National Poetry Day

Hurrah for National Poetry Day! I hope you enjoyed the clip of Maggie Smith and Kenneth Williams reading Betjeman's Death in Leamington...Betjeman, Williams and Smith all together on Parky, now that's what I call good telly. You know, I'm the kind of mother who sends the kids to school with a poem in their bag even if their teachers have not specifically asked that the class do so. Their teachers must love me.

Well, anyway, I was gobsmacked to learn that T. S. Eliot was voted Britain's favourite poet this year. He's hardly accessible is he? My hunch is that a lot of people saw that excellent poetry series on BBC4 and half fell in love with Robert Webb and his exploration of Eliot's Prufrock...Let us go then you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table;" ...he wasn't half good at first lines "April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire"...good stuff!

Well for your delectation here are the final lines of Choruses from the Rock (X). Enjoy!

In our rhythm of earthly life we tire of light. We are glad

when the day ends, when the play ends: and ecstasy

is too much pain.

We are children quickly tired: children who are up in the

night and fall asleep as the rocket is fired; and the day

is long for work or play.

We tire of distraction or concentration, we sleep and are

glad to sleep,

Controlled by the rhythm of blood and the day and the

night and the seasons.

And we must extinguish the candle, put out the light and relight it;

Forever must quench, forever relight the flame.

Therefore we thank Thee for our little light, that is

dappled with shadow.

We thank Thee who hast moved us to building, to finding,

to forming at the ends of our fingers and beams

of our eyes.

And when we have built an altar to the Invisible Light, we

may set thereon the little lights for which our

bodily vision is made.

And we that Thee that darkness reminds us of light.

O Light Invisible, we give Thee thanks for Thy great

glory!

Time of Plenty

Then came the autumne all in yellow clad,

As though he joyed in him plenteous store,

Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad

That he had banisht hunger, which to-fore

Had by the belly oft him pinched sore:

Upon his head a wreath, that was enrold

With ears of corne of every sort, he bore;

And in his hand a sickle he did holde,

To reape the ripened fruits the which the earth had yold.

SPENSER

I do love this time of year. I like the sunshine of the days and the crisp chill of the mornings and I like that all the fruits of the hedgerow (bar the sloes) are ready for the picking. This year has been so good for fruit. My strawberries did very well and one or two plants are still fruiting, my apple tree was so well laden that a small branch broke under the weight of the fruit before they were fully ripe, I'll have to jelly them. But my first love has always been the wild fruits of our countryside: the elderberries, now just going over; the blackberries, to be picked before Michaelmas (lest the devil gets in 'em!); crab apples on the canalside* near where we live; and damsons and bullaces, old fashioned fruit so good for jamming and preserving.

Of course you can make a good gin with damsons**, just as you can with sloes. I've done it and the taste is just a tad fruitier that that of sloe gin. You can also make a great, easy setting, jam*** which is my personal favourite as it's nice and sharp and really good on generously buttered toast, preferably eaten whilst watching Sherlock Holmes on the telly on a rainy Saturday tea-time. However, this year we made chutney from our damsons. It was a bit of a family affair, the girls helped by squidging the damsons to remove the stones and stirring the chutney whilst it was simmering and I hope they'll remember that they made it when we sit down to cold cuts and chutney this Boxing Day. You'll find the recipe I used here, it's Delia Smith recipe so you just can't go wrong.

I'll be doing a lot more preserving this month, as a friend of ours from church always gives away free marrows from his allotment, so I'll make this chutney too, also I'll have to jelly my poor, fallen apples, perhaps with the last of the elderberries, and I may even go blackberry picking this weekend with the girls, if we get enough of them I'll jam them and if not I'll just stew them and make a pie on Michaelmas.

Now, I've been doing a lot of knitting over the summer and I think the knitting phase will continue throughout the autumn. I'm just finishing off my final bolero, just like the one above, but in petrol blue, and with a picot edging rather than a cable edge. These boleros have been fun to knit, particularly for my little one as they take on two and a bit balls of Wendy Mode Aran, which is cheap as chips in the shops at the moment and a good yarn for knitting kid's clothes (NOT HAND WASH! Hurrah!). However, the bolero fad has faded and my eldest has requested that I knit her some new gloves, I'm sorely tempted to use a vintage 1950s pattern I have for some fairisle ones, but I think she wants the gloves before summer starts so I may find a less ambitious pattern! I will post on them if they turn out to be exciting.

Well, I must be off now as I have to tidy up Dulcie's room. It's a pig sty (or, as my youngest says, a pig sigh - know this, gentle reader, the state of the room would indeed make a pig sigh) and I'm letting her off tidying it up because it is her first week of secondary school and she's feeling a bit overwhelmed. Oh, but before I go, did you know that the brilliant Tales from the Green Valley is being repeated on BBC4 on Tuesday evenings, 7:30? Well, you do now! Anon goode huswives, anon!

*You find crab apples on the canalside becasue the bargees would throw their apple cores onto the grass verges by the canal.

**If you want to know more about making sloe or damson gin I could post about it in October, but just let me know if it interests you.

***This is a great jam to make for the beginner. If you want the recipe email me.

Symphony of Sorrowful Songs, Blaming, Miss Read, Advice

I hope you enjoyed this beautiful piece of music by Gorecki. Sometimes it's good to feel the strong emotions music and art promote, perhaps because we can feel a oneness with our fellow man when emotion is shared in such a way, perhaps great artists have the knack for expressing what we cannot?

I just thought that I would give you an update on my father in law. He is doing a little better, his pain comes and goes, but it is manageable. I want to thank you all for your kind prayers and thoughts, I truly believe they have helped us, and my father in law, get through some difficult times.

For all of you bookish types out there, I thought I'd share some recommendations. First, Blaming by Elizabeth Taylor (no, not that one!). A strange, clever novel, whose main character is so intensely human the reader's sympathy with her shifts on a constant basis. I think Taylor understands that people's inner narrative is often not as generous as their outward actions, I know this is true of me, therefore I found the book to be rather real, and often quite touching. Oh, and here is a link to a Guardian article about her work and a recent biography.

Secondly, I've been eating up the Miss Read Fairacre novels. The literary equivalent of gobbling buttered toast simply to comfort oneself. Considering my proclivities towards country living, happy childhoods and well stocked pantries I've come rather late to Miss Read, however what a joy it's been to read them!

Now, here's a poem for all you Pooh Bears to philosophise over.

Advice

When you are faced with two alternatives

Choose both. And should they put you to the test,

Tick every box. Nothing is ever single.

A seed's a tree's a ship's a constellation.

Nail your true colours to this branching mast.

Robert Crawford

Well, anon gentle reader, I hope to see you soon!

Queen o' the May

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;

To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day,

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother,

I’m to be Queen o’ the May

There's many a black, black, eye, none so bright as mine

There's Mary, there's Kate and Caroline;

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say,

So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother,

I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,

If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break;

But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay,

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother,

I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,

But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother,

I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white,

And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.

They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother,

I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

They say he’s dying all for love, but that can never be;

They say his heart is breaking, mother–what is that to me?

There’s many a bolder lad ’ll woo me any summer day,

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother,

I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,

And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen;

For the shepherd lads on every side ’ll come from far away,

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother,

I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

.The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;

And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray,

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother,

I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,

And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;

There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day,

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother,

I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still,

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,

And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play,

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother,

I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear'

To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year

To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day,

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother,

I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

Tennyson

Happy May Day to one and all!

(Sorry about the formatting on this post!Grr!)

God's Grandeur

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil ;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod ?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod ;
And all is seared with trade ; bleared, smeared with toil ;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell : the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent ;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things ;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah ! bright wings.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

I thought of this poem today, and it's such a fine poem I wanted to share it with you. It's a bit busy right now for us all chez domum, but I hope to post properly over the next few days. However, for now, enjoy the poem and have a good weekend.

Poems and Prayers (for the domestically inclined)

My Lady's Chamber, Frontispiece to "The House Beautiful"

Peace

Peace between neighbours,

Peace between kindred,

Peace between lovers,
In the love of the King of life.

Peace between person and person
Peace between wife and husband,
Peace between woman and children,
The peace of Christ above all peace.
From Carmina Gadelica

Dusting

by Marylin Nelson
Thank you for these tiny
particles of ocean salt,
pearl-necklace viruses,
winged protozoans:
for the infinite,
intricate shapes
of submicroscopic
living things.
For algae spores
and fungus spores,
bonded by vital
mutual genetic cooperation,
spreading their
inseparable lives
from equator to pole.
My hand, my arm,
make sweeping circles.
Dust climbs the ladder of light.
For this infernal, endless chore,
for these eternal seeds of rain:
Thank you. For dust.

On the Disadvantages of Central Heating

by Amy Clampitt

cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod
stove-warmed flatiron slid under
the covers, mornings a damascene-
sealed bizarrerie of fernwork
decades ago now

waking in northwest London, tea
brought up steaming, a Peak Frean
biscuit alongside to be nibbled
as blue gas leaps up singing
decades ago now

damp sheets in Dorset, fog-hung
habitat of bronchitis, of long
hot soaks in the bathtub, of nothing
quite drying out till next summer:
delicious to think of

hassocks pulled in close, toasting-
forks held to coal-glow, strong-minded
small boys and big eager sheepdogs
muscling in on bookish profundities
now quite forgotten

the farmhouse long sold, old friends
dead or lost track of, what's salvaged
is this vivid diminuendo, unfogged
by mere affect, the perishing residue
of pure sensation

Prayer for Home Blessing

By Dolores Curran
Bless our home, and make it fit for Thee, Oh God. Send your Holy Spirit into each nook and cranny. Let the walls resound with love and laughter. Let your birds sing on your trees outside and your lilies flourish in your gardens. Bless our kitchen and fill it with the warmth of shared bread. Bless our family room and fill it with loving communication. Bless our bedrooms and fill them with restful slumber . Bless each room and each of us, dear God, and make yourself at home with us.

The Bells of Waiting Advent Ring

Christmas

The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew,
So that the villagers can say
'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze,
Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze,
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'.

And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children's hearts are glad.
And Christmas-morning bells say 'Come!'
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall ?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me ?

And is it true ? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.
John Betjeman

Midsummer Wash-Out

The cowslips tall her pensioners be:
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dewdrops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.

Well, I would *do* what's described in the above quotation if I *could*. In fact we were going to look for fairies under strawberry plants today (translate that as visiting a pick-your-own farm) but yet again it raineth on the righteous. So, we're going to Astley Book Farm (when I grow up I want to be a book farmer) and then off to the pub, for a pint and a pie. Anyway, I wish you all a glorious Midsummer day...oh, and here's another poem to tickle your seasonal fancy!

Midsummer's Day draws closer now
As birdsong greets the dawning day
And sunlight's gold through swaying bough
Delights with dancing shadowplay,
And here amid this garden place
A riot of colour, plants and flowers,
The butterflies at leisured pace
Flit through the hours.

I dwell in gentle shade and find
A peace that fills the heart with light,
A healing place that clears the mind
And frees imagination's flight
Where soars the spirit on its quest
Discovering untrodden ways,
From waking to the time of rest
Down all the days.

Midsummer's Day....and did I use
In thankfulness each gifted day
That I might from these treasures choose
And find, in trust, the wiser way,
Through Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring
To live each precious moment sweet?

God's golden promised offering,
Makes Life complete!

John Mcloud

The Second Myfanwy, as Promised

Pink may, double may dead laburnum
Shedding an Anglo-Jackson shade,
Shall we ever, my staunch Myfanwy,
Bicycle down to North Parade?
Kant on the handle-bars, Marx in the saddle bag,
Light my touch on your shoulder-blade.

Sancta Hilda, Myfanwyatia
Evansensis - I hold your heart,
Willowy banks of Willowy Cherwell a
Willowy figure with lips apart,
Strong and willowy, strong to pillow me,
Gold Myfanwy, kisses and art.

Tubular bells of tall St Barnabas,
Single clatter above St Paul,
Chasuble, acolyte, incense-offering,
Spectacled faces held in thrall.
There in the nimbus and Comper tracery
Gold Myfanwy blesses us all.

Gleam of gas upon Oxford Station,
Gleam of gas on her straight gold hair,
Hair flung back with ostentation,
Waiting alone for a girl friend there.
Second in Mods and a Third for Theology
Came to breathe the Oxford air.

Her Myfanwy as in Cadena days,
Her Myfanwy, a schoolgirl voice,
Tentative brush of a cheek in a cocoa crush,
Coffee and Ulysses, Tennyson, Joyce,
Alpha-minded and other dimensional,
Freud or Calvary? Take your choice.

Her Myfanwy? My Myfanwy.
Bicycle bells in Boar's Hill Pine,
Stedman Triple from All Saints' steeple,
Tom and his hundred and one at nine,
Bells of Butterfield, caught in Keble,
Sally and backstroke answer "Mine!"

John Betjeman

Grace Noll Crowell

I hadn't heard of Grace Noll Crowell until I came across one or two of her poems in old copies of Good Housekeeping magazine. To be honest, I hesitated before I put them on my blog, I thought that perhaps they were too sentimental to be good, that the modern homemaker might think them corny and unrealistic. However, I found the poetry to be quite uplifting, and it had a gentle quality that really spoke to me. And, isn't that meant to be the mark of good poetry? Words which speak to the heart of the reader, words that can speak to the soul? I read an awful lot of early twentieth century literature by women writers, it's of good quality, and is more engaged in discussing the choices women face than much of contemporary women's literature. But above all, this literature is honest, funny and intelligent without being cynical...and although I can read the scenes of trauma and degradation portrayed in modern books with confidence and understanding, I cannot abide the tone of cynicism so often employed by much of what makes The Booker shortlist! Anyway, I'm rambling...more to the point I'm being a bit "Daily Mail" about the whole subject, so I'll publish the Crowell poems and leave it up to you to decide whether you like them as much as I do! The second poem was found when I was trawling through the internet looking for more poems and found one on a homemaking blog! So hat tip to both Nesting Cottage and Morning Ramble who both appreciate Grace Noll Crowell's poetry too!

I Have Found Such Joy in Simple Things

I have found such joy in simple things;

A plain, clean room, a nut-brown loaf of bread

A cup of milk, a kettle as it sings,

The shelter of a roof above my head,

And in a leaf-laced square along the floor,

Where yellow sunlight glimmers through a door.

I have found such joy in things that fill

My quiet days: a curtain's blowing grace,

A potted plant upon my window sill,

A rose, fresh-cut and placed within a vase;

A table cleared, a lamp beside a chair,

And books I long have loved beside me there.

Oh, I have found such joys I wish I might

Tell every woman who goes seeking far

For some elusive, feverish delight,

That very close to home the great joys are:

The elemental things--old as the race,

Yet never, through the ages, commonplace.


A Prayer for Womanhood
~Grace Noll Crowell~
1934

God, give each true good woman
Her own small house to keep,
No heart should ache with longing,
No hurt should go too deep.....
Grant her age-old desire:
A house to love and sweep.
Give her a man beside her,
A kind man, and a true,
And let them work together
And love, a lifetime through,
And let her mother children
As gentle women do.
Give her a shelf for dishes,
And a shining box for bread,
A white cloth for her table,
And a white spread for her bed,
A shaded lamp at nightfall,
And a row of books much read.
God, let her work with laughter,
And let her rest with sleep.
No life can truly offer
A peace more sure and deep....
God, give each true woman
Her own small house to keep

Oh, here and here are the links to the poetry already published on my blog.

Bread

Some labour gathers to itself a light:
This I have found where, women, making bread,
Perform anew an ancient, simple rite
That men and little children may be fed.
Something about the handling of white flour
Is beautiful: the thought of sun on wheat -
The shining silver of a quick, late shower -
A great mill glimmering through the harvest heat -

And old as time- a fadeless picture still:
The gold of grain crushed fine beneath a stone -
Two women grinding at an ancient mill,
And one is taken - one is left alone -
Oh, always, somewhere - women have made bread
That men and little children might be fed.

Grace Noll Crowell

Happy St George's Day! (Oh, and it's Shakespeare's Birthday Too)

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,--
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
Richard III, Act 2.

Just a Little Bit of Vintage Inspiration!

Here's a touch of loveliness you would never find in a modern day women's magazine...and I don't know why really. There are plenty of women out there who feel this way, you just have to read blogs to know that women from all types of backgrounds and who hold all different types of opinions feel strongly about their home life. Anyway, enjoy a pretty poem about the importance of the evening meal.

The Evening Meal

By Grace Noll Crowell

The preparation of the evening meal
By any woman, anywhere, may be
A ceremony, beautiful to see,

Recalling clear, sweet evenings long ago
At Emmaus, or Bethany, when One
Beloved guest had come at set of sun.

And oh, that other quiet evening meal
Within an upper room - the grace He said
Above the scarlet wine, the broken bread!

An evening meal is such a gracious thing,
It matters not how plain may be the fare
So long as love and loyalty are there.

The supper hour - a magnet drawing home
The ones who have the need of food and rest!
All women know this hour of the day is best.

It is the First Mild Day of March

          IT is the first mild day of March:
         Each minute sweeter than before
         The redbreast sings from the tall larch
         That stands beside our door.

         There is a blessing in the air,
         Which seems a sense of joy to yield
         To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
         And grass in the green field.

         My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
         Now that our morning meal is done,                         
         Make haste, your morning task resign;
         Come forth and feel the sun.

         Edward will come with you;--and, pray,
         Put on with speed your woodland dress;
         And bring no book: for this one day
         We'll give to idleness.

         No joyless forms shall regulate
         Our living calendar:
         We from to-day, my Friend, will date
         The opening of the year.                                 

         Love, now a universal birth,
         From heart to heart is stealing,
         From earth to man, from man to earth:
         --It is the hour of feeling.

         One moment now may give us more
         Than years of toiling reason:
         Our minds shall drink at every pore
         The spirit of the season.

         Some silent laws our hearts will make,
         Which they shall long obey:                                
         We for the year to come may take
         Our temper from to-day.

         And from the blessed power that rolls
         About, below, above,
         We'll frame the measure of our souls:
         They shall be tuned to love.

         Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
         With speed put on your woodland dress;
         And bring no book: for this one day
         We'll give to idleness. 
Wordsworth.

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W B Yeats

God is in His Heaven

The year's at the Spring,
And the day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven -
All's right with the world!

BROWNING