That freedom

gull

 

With That Moon Language

 

Admit something: Everyone you see, you say to them, “Love me.”

Of course you do not do this out loud, otherwise someone would call the cops.

Still though, think about this, this great pull in us to connect. Why not become the one who lives with a full moon in each eye that is always saying, with that sweet moon language, What every other eye in this world is dying to hear?

 

 

-Hafiz

Nightingales sang by day

IMG_6050Then broke the spring. The hedges in a day

Burgeoned to green; the drawing of the trees,

Incomparably pencilled line by line,

Thickened to heaviness, and men forgot

The intellectual austerity

Of winter, in the rich warm-blooded rush

Of growth, and mating beasts, and rising sap.

How swift and sudden strode that tardy spring,

Between a sunrise and a sunset come!

The shadow of a swallow crossed the wall;

Nightingales sang by day. The pushing blade

Parted the soil. The morning roofs and oasts

There, down the lane, beside the brook and willows,

Cast their long shadows. Pasture, ankle-wet,

Steamed to the sun. The tulips dyed their green

To red in cottage gardens. Bees astir,

Fussing from flower to flower, made war on time.

Body and blood were princes; the cold mind

Sank with Orion from the midnight sky;

The stars of spring rose visible: The Virgin;

Al Fard the solitary; Regulus

The kingly star, the handle of the Sickle;

And Venus, lonely splendour in the west,

Roamed over the rapt meadows; shone in gold

Beneath the cottage eaves where nesting birds

Obeyed love’s law; shone through the cottage panes

Where youth lay sleeping on the breast of youth,

Where love was life, and not a brief desire;

Shone on the heifer blaring for the bull

Over the hedgerow deep in dewy grass:

And glinted through the dark and open door

Where the proud stallion neighing to his mares

Stamped on the cobbles of the stable floor.

For all were equal in the sight of spring,

Man and his cattle; corn; and greening trees,

Ignorant of the soul’s perplexity,

Ignorant of the wherefore and the end,

Bewildered by no transient ecstasy,

But following the old and natural law,

Nor marred nor blazing with a royal excess;

The law of life and life’s continuance.

taken from the poem ‘The Land’ by Vita Sackville West

Photography Anne Corr.

For the sake of a life.

                              The Layers   by Stanley Kunitz

 

layers

I am repeating myself because I sent this poem out into the ether earlier in my blogging life.  It bears repeating. I remind myself from time to time about what I want from this one and precious life.  Nowadays the buzz word is mindfulness, but the concept behind mindfulness is as ancient as time. At least as ancient as man’s consciousness began to reflect upon its self-awareness.  Our lives are different to those that were lived by the peoples of ancient civilizations, but in the perspective of the brain evolution, that span of time is just a nano second, so it is worth reflecting upon how humans in the past have reconciled themselves to the parodoxes that appear in all our lives.  You can choose from the philosophers who all have a different take , or the religious men who all have their differing stories they want to share, or you can listen to the poets.  The poets assume nothing of the reader, do not desire any allegiances, demand no tithes.  They write about the human experience because they are stuck in it. And in that attempt to soothe themselves a line of energy transmits from them to the reader. Sometimes it simply vaporises and never arrives anywhere, it just disappears as a coil of smoke will disappear into the air. Other times it sends an electric current through the reader and the reader is changed forever. As all the food that we eat, the sights that we see, the people we meet all impact on the messages our brains control our minds with, so with words.

savour

Impatience of the Heart

A reader brought this post to my attention yesterday, and I really think this novel is such a worthwhile read, it deserves another floating in the ether

moving in time

How I have I managed to live this long, consider myself fairly well read and not have read this author until this week?  I found Stefan Zweig’s ‘ Beware of Pity’ as I was mooching around the bookshop opposite the University of Leeds. I love browsing bookstores in the flesh, as opposed to the online experience.  There’s a greater opportunity to be entranced, pulled in and inevitably an exchange of books for money occurs in this heady environment. Luckily for me three circumstances combined to tip the balance between buy/not buy . Firstly my birthday was imminent, secondly my husband was in the immediate vicinity and thirdly ‘3 for 2’  took me into a hunt for a third book. ‘Beware of Pity’ was that third volume. I’m so glad it was. 
I read this hungrily, resenting the endless interruptions being carried away by the story telling, carried away by the…

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Meet Ceridwen

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I have named my medieval lady – meet Ceridwen – isn’t she absolutely heavenly?  She was helped into the world by the marvellous ceramacist Midori Takaki , whose work I have adored since first finding it.  I had told Midori how much I loved her work, and she was the most kindhearted seller -offering to save me the particular item I wanted until I was ready.  I didn’t do that at the time as we were pennypinching and I couldn’t justify an art purchase.

Quite a long time later I mentioned to my husband how much these works meant to me – how I longed to own one.  He knows it is not often that I see something I want to own, mainly I am happy to just be in the world alongside what I have.  So being the romantic he is, he immediately asked me to choose the one I liked for Valentine. I did.

Midori is a busy lady, so I waited a while before the mask arrived. And I wasn’t disappointed.  Now I never anticipate. It is something of a strange attribution and connected to memory or lack of it. I cannot see things that are in the past of the future, only the present. So in the same way I hadn’t named my sons prior to their birth, neither had I given Medieval Lady a name.  I had to come up with something that meant something to me, and that suited her.

After some reflection, and some of Keat’s ‘negative capability’ I remembered a poem that goes back to the myths of Celtic Britain which I had fallen in love with moons ago.

I am Taliesin. I sing perfect metre

I am Taliesin. I sing perfect metre,
Which will last to the end of the world.
My patron is Elphin…

I know why there is an echo in a hollow;
Why silver gleams; why breath is black; why liver is bloody;
Why a cow has horns; why a woman is affectionate;
Why milk is white; why holly is green;
Why a kid is bearded; why the cow-parsnip is hollow;
Why brine is salt; why ale is bitter;
Why the linnet is green and berries red;
Why a cuckoo complains; why it sings;
I know where the cuckoos of summer are in winter.
I know what beasts there are at the bottom of the sea;
How many spears in battle; how may drops in a shower;
Why a river drowned Pharaoh’s people;
Why fishes have scales.
Why a white swan has black feet…

I have been a blue salmon,
I have been a dog, a stag, a roebuck on the mountain,
A stock, a spade, an axe in the hand,
A stallion, a bull, a buck,
I was reaped and placed in an oven;
I fell to the ground when I was being roasted
And a hen swallowed me.
For nine nights was I in her crop.
I have been dead, I have been alive.
I am Taliesin.

 

I wanted my lady to be Taliesin , the bard in the Tales of Taliesin but I couldn’t cross the gender gap. Taliesin is a man. So it made sense to me that if she couldn’t be the bard, then she would mother the bard. She would be responsible for bringing into the world this legendary bard whose tales would ring through history. She would give birth to Awen  – the Welsh, Cornish and Breton word for  the inspirational muse of creative artists in general.

It is not all pretty though – Ceridwen in the stories of Celtic myth had given birth to a son, Morfan  who was deformed, hideous to look at. In order to somehow compensate for this misfortune Ceridwen went to work to make a potion which would give her son wisdom and poetic inspiration. This was no simple task – it was to take a year  and a day to brew in her magical cauldron, and she had helpers – a blind man and a young boy Gwion. Gwion’s task was to stir the concoction, and as luck would have it three drops of the mixture spilt onto his thumb, which he instinctively sucked.  Now only the first three drops of the mixture would have the transformative powers, the rest would be fatally poisonous. So Gwion did waht any young man would do faced with a powerful woman fatally disappointed. He ran. As Ceridwen gave chase , he used the powers of  the brew to turn himself into a hare, and was then pursued by Ceridwen transformed into a greyhound. He became a fish and jumped into a river. She transformed into an otter. He turned into a bird; she became a hawk. Finally, once he became a single greain of corn Cerdwen ate him as a hen. Even this did not destroy him because of the power  ofthe potion – Ceridwen became pregnant, and knew the child was Gwion, deciding to kill him when she gave birth.  Of course she could not do it – he was so beautiful, but she did set him into the sea in a leather-skin bag.  Fortunately for the child a passing prince rescued him on a Welsh shore, and this infant became Taliesin.

Some tale – the celtic tales are full of magic and imagination- powerfully romantic and date as far back as the 6th century. It is from the 12th century that the stories of the Mabinogion appear , and these were translated into English in 1849  when Lady Charlotte Guest’s version was produced. The tale draw upon the myths and history of Celtic Britain, with four branches of a storyline mainly set within Wales and the otherworld. They have a dreamlike atmosphere, preserving the primitive, imaginative world of Celtic myth.  A link to The Harvard Classics Volume 32 will fill you in further on the importance of this body of work on European literature that followed. Link to Harvard Classics page 146 Volume 32

For those interested in researching the work of Midori Takaki , her website is wonderful.-website of artist Midori Takaki

nightingale

Shout! Shout! Let it all out!

nat

Here is a big shout out from me on National Stationery Week!!  As a geek of immeasurable proportion for all things papery,  I am celebrating the fact that the whole world will be turning to the sound of pages turning  the latest stationery news for a whole week!!

Most of my readers –  wherever , if ever you are- may be aware that I distract myself from the sorrows of the world by illustrating my way to happiness.  I play all day. Simples.  To enable me to pursue this harmless and endlessly enjoyable occupation I sometimes have to promote my goods on social media. ( That is where the sorrow creeps in, but needs must.)

So you can order a bespoke card from my Etsy shop – or even a handmade book, I love a commission!

For spiral notebooks or hardcover journals and stickers, your only destination is my redbubble store.

Please come and have a browse around – let me know if you want me to make you something more specific.

Etsy link  : Etsy shopfront

Redbubble links ; My Redbubble Spiral notebooks and My Redbubble Hard cover journals

blank copy 2Untitled-1 copyblank copy 5blank copy 4

crys copy

‘What a piece of work is man’

On the anniversary of his death, love to the Bard.

moving in time

wit Shakespeare

I can’t help it, but after trawling through piles of material on Shakespeare I am now feeling very melancholy; that isn’t a stretch for me as my natural inclination is one of profound disturbance around the meaning of being human.  Anyway, in learning more about the man, and I think I have despite all his attempts to evade any sort of factual capture ( he managed to live in London for seven years without signing on the dotted line, it was a legal requirement to observe Sunday service and sign a name against an address, but he didn’t).

The number of tributes to the man was enormous, and so effusive in the language – before we had Oscar speeches and BAFTA awards.  I am talking serious praise from serious people.

‘The morning star,the guide and the pioneer of true philosophy’      Coleridge

‘He is really, really the genius; he…

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