How To.

Image from Isaahunny flikr

I would like to apologise for my lack of posting this week. I fully intended to post every day this week to make up for my possible non-blogging next week however, what with my 50minute train journey home taking two hours on Tuesday (all of which I had to stand, grrr), finding out my job ends tomorrow so looking for a new one, contacting recruitment agencies and trying to organise references and me FALLING OVER at the train station yesterday morning (it was an impressive full dive to the ground), I have been a leeettle busy this week.

Here are a few things which I have come across this week which I would like to share with you.

How to be happy

Step 1:Smile. Smile even if life isn’t good,

smile because life can be good. Smile because

of the possibilities and everything that’s going to be.

Step 2:Find a way to destroy whatever (not whoever)

destroys you. No matter how long it takes.

No matter how hard it is. Make it go away.

Step 3:Get yourself a passion.

Something (not someone), a hobby you can live for.

Step 4:Love yourself. I know it’s hard,

but you have to find a way, or you will never

know how good life can be.

Step 5:Stop thinking. What others think is not relevant,

if it makes you unhappy. Enjoy.

Concentrate on what you’re doing.

Decide by feeling: If you feel like something’s

the right thing to do, just do it.

redlips&icecream

How to get the perfect messy-chic parisienne bun here.

Found via a new fave blog called A Cup of Jo.

How Do I Love Thee?

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and Ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday's

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

Hope to be on here again soon, until then - Toodlepip!

x

THE DARKLING THRUSH
by: Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

LEANT upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seem'd to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seem'd fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carollings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessèd Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

.

.

Good week thus far I hope!

Love

x

Image via here and via here

November!

November!

by Thomas Hood

No sun--no moon!

No morn--no noon!

No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--

No sky--no earthly view--

No distance looking blue--

No road--no street--no "t'other side this way"--

No end to any Row--

No indications where the Crescents go--

No top to any steeple--

No recognitions of familiar people--

No courtesies for showing 'em--

No knowing 'em!

No traveling at all--no locomotion--

No inkling of the way--no notion--

"No go" by land or ocean--

No mail--no post--

No news from any foreign coast--

No Park, no Ring, no afternoon gentility--

No company--no nobility--

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,

No comfortable feel in any member--

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds--

November!

Hope you enjoy!

x

Images via Wili Hybrid on Flikr via the blue hour via AudreyHepburn Complex

~Read Me~

LIFE IS BUT A DREAM
by: Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)

BOAT, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July--

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear--

Long has paled that sunny sky;
Echoes fade and memories die;
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die;

Ever drifting down the stream--
Lingering in the golden gleam--
Life, what is it but a dream?

For you, my dears.

Hope you are having a nice week.

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

Math + Poetry = Lovely

Math Is Beautiful and So Are You

by Becky Dennison Sakellariou

If n is an even number
*then I'll kiss you goodnight right here,*
but if the modulus k is the unique solution,
*I'll take you in my arms for the long night.*

When the properties are constrained as well as incomplete,
*I'll be getting off the train at this stop.*
However, if there is some positive constant,
*then I'll stay on board for a while longer.*

When it says that the supremum deviates from the least zero,
*my heart closes off.*
But if all moments are infinite and you can hear me,
*I will open out for you.*

This sequence satisfies the hypothesis of uniformity,
and because we know that approximation is possible
and that inequality is an embedding factor,
*come, let's try once more.*

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

In my heart.

Of course I didn't nearly forget to write a post today.

Don't be silly, I totally remembered to look up a poem for todays poetry offering last night.

Nope, I was not sitting twiddling my thumbs thinking, 'what is it that I normally do at lunch time?' then suddenly leaping into action and typing like a maniac (ok the last part actually isn't true, I rarely leap into anything let alone action and my typing speed is plodding at the best of times).

Soooo here is the post that nearly never existed *ahem* what? hmm, no haha. I mean, so here is the post I have been meticulously planning for ages.

E E Cummings

I Carry Your Heart

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)

I am never without it (anywhere I go you go, my dear;

and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)

I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

I first heard this poem in the rather unintellectual place of the movie 'In Her Shoes'. She reads it for her sister so it always reminds me of mine too.

Although I would of course not object to this being performed to me be an adoring male.

Pip pip mes cheries.

Chin up, it's not long til Friday.

x

Ruler of my Heart.

Last night - As I walked to the train station after work (I know walking to and from work!) I spy police and police dogs looking in man holes. 'What the devil?' I think to myself as I skipped to the station.*

This morning - loads of police, police vans, cordens and TV crews because.......da da da daaa, the Queen, Prince Charles and Prince William are all going to be just down the road from me today at St Pauls Cathedral! I am a sucker for the Royal family, getting ridiculously excited when they are in my vicinity. Sure they don't technically do much and today there will be chaos when they arrive including - huge crowds, check. Crazy traffic, double check. Tourist heaven, you betcha.

But frankly my dear I don't give a monkeys- it's the Queen.

I've practised my curtsey and everything.

Well, you never know when it might come in handy.

Plus I am convinced that some day I will be invited for tea at Buckingham Palace (I have no particular reasoning behind this assumption and have simply decided that this will happen.)

Both the above cushions are available at Etsy and the below

rather cool Tatler cover is to celebrate their 300th year.

Despite having the beginnings of a cold I feel in a pretty good mood today (this may have something to do with the face it's Friday of course) and am looking forward to the weekend even though I have no fixed plans (though I'm pretty sure it will involve shopping and sleeping which is a pretty good combination you gotta admit).

Currently bombarding said cold with vitamins, Actimel, thai chicken soup and exercise (hence the out of character exertion in walking to and from work) whilst firmly telling myself I am not unwell, I will not get a cold, I am the picture of health.

It's all about the willpower right?

Promise that this weekend I will try to upload some of my photos which will hopefuly appear on here next week.

Have a good Friday and a lovely weekend my chickadees.

x

p.s. after publishing this post on here, discovered that by coincidence yesterday was in fact National Poetry day!

* in place of 'skipped' read power walk with appropriate speed face.

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.