
"Sir, may we touch the little girl's hair!"—
It was so red, you know. They cut me coloured asters
With shears so sharp and neat,
They brought me grapes and plums and pears
And pretty cakes to eat.
And out of all the windows, no matter where we went,
The merriest eyes would follow me and make me compliment.
There were a thousand windows, all latticed up and down.
And up to all the windows, when we went back to town,
The queer folk put their faces, as gentle as could be;
"Come again, little girl!" they called, and I called back, "You come see me!"

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Words, Wide Night
Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.
This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.
La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you
and this is what it is like or what it is like in words.
.
CAROL ANN DUFFY