April 1st 2013
Fooled!
Dawn on the common. Rabbits scampered into their burrows but on the horizon a larger creature browsed. No - not the cottager's flocks returning or an ox - 'twas a hare.
April 1st 2013
Fooled!
Dawn on the common. Rabbits scampered into their burrows but on the horizon a larger creature browsed. No - not the cottager's flocks returning or an ox - 'twas a hare.
Easter celebrations do not seem worthy of note to a famous diarist.
'The month shuts up only with great desires of peace in all of us, ...'
London and Glasgow
Collins Clear - Type Press
The Diary of Samuel Pepys
When you think about it, God has to be the best inventor of all time.
He took a rib from Adam and made a loudspeaker.
Source; Parish Magazine, Redgrave cum Botesdale and Rickinghall APRIL 2013
Blakelow Road where Grandma used to live, bird watching and clay were my associations with the names Blakeney and Cley until yesterday. Blakeney, peopled by many in green macs is a windswept hamlet built of cobble stones on the edge of the marshes. Cley church has a half built or half ruined extension (like Sienna Cathedral) before the apse. The extension has a lancet window with flowing tracery carved in white stone - but no roof.
Covehithe towards Southwold meets the North Sea. Sand, sea and field merge there in irresitible, wild confusion.
Took time out to read Ruth Padel's book '52 Shades of ... 'I mean ... 'Ways of Looking at a Poem. Next I plan to catch up with the course exercises.
Wednesday away day Hiring a car and driving to the coast
Is that how sand castle's feel after tsunami?
Languished until 1-30pm yesterday in time for Tesco man. Meanwhile Muse's murmuring crescendo interrupted everything until led by a storm of commands I did not want to stop. This morning I am shapeless torment - awash with orange juice after a sleepless night.
The Barn Owl
White fillets of wing disturbed the air above a corner by the bridleway. From a perching place found on a tree, round face, claw shaped beak, big eyes turned to look at me.
He plans to come to Writers Group on Monday.
I have been composing a poem to The Mere for TMA04. Such a prehistoric site in a small town deserves praise. I might read the poem to members.
Publisher; Vintage 2004
Author; Ruth Padel
Title; 52 Ways of Looking At A Poem
The text a mass of ambiguities is stupifying!
'We are in the middle of a large - scale renaissance of poetry in Britain today.'
Can you think of Seamus Heaney or Viki Feaver as the literary equivalents of Leonardo et al? Teacher advised me to read the book. Ruth Padel might be understood as an after Empire satirist one day.
Zoe Toms
Exhibition of Recent Work
Adresse; Neben EinGang mehr als ein Atelier
Atelier im Frauenmuseum
Wendy Hack
Im Drausfeld 10
5B111 Bonn
March 2013
I'm listening to pigeons. An owl flew by last evening. His head and shoulders were so big and rounded I could not possibly have been mistaken.
I met three geese while I was in Attergau. At first we just stared at each other. Then they pattered off with me following, along the path towards the town.
There's nothing you can do about the mountains.
They do not lend themselves to being rearranged.
The crowding frowning snow- spread limestone ledges
are fissured faceted shadows with pine bristle edges
louring like forever over Attergau on the plain.
AND ...
TMA03 returned. Scored 54
Secret Wood
Deep secrets lie in unfrequented places
Where the urban plan gives way to spaces
Dark and undulating ever spreading wood
Mushroom feet ivy scarf and green hood.
A dank path silent, soft and bramble sprung
Leads deep and dim into the overhung.
There waits no friendly guide nor worded sign
No footfall breeze or rick nor brick or line.
Old roots writhe in unexpected places
Boles with holes no sure and even paces.
A rill of loamy clots lies up awaiting.
Rain! A sudden shrill debating.
Sheering through the canopy of green and brown
Towards the crashing sea and the unknown
They flay the salty wind on fearless wing.
Their secret wood is left to wintering.
P. Lesley 2012
I wrote Secret Wood for a United Press Competition
(after I had been homeless for eight years)
Clare came today. She was employed originally to clean the flat but all visitors are offered the opportunity to lend their ears to my current literary efforts. Clare not only lends ears but voices unbiased and profound criticism. She also suggests changes to character and plot.
Today she went home with a fairy story to scrutinize and I am looking forward to her comments.
P.S. She declined to make any!
My boots needed mending. So I went into town. While they were at the cobblers I strolled into Waterstone's for a browse.
Humour, biog., history, new books, nothing I fancied until I found,
Publisher; Harper,
Author; Hale Sheila,
Title; Titian
The first sentence is much too long but makes you impatient to read about the paintings. It describes the view from Venice, of the mountains where Titian was born and reminds me of Brucker's Renaissance Florence. Dear reader, (thank you Charlotte Bronte) I bought it and I'll be spending the next couple of days in 15 C. Venice.
I remember him as a quiet side kick to Hatty Jaques in a television situation comedy.
With regard for what you noted, Eric wrote about his penchant for adlib in the book. Apparently his co - star Jimmy Edwards was upstaged by a cockroach while Eric and Jimmy were performing in Chicago. Jimmy stamped on the cockroach and when Eric came on having no idea what had happened or why the audience was laughing saw the squashed insect, said,
'I was training that one.' The audience went ape according to his words.
The name Sykes and the noun autobiography, seemed incongruous to me but one bit of the book read quite naturally,
'Being far from home, I had to find digs, and ... I found myself ... boarding at Harry Kershaw's farm .... For a townie like me this was an unattainable dream, a purposeful, rangey old house surrounded by fields and meadows ... .'
That idle mention of a country loving trait in his personality put all the buffoonery and backstabbing in place.
I felt as though I had a house guest but now I've finished reading the book - he's gone.
Eric had to stand at table to eat because chairs were scarce in their household. The coal was delivered by horse and cart. There wasn't a car for miles. He only knew which end of a phone was which since a visit to Saturday morning pictures.
By the end of the book though he is famous, computer literate and there are pictures of him being loaded with honours. Despite 502 pages of rambling (written when he was eighty two I think) it is a lovable tale that made me laugh and cry.
Publisher; Fourth Estate London 2005
Author; Eric Sykes
Title; Eric Sykes
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