pARTicles: Artwork by Glenda Gerrard.

Angels danced in millions on a pin.

Science ridiculed.

Like Tinkerbell, they almost died. 

Now countless unseen particles 

want for names.

Dare we call them Angels? 

Exploding Head - Salvador Dali

. 


This has been one of my favourite images for many years. I've never seen the original but even without the help of Wikipedia it was easy to understand at least a part of what had prompted him to paint it. The experts say:

"Dalí has fragmented the head to show how the sense of order from the past, illustrated by the balance and reason of a classical icon, has been shattered by the advent of nuclear weapons. The motif of the shattered head was a common one amongst artists in the post-war years. This reflects the emotional turmoil of a period when nuclear war seemed like a reality, following the use of nuclear weapons in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. In this context, the delicate halo of the Madonna now suggests a nuclear mushroom cloud and her expression, with eyes downcast in prayer, seems particularly appropriate."

To me it represented much of what I felt, without any reference to what was going on in the outside world. Perhaps my generation were all affected by the splitting of the atom and the nuclear bomb so that our personal journeys were seen in the shadow of that mushroom cloud. It shattered much of what had been regarded as certainties. Dissertations have no doubt been written on this, I'm not going to add to them, but the forced readjustments probably contributed to the shift in perception in many fields - religion, the personal responsibility of ethical choice, and so on and so on.  

There was one period of my life when I feared I would lose myself completely in a tumbling  of conflicting perceptions, unable to form reliable or even intelligible concepts. And, of course, there was the  nightmare whirl of guilt and fear and ego. Can't say I've found my way out of all that gracefully but I have found a certain peace - and learned to live with the fragmentation. 

Well, I don't understand the outlining in white or antique cream.  Can't get rid of it either. A new reason for my head to explode! There was an interesting programme on BBC 4 last night on The Brain. Brains of Nun's who had agreed to donate their brains to medical science after they died, sometimes showed distinct signs of Alzheimer's although whilst alive they weren't exhibiting symptoms. The deduction was that the brain is like a tool box and if one tool disappears (brain cells die) the synapses find other cells that will perform the same function. I may have got the technical jargon wrong but I hope the imagery is enough to transmit the message! Determination - or an assumption that we will continue to function in the way we are used to, is enough to keep us doing it - maybe. Amazing, and there was more amazing stuff that I want to re-watch.

Rabbie and the Louse.

The poems of Rabbie Burns, the pride of the Scots, are often too sentimental for my taste, but this one is very amusing, (and the language understandable with a little patience.)  As it's his special day tomorrow I'm putting this up here now. The final lines have wisdom that has caused them to be lifted right out of the poem and used in many another context.
Translation

To a Louse, On Seeing one on a Lady’s Bonnet at Church

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlan ferlie!

Your impudence protects you sairly:

I canna say but ye strunt rarely,

Owre gawze and lace;

Tho’ faith, I fear ye dine but sparely,

On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepan, blastet wonner,

Detested, shunn’d, by saunt an’ sinner,

How daur ye set your fit upon her,

Sae fine a Lady!

Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,

On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle;

There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,

Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle,

In shoals and nations;

Whare horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle,

Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight,

Below the fatt’rels, snug and tight,

Na faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right,

Till ye’ve got on it,

The vera topmost, towrin height

O’ Miss’s bonnet. 

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,

As plump an’ gray as onie grozet:

O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red smeddum,

I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t,

Wad dress your droddum!

I wad na been surpriz’d to spy

You on an auld wife’s flainen toy;

Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,

On ’s wylecoat;

But Miss’s fine Lunardi, fye!

How daur ye do ’t?

O Jenny dinna toss your head,

An’ set your beauties a’ abread!

Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie’s makin!

Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,

Are notice takin!

O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us

To see oursels as others see us!

It wad frae monie a blunder free us

An’ foolish notion:

What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,

And ev’n Devotion!

How the Mackay Clan came to Scotland

This is one of my favourite folk tales from this part of the world. Unfortunately I forget where I first read it, but I've retold it here in my own words.

(With apologies to the Mackay clan)

How the Mackay Clan came to Scotland.

A very long time ago the chieftain of a small tribe in the Reay district was in the habit of sending to Ireland for shoes and leatherwear for his fighting men. It might seem a long way to go but he was a canny man and although there was plenty of leather to be had in Reay and yet more of it still grazing in the hills around them, there was no-one skilled enough to fashion the footwear like a certain merchant across the Irish sea who also sold his goods at a very reasonable price.

One day the time had come to put in a new order for 21 pairs of brogues and a few other bits and pieces of bridles and breastplates, belts and pouches. The chief wrote a letter listing his requirements and he gave the letter to a messenger who was good at staying on a horse for a long ride and willing to find a boat to take him across the treacherous seas. The messenger set out on a fine day but before long the wind changed and it began to rain. He was travelling west so the rain got harder the further he went along and then there was a rough sea crossing to face. The poor man and his horse got soaked through and the letter didn’t fair much better. He was very thankful when he arrived at his destination and could hand over the order and be treated to a warm meal around a good fire. 

The merchant read the letter through and came to the messenger in some perturbation. ‘Ye’re certain this is what the chieftain wrote?” he asked. The messenger, who could stay on a horse and find a boat, had as yet to learn to read so he had no idea what was in the letter when it started out. He was sure he hadn’t lost any part of the paper though so he nodded his head firmly and said , yes, it was just as the chieftain had written it.

Which, needless to say, with all the wet and moisture from the spindrift, it wasn’t. There was one letter wiped out by the rain and it made all the difference. What the merchant read to his surprise was: ‘ Please send me 21 pairs of rogues, bridles, pouches etc. etc...’ 

The Irish merchant would never disappoint a customer so by the next day he had managed to fulfill the order though it had stretched his ingenuity to the utmost. The messenger returned with his purchases. He might have been a bit surprised but he knew it wasn’t his place to question the wisdom of his chief. Which is how 21 male Mackays and 21 female Mackays , the best rogues the Irish merchant could lay hands on in a hurry, came to Reay to settle.

You may believe this tale or you may not. That is your privilege. 

Tea-Time with Frances

I wrote a poem about a good friend, Frances, who, though born in Scotland, spent much of her life in the US and gave birth to three daughters who grew up as American citizens. Frances herself would never take citizenship. She valued her Britishness, her traditions, and perhaps most of all she valued her cup of tea. Over many, many, shared cups of tea she helped me through a painful time in my life. ‘Tea and sympathy,’ was the best medicine anyone ever gave me.

We sat in painted white basket chairs in her caravan, the chubby blue teapot, blue and white cups, saucers, and plates (for the Abernethy biscuits) between us on a small cane table, also painted white and covered with a crisp hand embroidered cloth. Once I offered to pour the tea. I was about to pour from the pot into the empty cup as my mother-in-law, a terrific snob, had done. It had taken me years to throw off the ‘milk in first’ pattern adopted by my parents, but I had done it in a futile attempt to win some approbation from this severe lady. I was slightly taken aback therefore when my friend said kindly: ‘Let’s do it like the Queen and put the milk in first.’ Somewhere she had read that Queen Elizabeth II preferred her tea served this way. So I dutifully reprogrammed myself again. When, long after her death, I wrote the poem about Frances I put in her comment verbatim. Another writer friend who read the poem told me firmly that the Queen would have the tea poured first, ‘because that’s how the aristocracy do it.’ And so the discussion began. 

I have trawled the internet for support of Frances’ claim. Found nothing sadly (although I’m sure she had read it somewhere at the time) but I’m now a repository of information about tea. I had no idea that whole blogs are written on the subject of the British cup of tea. And facts around tea.

here are a few:

The first record of tea written in English came from English merchants abroad, suitably enough in the East India Company in Japan. In 1615 Richard Wickham, the manger of the office there wrote to merchants asking themto bring him ‘The best sort of chaw.’ It was often called chaw or chaa and described to those not in the know as ‘water with a sort of herb boyled in it.’

By 1657 it was being served in the coffee houses in London but had to be explained to the patrons until they got the taste for it.. By 1667 Samuel Pepys was noting that his wife took tea for medicinal reasons and the Royal College of Physicians debated whether any of the exotic new drinks appearing (the cocoa bean arrived at about this time) would agree with ‘the constitution of our English bodies.’

Even very slightly formal events can be a cause for cups and saucers to be used instead of mugs. A typical semi-formal British tea ritual might run as follows (the host performing all actions unless noted):[18]

1. The kettle is brought to a rolling boil (with fresh water to ensure good oxygenation which is essential for proper diffusion of the tea leaves).[19]
2. Enough boiling water is swirled around the teapot to warm it and then poured out.
3. Add loose tea leaves, (usually black tea) or tea bags, always added before the boiled water.
4. Fresh boiling water is poured over the tea in the pot and allowed to brew for 2 to 5 minutes while a tea cosy may be placed on the pot to keep the tea warm.
5. Milk must be added to the tea cup, the host asking the guest if milk is wanted, milk may never be added after the tea is poured.
6. A tea strainer is placed over the top of the cup and the tea poured in, unless tea bags are used. Tea bags may be removed, if desired, once desired strength is attained.
7. Fresh milk and white sugar is added according to individual taste. Most people have milk with their tea, many without sugar.
8. The pot will normally hold enough tea so as not to be empty after filling the cups of all the guests. If this is the case, the tea cosy is replaced after everyone has been served. Hot water may be provided in a separate pot, and is used only for topping up the pot, never the cup.

I have also learned that afternoon tea was introduced by Anna, the 7th Duchess of Bedford, who became low and peckish at about 4pm.

I used to love afternoon tea when it was available in tea shops. Not, ‘High Tea’ which can include fish ‘n chips or baked beans on toast or Welsh Rarebit, all lovely in themselves but NOT for afternoon tea which should have little cakes and biscuits, sandwiches with the crusts cut off and..... I’m making myself hungry now.

Male and female created he them.

I’ve had conversations with two female friends recently on the ever-fresh subject of Men. Conclusion reached: They are very different to Women. 

Nothing new about that so why should it be so eternally provoking? The answer is - we have to live with them. It seems the sexes are doomed to be a constant challenge to each other. I dislike generalisations generally (and I really like men) but in this case I believe there is justification.

By coincidence, my ex and I watched ‘45 Years’ together at the weekend. Charlotte Rampling and Tom Courtenay. It’s a remarkable film, brilliant even, poignantly demonstrating the difference, the unbridgeable divide, between male and female. 

I didn’t even attempt to find out what my ex made of it. He made noises of approval as the credits rolled. I was curious to know in what way, or why, but expected him to say: 'the acting.' As this might have annoyed me I chose not to ask. We find ways of working with the situation.

It's Tuff this Stuff

Dizzy is a poem without words. Bred to be lap dogs these Italian greyhounds have jaws that can barely take the skin off a rice pudding. Faced with one of those chew things the spirit is willing but….

Oh goody

Now what's the best way??

..getting tired now...

Exhausted

The Coffin Road. Grumpy reader's review here.

I bought the latest Peter May book because it’s called ‘Coffin Roads’ and I was hoping for a story based around these ancient pathways. The pathways are thought to have been trodden by people carrying dead relatives back to their native villages to be buried. Carved stone resting places can be found along the route to enable those carrying the coffin to pause and fortify themselves with bread and ale. The pathways are thought by some to run along leys, earth energy lines. In themselves the paths are an interesting feature left in a landscape, and one that readily provides fodder for a story. In the case of this novel, sadly their name has been used as a calculated marketing ploy. It makes a great title. The coffin road in the story features only briefly and could easily have been any sheep path followed by the protagonist on his quest for an answer (no spoilers here, only grumbles.)  

I am often frustrated by Peter May’s novels. So why continue to buy them? The answer to that is partly laziness when I'm wanting an undemanding read, and partly the setting. The Lewis Trilogy - well, it doesn’t take a particularly talented writer to be evocative about the Hebridean Islands. Ann Cleeves does it and I often get her stories mixed up in my memory with Peter May’s simply because of the setting. She is another writer I don’t have much respect for but who tells a good enough tale for me to buy occasionally. (Her ‘Vera’ series is much better than her Hebridean series in my opinion. For one thing she doesn’t have to keep throwing in the phrase ‘He was just a peerie boy’ to show she is down with the local lingo.)

PM starts the ‘Coffin Road’ in the first person and present tense. Making for a very bumpy, strained, read. Obviously it’s used to distinguish the protagonist from the rest of the cast but is just clunky and irritating.  Plenty of people write really well in the present tense, not so PM.

I expect it will be seen to be good TV material. That’s because it’s simple, two-dimensional stuff without a complex back story or much troublesome psychological delving for motivation. Unlike my favourite writer Phil Rickman who tells a great tale with plenty of depth. More about him another time no doubt.

Ella

My great-granddaughter waking from a sleepover with her grandmother Chloë.

She is not going short of family this child. She has two grandmothers, one step-

grandmother, two grandfathers, two great-grandmothers, two great grandfathers…….! Just imagine all those birthday presents and (all those thank you letters.)

I wrote a poem soon after she was born. It says more about my feelings than about Ella of course, but she won't mind.

Ella Louise.

Warm, soft-scented, fragile,

helpless.

Ella.

A new sound to vibrate through our family rooms.

A new shape and colour to our lives.

A necessary shuffling of labels, 

an adjustment of status to accommodate her.

Child to parent,

parent to grandparent.

Grand-parents spun still further 

to the outer rim of the Wheel.

The greatest transition.

The most meaningful rite.

Birth.

Iyengar Yoga Day - and my daughter was talking about it on Radio Oxford.

Things to do whilst waiting for the kettle to boil.

Yesterday morning I had the pleasure of listening to my daughter Sophia talking about Iyengar Yoga on Radio Oxford. It was her first time on the air and she was understandably nervous. I was nervous too - for her, knowing how nervous she must be. (It's called being a mother.) She is an experienced yoga teacher but explaining it, and explaining how Iyengar Yoga differs from other forms of yoga - that's a whole different challenge. 

The slot was an early morning ‘what’s on at the weekend’ magazine program. The sort of program that gives only a few minutes to each item and the presenter speaks at warp speed. I wasn’t sure how Sophia and her colleague, another Iyengar yoga teacher, Vanessa, could possibly manage to say anything coherent or useful. But they did. They also took the presenter, Ali Jones, through a couple of asanas. Bit wasted on the radio but the puffing sounded real enough.

45 years ago I started Yoga at a class in Greenwich. Quite coincidentally it was run by a woman who had learned the Iyengar method. The two years I attended her classes taught me a sequence that I've practiced ever since, and also gave me a great respect for the discipline. Even when I don’t practice every day (which I don’t) Instinctively I stretch at odd moment (see above.) It has helped me through the various ills that beset me.

The Fiddlers of Tomnahurich

I'm a lover of folk tales, especially ones local to where I live in the North of Scotland. Here is one from
Inverness. A classic tale of the naughtiness of fairies, who are far from being the gossamer-winged charmers we have been led to believe.  They can look more like this (if you meet him don't trust him):

The Fiddlers of Tomnahurich

Two traveling fiddle players, Farquhar Grant and Thomas Cumming had been fiddling all day in the town of Inverness but had earned very little for their efforts so that they were greatly downcast when dusk fell. They made their way, gloomily, empty-bellied and on the lookout for the cheapest lodgings available, across the oak bridge that in those days spanned the River Ness. Half way across they were stopped by a small man in a red tam-o'-shanter, green jerkin and knee breeches. ‘Come and play at my party’ he invited the two tired men and, thinking him to look quite wealthy in his smart garb, they followed him eagerly, hoping to improve their fortunes that evening.

They followed him out of the town until it was lying some way behind them and they came to a hillside. Near the top their guide stopped and opened a little door, much smaller than any door Farquhar or Thomas had ever seen before. Politely the small man ushered them inside and they found themselves in a long narrow tunnel with a warm light shining invitingly at the end. The tunnel opened out into a large hall, brightly lit by no means they could discern, and full of excited, jolly people all much the same size as their host. The fiddlers were welcomed with cries of pleasure and after ale and sweet wine was offered them for their refreshment they were exhorted to play their instruments with no more delay. In the intervals between jigs and reels they were plied with delicious food and more ale so that the evening passed swiftly and pleasantly and the two fiddlers were much happier men than they had been when they left Inverness earlier that day.

At last their guide came to them and said: ‘Dawn is near to break and you should go now to your rest.’ He took them back to the door and handed them each a bag of gold, to their enormous delight. Happily they wended their way back to the town to look now for much better lodgings than they had erstwhile hoped to inhabit.

As they entered the town they found to their discomfort that they were becoming the centre of attention. People stopped in their tracks to stare at them and laugh - or just to stare! As the ales and wines that they had imbibed through the night lost its hold on their minds their eyes began to clear and what they saw scared them half out of their wits.

Everything had changed. The bridge had changed, the church had changed, the buildings around the market square had changed. It was as though they had arrived into another town entirely, until they saw in the churchyard tombs engraved with the names of their friends and their families. Thoroughly alarmed and beginning to fear the very worst they ran into the church to find the minister. As they passed the threshold into the holy place the bags of gold they carried grew lighter in their hands and rustled instead of clinking. When they looked into the bags the gold had turned to dry brown leaves. As soon they saw this they understood what had become of them and in that moment they themselves turned to two small piles of dust before the altar.

Thomas and Farquhar the fiddlers had been playing their fiddles in the Kingdom of the Fairies, not for one night but for one hundred years.

                                            

Note: Tomnahurich is sometimes called ‘The Hill of the Fairies’ though it is more properly ‘The Hill of the Yew tree.’

Source: A chapter entitled ‘Local Folklore’ by Donald Henderson in “The Hub of the Highlands. The Book of Inverness and District” Published by Inverness Field Club Centenary Volume 195

Celtic Connections. Happy memories.

It will soon be a year since the Forres writer's group (ForWords) production of  'Coming Home' (eventually called 'A Moray Journey')was taken to Glasgow to be part of Celtic Connections. That will probably be my proudest moment and as I wasn't adding to this blog last year (it was a bit of an annus horribilis for our family so the less said about it the better) photos and so forth are lost for ever. Never mind, I have my memories. I think in my next incarnation, along with being a great artist and writing a classic novel, I will be a performance poet. Such a shame I came late to this possibility - on stage I become extrovert and totally unlike my every day self. It's very exhilarating.

Villanelle, Pantoums and Tankas

At the Tuesday writer's group we went through a spell of writing, or attempting to write, poetry in form.  Some of us took to this with more enthusiasm than others. One member got really good at the Sonnet and, jolly good for her, she wrote some fun ones mocking the rigidity of the rules then others using them adeptly to make her poems more moving - because that's just what form can do. It can make the simplest most mundane occurrence into a truly emotional experience.

Some time back I had accidentally discovered the Villanelle. I was thinking of submitting a poem to a particular magazine and was carefully reading the editor's guidelines when I found an instruction that took me aback. I was not to bother sending in a villanelle because he despised them. Now, I have a side to my nature I like to describe as puckish but in truth it's just contrary. An opinionated ass telling me I can't write in a certain way because he doesn't like it is very stimulating to the creative mischief maker. I  had to look up villanelles first because I'd never heard of them, but once I grasped the idea I wrote him one. I wasn't quite bold enough to send it.

                 Passing Bell.

Sound melancholy note, the passing bell.

Toll my hearts’ sadness through the sleeping land

Whilst curlew calls its mate on distant fell.

Take wing from grief to tremble in cold cell,

Armour myself about with mourning band,

Sound melancholy note, the passing bell.

Leaving brought a pain too great to tell,

To wrench away from your supporting hand,

Whilst curlew called his mate on distant fell.

The boom of foreign seas in empty shell

Where echoes of my loneliness rebound,

Sound melancholy note, the passing bell.

As if some evil beldame cast a spell

To hollow out the centre of my heart

Whilst curlew called its mate on distant fell.

No honeyed words or praises can dispel

The anguish, careless, caused by your deceit.

Sound melancholy note the passing bell,

Whilst curlew calls her mate on distant fell.

Yes, well. It's a lot gushier than my usual work. Still, I felt it had some thing and I've been fond of the form ever since. 

What we started with in the group was the Pantoum.  Here's what you can find on line about Pantoum's (don't you love the name? There's a pantomime horse in it, all floppy and goofy.) 

What is a Pantoum?

"A Pantoum is a type of poem with a verse form consisting of three stanzas. It has a set pattern within the poem of repetitive lines.

The pattern in each stanza is where the second and fourth line of each verse is repeated as the first and third of the next. The pattern changes though for the last stanza to the first and third line are the second and fourth of the stanza above (penultimate). The last line is a repeat of the first starting line of the poem and the third line of the first is the second of the last. Confused? Good. It gets worse in this following explanation:

Structure

The pantoum is a form of poetry similar to a villanelle in that there are repeating lines throughout the poem. It is composed of a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next. This pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern. The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the penultimate; the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final. Ideally, the meaning of lines shifts when they are repeated although the words remain exactly the same: this can be done by shifting punctuation, punning, or simply recontextualizing.   (Now don't you want to throw the laptop out of the window?)

A four-stanza pantoum is common,(although more may be used) and in the final stanza, you could simply repeat lines one and three from the first stanza, or write new lines. The pantoum form is as follows:

Stanza 1 A B C D

Stanza 2 B E D F

Stanza 3 E G F H

Stanza 4 G I (or A or C) H J (or A or C)  

 And finally I understood. Here's one I wrote earlier:

Atlit-Yam, Israel, Mediterranean.

Swallowed by the ocean

weevils sit eternally amongst the grain

skeletons lie peaceful in their graves.

a stone circle throbs with ancient magics

Weevils sit eternally amongst the grain

waiting to be wakened with a kiss.

A stone circle throbs with ancient magics.

fronded with brown algae, kelp and wrack

Waiting to be wakened with a kiss

from the sun they never see but greened,

fronded with brown algae, kelp and wrack

the circle dances to the rhythm of the sea. 

From the sun they never see but greened

swallowed by the ocean

the circle dances to the rhythm of the sea

and skeletons lie peaceful in their graves.

        ------------------------------

You'll notice that I haven't stuck religiously to the rules.