Getting better and a bit of Spock

Is it really that long since I last blogged? My excuse is that I had flu, only mildly, as I was vaccinated in November. I think that my sinuses are troubling me now, but it seems to be getting better every day.

Rob and I were saddened by the news if Leonard Nimoy’s death. We all loved Spock, but did you know he could have chosen a role in Peyton Place instead? How the attitude towards Vulcans would have been different if that had been the case!

My cousin Paul wrote on Facebook that he burst into the Star Trek theme midway through his saw solo (yes he plays the saw too).  What a great tribute!  In 1975 I bought a copy of Leonard Nimoy's “Will I think of You?” a lovely book of photographs and a poem dedicated to his first wife. Here is a short extract as my tribute:

“…Only
When I die

And realize
That I am born again

For dying is

A beginning

And I
have died
thousands of times…”

Copyright © 1974 by Celestial Arts

I think that I shall never see A poem as lovely as a tree

Whenever we go back to England I'm always struck by the greenery and how large the trees are! C & J took us on a walk through the fields which I thoroughly enjoyed!

 Would you believe that this is a public footpath?

We also crossed a golf course (on a footpath) and the golfers very kindly waited for us to go by.

Trees 

I think that I shall never see 

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest 

Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; 

A tree that looks at God all day, 

And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 

A tree that may in summer wear 

A nest of robins in her hair; 

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; 

Who intimately lives with rain. 

Poems are made by fools like me, 

But only God can make a tree. 

Joyce Kilmer, 1913

“But I am withered worn and grim”

A month ago I went off for my two yearly mammogram like the good woman I am. I was a little surprised to receive through the post shortly after, a second invitation. I opened it so that I could send the form off explaining why I was turning down their kind offer and discovered another invitation to a different party. A free test for Colon cancer – how lovely!

Last week I trundled off to the doctor’s, armed with latest blood and pee test results, for my free full medical because I am an entrepreneur and he awarded me with the necessary kit for the cancer test. Done and ready to post. In the mean time I’ve also received a leaflet on how to look after my heart because I am getting old….

The title of my post comes from a poem featured in The Queen’s Gift Book, published on aid of Queen Mary’s Convalescent Auxiliary Hospitals (World War I). The book is falling apart but I still have some of the original pictures which were pasted in – W. Heath Robinson illustrated this poem for the book

THE MAN OF WORDS
By Mrs. Henry de la Pasture
(Lady Clifford)

Paintings and Drawing,s by
W. Heath Robinson


The old lord to the goose-girl said,
" 'Tis not your beauty that I prize,
Nor raven hair that crowns your head,
Nor slender waist, nor soft grey eyes.

" I love you for your simple truth
And for the mind and soul of you.
And would the gods but grant me youth,
I straight would be your husband true.

" But I am withered, worn and grim.
And you a flower fresh and wild,
And all the world makes mock of him
Who, in his dotage, weds a child."

The old lord to the goose-girl said.
With courteous smile and silver tongue,
" I love you and I fain would wed —
But I'm too old, and you're too young,

" And yet withal I do admit,
So gentle and so grave your mien,
So low your voice, so kind your wit,
One would suppose you bred a queen.

" No high-born dame could please me more,
And would the gods but grant to me
To lose of all my years a score,
Then we might wed right faithfully.

" So we would make Old Time confess
(Who brings mankind to sure decay)
We loved each other none the less
For eyes grown dim and heads grown grey."

With blush of peach and candid eyes
The goose-girl answered straight and free,
"To be your wife I fain would rise.
For I love you as you love me."

The goose-girl said, with heart on fire,
" Oh, what is age when love is true ?
No dearer mate covild I desire,
I love the noble words of you.

" And since 'tis not my looks you prize.
And since 'tis youth for which you pine —
I've nothing else to sacrifice —
I'll pray the gods to grant you mine."

A passing cupid caught the sigh.
And bore it in a crystal dish
On his swift flight from earth to sky.
Jove, smiling, said, " I grant that wish."

The old lord dropped of years a score.
Each shrunken limb grew round and fair,
In manhood's prime he stood once more.
Back to his temples stole his hair.

The old lord's sunken jaw plumped out.
His teeth stood firm, his eyes shone clear.
He was as straight and strong and stout
As man could be at forty year.

The goose-girl took his load of years
That on her shoulders now was cast.
She knew no doubts, she knew no fears,
She kissed Love's hand that bound it fast.

Her fleeting charms of youth were lost ;
A buxom dame with comely face
And raven hair just touched with frost
Stood smiling in the goose-girl's place.

Full wistfully she looked at him,
Nor needed words his blank dismay.
Her candid eyes grew something dim,
Love shut his wings and stole away.

She stood alone — unseen, unheard — •
And pondered, wondering, o'er the change.
" I did but take him at his word.
And oh," she said, " but men are strange ! "

Then homeward trudging — on her staff
She leaned a trifle heavily —
Her wise eyes wrinkled with a laugh.
'' He was a man o' words ! " quoth she.

The moral of the poem is; careful what you wish for

Autumn

Last year at this time I was writing about the benefits of spreading dung on your field. This year I’ve come up with something a little more romantic. When Christian was 6 he had a poem to learn about autumn. It caught my imagination and I’ve often wondered what it was and who wrote it. This morning I Googled it. It was by a Belgian poet called Maurice Careme (1899-1978). He had been a teacher for some of his life and wrote many of his poems for children. In France you will find 5 schools named after him. Don’t worry – the poem is short and I’ve dared to translated it.

Autumn
Autumn in the corner of the woods,
Plays harmonica.
What fun for the leaves!
They waltz in the arms
Of the wind that carries them.
They say they are dead
But no one believes it.
Autumn in the corner of the woods,
Plays harmonica.

Maurice Careme

Another year passes

The 11th September was my Grandfather’s birthday and also that of Isaac Stolzfut who wrote this poem, scroll down to September 11th. ( Isaac went out over a year ago now and still hasn’t been found.)

I was thinking about what could be my contribution to this day. I did know someone who was indirectly involved, fortunately her story had a happy ending (they married in the end). All I can think of is suggesting that everyone make some sort of effort to make sure that this never happens again. If everyone decides to be more open minded and tolerant towards others. More accepting of everyone’s right to be different, or even to be the same. Perhaps the world might start to be a better place for everyone, wherever they are.

Gone and never called me Mother...

I was alarmed this morning as there was no activity in the nest. They can’t have learnt to fly without my noticing? After a little research I discovered that birds of this type (known as chats in English) remove their chicks from the nest before they learn to fly. They hide them in the undergrowth. Two reasons: The chicks are getting bigger and there is no room in the nest. As the chicks grow they become more interesting to predators. My babies are out there hidden away in the garden. With any luck the parents will be back to nest in the same spot next year.

At lunch time I turned the radio on as ‘World on the Move’, a program about migration, was finishing, they happened to mention that they have a nest with a webcam in it! The quality isn't very good at the moment.

I was saving this poem for when they flew the nest, but as they’ve gone I’ll post it now:

COME TO THE EDGE!

Come to the edge.
We might fall.

Come to the edge.
It's too high!

And they came
and he pushed

and they flew ...

(Not sure who wrote it really and sometimes the words aren't quite the same)

Happy Easter!

" May this egg know how to tell you of
All of my love in a smile"

I'm only the translator...

Insects and poetry

Dom’s friend Iris came (she used to wear a top hat with a toy rabbit in the band). She gave me some more words for my fridge poetry and proceeded to write me some lovely lines. I’ve translated some of them for you to share:

• Don’t eat before Sunday


• That takes me on a secret journey


• When papa dreams of washing up we laugh (how true)


• Love my heart prepare a good fizzy poem


• Do you like walking weekends


• Think that the sun is lovely

She used up nearly all the words. She also studies insects at university. Above is what landed on me the other day. Thanks to Iris I could look it up to share with you, it really was a beautiful blue. Another one

I can't remember where I got the photo from, if the picture above is yours please email me so that I can give you credit for it.