a pedant repents

Hahaha ‘I seen’ -
how stoopid can they be?
Don't they know the rule?
Language in formaldehyde
is halfway dead already.

tea-break

they’re walking at speed

way out of our sight

not too far ahead

cups of tea for sale

and they've ordered some

damp

we sit inside

telly vegetating

it’s raining again

we take an hour outside

for a cold shower

jubilant?

I mow the long grass
we must look tidy
always spick and span
the queen may drop in
any time for a cuppa




I remember this as a kind of childhood 'myth'.  Perhaps it had its origins in the visits of George VI and the   
Queen to the East End during the blitz. 
I'm no royalist, but some of the footage of old film on TV has its nostalgic appeal.

dusting

for months

dust lies still and silent

until I notice

its graceful lace

and tear it down

along the canal

along the canal
terns dive for fish
flashing forked tails
swallows catch insects
in the sunshine

the hare stops

sees us then runs

along a side track

a minute later

it's still watching us

Time for tanka

From Tanka Poems

Tanka is an Ancient Style of poetry that speaks to the modern soul.

They date back to the 1300's Most important form of Japanese poetry.

When they wrote them it was often because of special occasions
or if the occasion wasn't complete.

When People first discovered Tanka poetry they realized the emotional significance
by reading poems and writing their own.
Tankas have 31 syllables and they have lots of expression and musicality.

The Tanka is Haiku. It focuses on nature and season, but is a bit longer than the Haiku.
It consists of 5 lines for a total of 31 syllables.
The syllables per line are according to the pattern

5 -7 -5 - 7 - 7.  

From American Tanka

The Form of Tanka in English

There are some English-language tanka writers who adhere to a thirty-one syllable form, but most use fewer than 31 syllables, divided into five lines that sometimes use a short-long-short-long-long pattern, and sometimes use other patterns according to the needs of the poem. The reason for this arises mainly from differences in the Japanese and English languages, including vast differences in the number of syllables used to express the same idea, and, perhaps most importantly, the essential stressed and unstressed pronunciation of syllables in English, which is not found in Japanese and which in English makes a strict syllable count less meaningful than meter.

Often, tanka in English that are forced to thirty-one syllables will be overloaded with images or will stretch the poem beyond the “moment in time” that is the most important element of a tanka. That is not to say, of course, that some English-language tanka may require exactly thirty-one syllables, or even a few more than that. American Tanka welcomes well-crafted five-line submissions of any syllabic length that are true to the purpose and spirit of the tanka form. (For a far more comprehensive discussion of tanka mechanics, see again Michael McClintock’s Introduction to The Tanka Anthology, Red Moon Press, 2003.)

Not sure this really fits - but for one-a-day in June, it's a start!

a ten mile walk

I'm full of energy

any morning

the thought of household tasks

makes me weary

skygazing

early evening star
Venus - a narrow crescent
approaching the sun

A spring walk (May 10)

Spring is in full swing

pushed higher by downpours.

Bluebells, cowslips, campion

colour the green, splash over the lines -

new life, loud birdcalls, running hares.

Memorial benches punctuate the walk

and, tucked behind a tree,

protected by clear-film,

is a card from a widower to his love.

Geoff Hamilton’s drought garden

is overgrown,

yet bursts of pink and orange, deep red and gold flowers

tempt the eye

and the parchment-bark

of Himalayan silver birch glows pale. 

Nonsense and rain

Written on May 1st - I think we may be near the forty days without one entirely dry by now. Possibly?


Forty days


On my head is the hat of gloom,
she intoned.
No one gave me the hat of carefree jollity, alas.

The old man’s snoring in the rain
while the ducks are singing in tune tonight.

How many more days before the forty total’s up?
Hey, Swithun? 
I thought it was in July that you objected
when they moved your bones indoors.

Though Doctor Foster’s refusal to return
was to Gloucester
not Winchester
Will they need another diver 
to keep the foundations flood-free now?

I counted – twenty-nine so far
Unless I am mistaken.

A strange sonnet of sorts

Written to use prompts : 

Waterlogged-It's always fish on Friday-Hullabaloo-Lime-green pencil-Overflowing dustbin-Orange

- the sense is not focused.

Messy morass

Although the fields were waterlogged we tried

to make our way across the soggy wastes

which stretched ahead according to our tastes.

It’s always fish on Friday, batter-fried,

she mouthed, unheard amid the hullabaloo

waving her lime green pencil like a wand

conducting this unruly lawless band

of ne’er-do-wells whose dads are on the brew.

Like them these kids could very soon land in

that no man’s land of aimless thoughtless souls

the feckless, oft-blamed, idle scrounging crew

with other dust and dross, and life’s own goals

the orange jump-suit clad, despised and blue

who shovel shit, which overflows life’s bin.

A metrical hiccup/possibly permitted variation, I tell myself, in line 5.


A cat-shaped hole

We don’t need to close the door to keep the cats out

or feed them as we make our morning tea.

We won’t have to stop them leaping on the table,

Or on friends who really don’t like cats a lot.

No more jokes about cats with rolling pins

waiting at the door when we get home late –

no more silliness about doing the cleaning,

spoken to a cat with a mob cap and apron.

No making sure they're always fed and watered

No need to tell the neighbours we’re away.

The sparrows and the blackbirds’ll be safer

Though it’s been a while since any danger lurked.

The blankets are all washed and stored – or binned,

the dishes will turn into plant pot saucers

and we’ll give spare tins of food away.

Sure, life will be easier and simpler

But these creatures leave a biggish cat-shaped hole.

human and landscape

A stone cockerel, chunky rather than delicate, and apparently wearing wellies, sits on a chimney pot not far from the garden wall.  We almost miss him as we wander by.

Two tree stumps, carved into mushrooms, stand in leaf litter near the water’s edge. One of the felled trees lies nearby. An art project linked to conservation? Is this a habitat for insects with added humour for humans?

The Old Hall, out on a limb at the waterside for the last forty years – we can hardly believe it’s lived in, but there is a car – plans to squat will have to be put on hold.

A stone woman stands in the back garden of a magnificent house. The track beside the lake allows us to be peeping toms – it’s a cold day to stand there in all your naked glory, even if you are made of stone.

Then the rain begins, and the red and white outsized umbrella comes into its own – a splash of colour on a drear day.

humankind

shapes the landscape

and still it rains






This is based on a recent walk .

bluebells and birdsong

The bluebells are not yet in full blue bloom, but they’re close. Wet weather has damped down the scent, but it’s just about perceptible. In a week there’ll be a tide swell of blue on the hillside by the water. Early evening after a sun-warmed day shows them at their best.

The rain has brought a sharpness to the bird-song today. We hear a bird singing a tune, almost a recognizable tune. He sings it over and over. The only bird we see is a great tit. Later a chaffinch perches on a twig singing loud and clear. They are not the only songsters, merely the most striking.

rain enlivens
colours and sounds
but we stay dry

We're thrilled that we have avoided a soaking. One swift shower blows over in minutes. 

caution
can be overrated
a wet banket

Kinder Mass Trespass - 1932

I lie in bed. Listening to Radio 4, unwilling to get up just yet.  Then I hear a news item: ‘‘Today is the eightieth anniversary of the Mass trespass of Kinder Scout’. 

In 1932, working class ramblers from Manchester and Sheffield walked on to previously forbidden areas of the grouse moors and took on the gamekeepers.

in hard times

from factories or dole queues

head for the hills

Although five of them were put in prison for up to six months, the trespass was the beginning of greater access to uncultivated land in England, and helped prepare the way for the first National Park in the Peak District in 1949.

Even today there is a campaign to make England’s coastline accessible to everyone, and people are concerned about the effect of new planning laws.

walk wild places

remember 

the pioneers




http://kindertrespass.com/index.asp

http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2012/apr/23/peak-district-mass-trespass-planning-laws

wet weekend

I had a pretty lazy weekend, sitting around, watching the rain, reading a bit, surfing the net awhile, and writing not a lot.

I took a couple of very short strolls around the village, snapping shots of heavy skies shot through with light, and big puddles on a track, but nothing to rave about.

I was caught in a hailstorm, and as usual had neither hat nor umbrella. 

We watched TV - one football match, but Barcelona lost to Real Madrid! We watched David Hockney talking to Andrew Marr about paintings. On Sunday we watched ‘As You Like It’ , performed brilliantly at the Globe, and it was a lot racier than the version I studied at school when I was thirteen.

a quiet weekend

no long walks, little housework

no parties – but good

Wed 18 April - school walk and allotments

I wake to the sound of rain on the skylight, but it soon stops. So I decide to walk the mile to school with six-year-old Isaac, rather than take the car. 

He shows me the way, and tells me which roads are busy.

As we reach the school playground he speeds up, and heads for his classroom.  No time for goodbyes.  A nod from the teacher – we both know he’s there now.

usual routine

with a different adult -

all grown up

I wander back through the wet streets – I don’t know this part of Leeds very well, but I relish the northern accents I hear around me.

I walk back past the allotment gardens, which slope down into the valley.  There are long waiting lists for allotments now, and they are all used – with carefully constructed compost heaps, raised beds, and plots prepared for the new crops.

Twenty years ago no one bothered to grow vegetables, apart from a few enthusiasts, eccentrics and old men. 

Some plots still have the ramshackle look – nothing too humble to be reused.  Others are equipped with purpose-made cloches, greenhouses and water-butts.

allotment gardens

come into their own

after the lazy years.