The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean–
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down–
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
– Mary Oliver
The Good Pud Day
Who made the whorl?
Who made the toast, and the tea cake?
Who made the please pudding?
This please pudding, I mean –
the one that has pleased itself onto my plate,
the one that is forking “like-me” into my mouth,
that is wobbling me fat and forth instead of tight and slim –
that is cream crimed with amorphous and overinflated size.
Now it plies lies, calorifically noshes my face.
Now it gratifies, waves goodbyes to what I weigh.
I don’t know exactly what a dessert is.
I do know how to accept exception, how to belly down
into a pud, how to revel in a pud,
how to be bone idle and gross, how to bloat through my meals,
which is what I’ve been stewing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have sponged?
Doesn’t every puddy expire so fast, all too spooned?
Tell me, what is it you aspire to chew
With your plate piled in sticky slice?
– Mary Golloper
In the vid below there’s a greedy wood pigeon, a chatty blackbird (non British) a couple of blackcaps, and a persistent dunnock (called ‘Dave’ to his 2 human friends)
Dave dunnock has been a regular back garden visitor all winter.
The blackcaps seem to have gone.
The woody flaps in, rapidly hoovering up (like the herring gulls usually do)
The foreign blackbird has been superceded, maybe ousted, by a far more tuneful British blackbird now.
Words & Vid: Ian Nisbet
Bye for now!
As your last smiled-kissing lips, sighing body fusses
To leave the house in fast-flustered— missing buses,
Echoes of those last- passing paths of unsaid words declare…..?
To drift… On the air and fall on un-made bed and chair.
I gather up cup and plate, taking time to contemplate
Our loving, coupling-lip-kissing Sunday to Friday date
And know, now, over time, your body has woven into mine
With fine spun threads of spit and twine…..a Chrysalis
Wound ’round an energy as divine as joy, with blisses
Unbounded. Our bodies bond in liquid spiralling kisses
spinning us up! And out—-around, around and around!
Each golden chakra full- filled, flung upward without sound!
Into a white-bright…white-light of breathless Peace!
– Hazel Brown 19 Feb 2017
Yet another vid of the silver birch outside my kitchen window.
Home to puffy winter clouds, twittery star lings, and a little blue lagoon of sky.
Words & Vid: Ian Nisbet
Full Moon seen from Haze’s back Garden last Friday night.
Zooming right up with new Lumix camera.
No spots on this camera.
But there is a man in the moon.
Words & Vid: Ian Nisbet.
Why do I love you?
Poem inspired by Emily Dickinson.
using the first 2 lines of “Why do I love you?”
“Why do I love”, You Sir?
The breath does not ask the air
to be there –
To find a word to fill a heartbeat’s
Because I know – and
Do not you – and I in
In Wisdom feel the same?
Thunder – never asks a cloud
Declaring soul struck
Promises – so loud
It just knows.
You, Sir, touch my body’s mind
With soul-breath joining –
Lip-tipped fingers who find
– Hazel Brown Feb 2017
Inspired by Gerard Manley Hopkins poem Windhover
This morning, morning’s sungold shining joy brings the
Blackbird’s gold-beaked bosom-bounteous song
to fall and thaw the frost-iced grass and worm
crept early dawning from night’s silent grasp.
In anxious slumbering dreams I glide, through
Woods of owls, wave-riding, full-sail, prow-proud.
High octane heart, blood-bursting on the wonder
of day’s dawning before man works!
From this highborn, high-flown, high-blown careless bird;
Add a murmur of silent starling droves drenching
the sunset in dun-cloaked shapes of, night.
A portent? A wondrous-wonder of in held breath.
They fall, – full-falling-flutter to roosts in fallow fields.
Night and chill fill every copse-land, corpse-land,
wood-weary moor and mound.
He listens, that Fox, seeker, survivalist – the nether-hours ghost.
But wait, dawn whimpers through eyeless mist, decides,
with confidence to meet the sun, and play this endless game – once more!
– Hazel Brown, Feb 2017
Meet Mr Whippy, a Chinese weatherloach. A very fascinating chap.
Feeds on the bottom. Feeds on the top. Gets right underneath. Gets all around the sides.
Will poke head out of the water and frisk the air with his whiskery barbs.
Sometimes he hides.
Apparently, he will tell me when a storm is coming; by frantically whizzing around, jumping and splashing, getting extremely agitated.
Sometimes Mr Whippy will lie there, very still, waiting and watching, witnessing and wondering, lost in seemingly deep cogitation: What effect will Bexit have on the British economy? Will the price of fishflakes go up? Is Donald Trump a parodic inversion of Vladimir Putin? Are the both of them a pair of psychopaths?
Who is that bald biped staring at me through the glass? When’s he going to get his finger out and lob in some supper? Etc etc.
Mr Whippy is half fish and half something else. Like a seal crossed with an eel.
One day he’s going to jump right out of that bowl.
Words & Vid: Ian Nisbet
This Amazing Day
i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
~ e.e. cummings
A well known poem from a well loved poet.
But did you know that Mr e.e. had a cousin? And that this cousin – Mr i.i. – was also a poet?
Not just a minor poet it seems. For a whole drawer of astonishing poems by i.i. cum. minge has been recently discovered.
And nearly all of i.i.’s poems bear a striking resemblance to e.e’s.
It appears that i.i.’s poems were written several years earlier than his more illustrious younger cousins.
This has prompted many learned critics to speculate that the poems originally attributed to e.e. might in fact be copies of cousin i.i.’s poems.
Several critics have even suggested that e.e. may have plagiarized i.i.’s work as a result of a fatal family vendetta.
It’s now possible to compare and contrast every poem e.e. supposedly ‘wrote’ to see to what extent they are a complete rip off of poor cousin i.i.’s oeuvre.
Read the poem below ‘This Dimmest Day’ and see if you can detect any striking similarities with the poem above (‘This Amazing Day’)
This Dimmest Day
i damn You Bob for most this dimmest
day: for the bleaking meanly friggits of freeze
and a grim skin squint of sky; and for every fing
er which is numbed which is inwithered grotesque
(i who have flued am i rate again today
and this is the slums serfday; this is the dirth
day of strife and strewth and curse; and of the grey
ache snapping unbareabearably worst)
how should moaning groaning woeing whining
behinding any shitted from below
of bald noggin-moron merely breeding
louts clout unincredibly You?
(now the bits of my balls break and
now the knots of my nuts are broken)
– i.i. cum. minge
It is uncannily like ‘This Amazing Day’ is it not?
And I’m sure you would also agree that ‘This Dimmest Day’ is by far the superior version of the two.
Hopefully, one day soon, Mr i.i. cum. minge will get the long overdue recognition and respect he undoubtedly deserves.
Poem: Ian Nisbet
Tessier Gardens. The go to place in St Marychurch. Well, it must be – because we keep going there.
A peaceful oasis. No shitty yapdogs and no screechy children allowed (actually there were some kids erroneously present today)
Just a chubby tame squirrel.
Who is now known to us, if not to itself, as ‘Sammi’.
Calling out ‘Sammi!’, ‘Sammi’ doesn’t appear to evince any recognition in the animal.
However it will come squizziling across sharpish if you’ve got a bag of nuts in your hand.
It will even try to climb up your leg, mistaking it for the trunk of a small tree.
I’ll have Sammi chewing the chips off my shoulders next time.
Or possibly nibbling the acorns out of my earholes.
Words & Vid: Ian Nisbet.