Light has been in short supply recently. We rushed out to collect some this morning, though with a universal inadequacy of boot we all ended up with wet feet. (Click a thumbnail for the gallery.)
On the way home the sunset rose and rose all around until I was so distracted that it was safer to stop for a while and look.
At last I had to go, weaving slightly: the driver’s mirror and wing mirrors were still full of glory, even to the arrival at home.
Lucky it is a quiet road.
… or take them on any nature rambles when they were small.
For reasons too complicated to go into, I need a few short poems about flowers. But apparently, poets never actually write about flowers. When poet meets flower, it is merely an occasion to enlarge upon feelings about love, death, war, peace etc. Dear poets: Shut up already. Please. Get over yourselves and look at a flower, why don’t you? Because now I am going to have to write the thing myself, when I should really be going to bed.
One odd find as I googled was Alfred Lord Tennyson’s poem The Flower, with a surprisingly environmentalist message in the overt meaning (and it’s fairly easy to ignore his subtext if preferred). Himalayan balsam, do we think?
Once in a golden hour
I cast to earth a seed.
Up there came a flower,
The people said, a weed.
To and fro they went
Thro’ my garden-bower,
And muttering discontent
Cursed me and my flower.
Then it grew so tall
It wore a crown of light,
But thieves from o’er the wall
Stole the seed by night.
Sow’d it far and wide
By every town and tower,
Till all the people cried
`Splendid is the flower.’
Read my little fable:
He that runs may read.
Most can raise the flowers now,
For all have got the seed.
And some are pretty enough,
And some are poor indeed;
And now again the people
Call it but a weed.
If any passing reader happens to know of flower poems really about flowers … please tell?
It would probably have annoyed Cecil Arthur Lewis no end to say that to his face. Those of us without direct experience of WWI flying, however, can’t help making the comparison. Part of a set, all worth hearing.
Having done couplets for purple alpaca, the muse has moved on to green corduroy. It’s come out as an ode written in mock heroic verse, but triplets rather than couplets. My iambics are a bit wobbly, but I did manage to write an Alexandrine (of sorts) for the requisite final flourish.
Now I’m trying not to look at my jumper … the sofa … a pile of fleece …
lix : Write a poem about purple alpaca
Now I come to read that title, it sounds as if I was writing a pastiche of the great and legendary purple cow poem to join the herd which already exists. But I wasn’t.
And it didn’t work; two fairly satisfying couplets and a restless hour later, I had to fall back on the boringly traditional –
lx : Drink Ovaltine at three a.m.
– which did.
This was the 11th colander in the ten colander challenge (humane newt trap salad shaker or newt shaker and upside down salad dripper or what you will). Slightly bodged but I think I could become fond.
The poor thing only sat in the garage for 14 months or so …
I love small cold winter English seaside towns. (Click thumbnail for the gallery.)
Relief: most of them quite decent, though, being out of practice, I made a beginner mistake not wiping a base high enough, and welded one edge of a pot to the kiln shelf.
I like the clouded gold of the rutile glaze. But although the little mugs are unassuming and unshowy, they are the best – light and balanced in the hand, if I say so myself, warm and gentle on the lip, and my favourite green glaze done to a turn:
At last the kiln elements have been replaced; the old ones are so brittle in places that they just crumble.