Month: February 2017

The Good Pud Day

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

Back Garden Back Chat

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The foreign blackbird has been superceded, maybe ousted, by a far more tuneful British blackbird now.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!

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

Why do I Love you?

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?
Because –
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
Flame –
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
Heart’s Longing.

– Hazel Brown Feb 2017

Shining Joy

Shining Joy

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