Fruit Market.

I went to the fruit market

And took lots of pictures

It was fun.

Have a nice day, back tomorrow with Poetry Thursday!

x

Remember remember

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
The gunpowder treason and plot,
I know of no reason
Why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

Short but sweet on the poetry front today! Happy fireworks night to all!

x

All images via we heart it

Hahahalloween

OK, so I wasn't in actual fact going to post today but then I remembered that tomorrow is halloween, and to not write a halloween post would, I think you'll agree, be just plain crazy.

I love halloween, all the dressing up, the sweets, the chocolates, the pumpkins, the allowing of my Harry Potter obsession to emerge in its full glory without too many raised eyebrows- well basically I think it's just great.

My sister and I always carve pumpkins for halloween. I'm better at the scraping out but she is better at the faces. Last year my pumpkin face was pretty darn cute, but hers was so unbelievably uber adorable it made mine look super evil!

Halloween also reminds me of a very funny Spongebob Squarepants episode (that's right I love Spongebob) "These are my street clothes!" is an oft quoted phrase in my house.

Also, this article re all things gourd absolutely cracked me up: IT'S DECORATIVE GOURD SEASON, MOTHERF***ERS!

On the other end of the spectrum this hat is cute, granted I probably would never wear it in public but it would make a good night cap, no?

pumpkin hat available here

Happy Halloween!!

x

ps. Thankyou follower number 8 - woop woop!

pps. BOO!! Muhahaha!

Peekaboo

Here I am!

First I apologise for my lack of blogging yesterday of a Happy Monday post. Most of my lunchtime yesterday was spent checking alternative modes of transport home due to the bus drivers in my area being on strike. (turned out my bus was running (that route gets priority apparently - defo because of me I'm sure!), woop! and they let me on for free, double woop!). Plus I was watching the end of Emma which I missed on Sunday night. Consequently spent the rest of the afternoon feeling dreamily romantic and humming the theme tune.

To make up for it this is for you

Spent Saturday morning at a garden centre (which was lots of fun for me as I love gardening), having lunch with my Grandmother and playing cards in the evening. Sunday I went into town. I ate MacDonalds in the park surrounding the castle. MacDonalds was always a one-off Massive Treat when I was a kid so my sister and I felt a little bit naughty as we ate it, sheltering by the bandstand against the chilly October wind. I took photos and tried to overcome my slight embarrassment which I feel when I take pictures in public. Curious people stare, not with malice of course but I was always taught at school not to draw attention to myself, so I find it a little uncomfortable. Got some real nice ones of my sister though. Might put them up here if she lets me.

I feel I have little to write about at the moment. Like a wild bird my inspiration has flown.

Frightened away by other more mundane, everyday thoughts and concerns it has taken flight and landed elsewhere.

Do not worry, it shall return.

image via Sabino

I shall come back to you later in the week mes cheries.

x

Morning has broken...

Yesterday morning when I left the house the sky was the dark grey blue that spoke of the night just passed and the rain to come. This morning this had changed entirely and I was greeted by periwinkle blue overhead fading to dove grey touched by the pinks and yellows of boiled sweets on the horizon. The rain yesterday's sky promised did materialize and its touch had not yet disappeared today despite the contrast in this morning's heavens. Puddles reflected blue and grey and pink whilst raindrops still clung to cobwebs and flowers. As the train trundled further into the countryside away from my home town and towards London, the sky continued to develop - now yellow, now orange now the blue of forget me nots. The fields still covered by a blanket of mist, like children unwilling to leave their beds and wake up to the sun.

I sometimes wonder how so many people can sit on trains and buses and completely ignore the outside world. The sights I sometimes see when I look out of the window warm my heart! Sometimes I want to stand up and point "look, look at that, isn't it magnificent". I never do. Perhaps it is the photographer in me that looks and looks all the time, searching for something to capture, not wanting to miss that perfect shot.

I searched long and hard for a poem for todays offering and nothing quite seemed to convey the feelings I was trying to get across to you. However, I did find the below poem (which is quite long, for which I apologise) that I really do rather like:

MORNING SONG OF SENLIN
(from "Senlin, A Biography")
by: Conrad Aiken (1889-1973)

IT is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning

When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,

I arise, I face the sunrise,

And do the things my fathers learned to do.

Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops

Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,

And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet

Stand before a glass and tie my tie.

Vine leaves tap my window,

Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,

The robin chips in the chinaberry tree

Repeating three clear tones.

It is morning. I stand by the mirror

And tie my tie once more.

While waves far off in a pale rose twilight

Crash on a white sand shore.

I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:

How small and white my face!--

The green earth tilts through a sphere of air

And bathes in a flame of space.

There are houses hanging above the stars

And stars hung under a sea. . .

And a sun far off in a shell of silence

Dapples my walls for me. . .

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning

Should I not pause in the light to remember God?

Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,

He is immense and lonely as a cloud.

I will dedicate this moment before my mirror

To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair.

Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!

I will think of you as I descend the stair.

Vine leaves tap my window,

The snail-track shines on the stones,

Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree

Repeating two clear tones.

It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,

Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.

The walls are about me still as in the evening,

I am the same, and the same name still I keep.

The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,

The stars pale silently in a coral sky.

In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,

Unconcerned, I tie my tie.
There are horses neighing on far-off hills

Tossing their long white manes,

And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,

Their shoulders black with rains. . .

It is morning.

I stand by the mirror

And surprise my soul once more;

The blue air rushes above my ceiling,

There are suns beneath my floor. . .

. . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness

And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,

My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,

And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.

There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,

And a god among the stars; and I will go

Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak

And humming a tune I know. . .

Vine-leaves tap at the window,

Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,

The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree

Repeating three clear tones.

Have a nice day dear readers

x

MISSING: Season of Mists

Here there have been downpours of rain and grey skys, cold dampness and clouds and, for a few days, I thought Autumn had abandoned me. Where was the sharp, clear brightness an Autumn morning brings? Where was that deliciously crisp freshness which I drink in like a tonic for my soul?

Today, it arrived. The Autumn morning sun hung low and heavy in the sky, glancing off the queuing cars, creating a hundred more tiny suns on windscreens to blind passers by.

Instead of catching the bus I walked in to work from the train station and felt my heart to be lighter than it has been for days as I stepped through the streets of London, the chill of the morning air bringing a glow to my cheeks as well as my heart.

A couple of days ago I decided that each Thursday I shall put a piece of poetry up on this blog (however, I make no promises as to how long this self - induced discipline will last!). This decision is partly to encourage me to read and seek out more poetry, partly because most of the best poetry I know of has been introduced to me by other people and the thought that I could introduce someone out there to a new and beloved poem is quite exciting, and partly because it is often so much easier to express a view in someone elses words than your own (though if my courage holds out one or two of my own attempts shall appear before you).

Here is a perfect example which I hope you enjoy - a favourite poem describing my favourite season:

Ode To Autumn
by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind,
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.