I am wounded and I won't be well again.
Not the tape of triumph
nor the bandage of bright victory
could mend this wound
he's given by the act of leaving.
Had he left the room,
Had he gone forever
or across the street.
Gone is gone
and it would be the same.
I die daily now.
And he didn't even call it 'love'.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
On Reflection
It glances at me from the corner of its eye
which sags and wrinkles
like collapsing sails.
Best of all it loves the bright, cold Autumn sunshine
to show its defiance of Christian Dior.
Sometimes I say, "I'll show you who's boss around here,"
And, witch-like in my kitchen, I brew strange potions
guaranteed to cure
the worst reflection.
I've heard witches have instantaneous results
but my flushing face would make them green with envy.
Perhaps I should ignore it for a while.
But not too long lest Nature plays a cruel trick,
catching me off guard
and upping the stakes.
I might wake one morning to find a double chin
and that would be adding insult to injury.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Essentially England
More links: Traditional British recipes
Bryan's - they call it a 'Seafood Restaurant' these days but it will always be t'chippy to me and miles better than Harry Ramsden's even before that was sold off as an overpriced franchise .
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Mirror Crack'd
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott
By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
The Lady of Shalott, Alfred Lord Tennyson
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott
By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
The Lady of Shalott, Alfred Lord Tennyson
Saturday, September 19, 2009
A Reminder
"What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare."
'Leisure' by W H Davies
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
What I Did On My Holidays
Allow me to clear up one point, a factual inaccuracy if you will: I did not get lost; I did not stow away in the back of a lorry; I did not meet a grizzly end under the wheels of a car or be abducted by a lonely little old lavender-smelling lady with long grey hair in a bun. Whisper this quietly: I ran away.
I needed a break from the rottweiler look-alike thug down the road and I fancied a change of scenery anyway (the same old stripey-cushioned chairs to slouch in, the same old 5* food; the same old fingers up and down my spine: it all becomes so stale after a while) so I and my red-spotted handkerchief hot-footed it as fast as my three legs would take us. It was only a hop, skip and jump across the stream and up the hill to a hotel near where I'd stayed last year.
Very pleasant it was too. The management was friendlier and the service and food were excellent, in fact I've already made a provisional booking for next July. I was waited on hand and foot and because the staff grow Aloe Vera in their own herbal garden all my cuts and grazes could be tended on the spot.
However, all good things come to an end, as they say, and this morning what do I hear but my name being called. When I signed in, I didn't tell anyone my real name so I knew it could only mean one thing: I'd been rumbled. I knew I should never have believed them when they said micro-chipping was for my own protection! I didn't want it to look as though I hadn't missed the Old Stick so I hopped down from the sun lounger and ran as fast as I could to be scooped up (how undignified) in welcoming arms. I have to admit, it was quite satisfying to know I'd been missed, but really, must these humans be so sentimental?
After a frightful journey in some sort of cage, I've reacquainted myself with the schmucks who haven't been on holiday yet, had a wonderful meal and a long snooze. Unfortunately, you can't sneeze in this house without someone spotting you - talk about surveillance society, you don't know the half of it and, believe me, she doesn't need cctv - so when I woke up I found the Old Stick standing over me, aloe vera in hand. Hello, she smiled, look what I've got, and she opened her palms to show a huge pile of pinky aloey globby jelly which she rubbed all over me until I looked like a male model in an Armani ad. Uh-oh. I won't be going out on the town tonight looking like this.
Ten minutes later and the Old Stick went cross-eyed and zonked out again so I thought I'd see what this machine does. I have to say I'm not impressed. I've been looking for 'God'. I know he's here somewhere because whenever the OS turns it on and reads what someone called Gordon Brown has been saying she says, "Oh, my God!" Perhaps it's him; perhaps it's Brown who's the God, but he doesn't look like it to me - too much dandruff and something prozacean about him.
I'd also like to know who F*ckity-f*ck-f*ckwit and B*ll*x Bob are but I suppose they will have to wait for another day because she's stirring. You watch - she's addicted; it will be straight to the kettle and a teabag.
Here's a video of one of my favourite pieces of music, Duetto Buffo di Due Gatti, by Rossini - keep an eye out for the cute ginger hottie. (Don't tell the Old Stick though because she hates this duet - I can't think why, it isn't in the least bit annoying):
I miaowt be back so I'll just say, 'hasta la huego'.
Suki Dooks
I needed a break from the rottweiler look-alike thug down the road and I fancied a change of scenery anyway (the same old stripey-cushioned chairs to slouch in, the same old 5* food; the same old fingers up and down my spine: it all becomes so stale after a while) so I and my red-spotted handkerchief hot-footed it as fast as my three legs would take us. It was only a hop, skip and jump across the stream and up the hill to a hotel near where I'd stayed last year.
Very pleasant it was too. The management was friendlier and the service and food were excellent, in fact I've already made a provisional booking for next July. I was waited on hand and foot and because the staff grow Aloe Vera in their own herbal garden all my cuts and grazes could be tended on the spot.
However, all good things come to an end, as they say, and this morning what do I hear but my name being called. When I signed in, I didn't tell anyone my real name so I knew it could only mean one thing: I'd been rumbled. I knew I should never have believed them when they said micro-chipping was for my own protection! I didn't want it to look as though I hadn't missed the Old Stick so I hopped down from the sun lounger and ran as fast as I could to be scooped up (how undignified) in welcoming arms. I have to admit, it was quite satisfying to know I'd been missed, but really, must these humans be so sentimental?
After a frightful journey in some sort of cage, I've reacquainted myself with the schmucks who haven't been on holiday yet, had a wonderful meal and a long snooze. Unfortunately, you can't sneeze in this house without someone spotting you - talk about surveillance society, you don't know the half of it and, believe me, she doesn't need cctv - so when I woke up I found the Old Stick standing over me, aloe vera in hand. Hello, she smiled, look what I've got, and she opened her palms to show a huge pile of pinky aloey globby jelly which she rubbed all over me until I looked like a male model in an Armani ad. Uh-oh. I won't be going out on the town tonight looking like this.
Ten minutes later and the Old Stick went cross-eyed and zonked out again so I thought I'd see what this machine does. I have to say I'm not impressed. I've been looking for 'God'. I know he's here somewhere because whenever the OS turns it on and reads what someone called Gordon Brown has been saying she says, "Oh, my God!" Perhaps it's him; perhaps it's Brown who's the God, but he doesn't look like it to me - too much dandruff and something prozacean about him.
I'd also like to know who F*ckity-f*ck-f*ckwit and B*ll*x Bob are but I suppose they will have to wait for another day because she's stirring. You watch - she's addicted; it will be straight to the kettle and a teabag.
Here's a video of one of my favourite pieces of music, Duetto Buffo di Due Gatti, by Rossini - keep an eye out for the cute ginger hottie. (Don't tell the Old Stick though because she hates this duet - I can't think why, it isn't in the least bit annoying):
I miaowt be back so I'll just say, 'hasta la huego'.
Suki Dooks
Monday, September 14, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Frank Lloyd Wright
“Whether people are fully conscious of this or not, they actually derive countenance and sustenance from the ‘atmosphere’ of things they live in and with.” Frank Lloyd Wright
Fallingwater
Ward Willits House
Richards Duplex Complex
Frank Lloyd Wright links
The Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation
Fallingwater
Richards Duplex Complex
Frank Lloyd Wright links
The Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation
Friday, September 11, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Wuxia
Wu = martial arts or military. Xia = synonymous with chivalry.
"He is honest in words, effective in action, faithful in keeping promises, fearless in offering his own life to free the righteous from bondage."
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
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