Looking through the kitchen window tonight - I love this time of year

Perfect Day,
(or world domination?)
------------------------------

So glad to read of your perfect day,
Your aircraft and a sports car with which to play,
With roads that were empty and vapour trail free skies,
It's hard to believe James, that the rumours were just lies.

Tell me,
to achieve such a perfect day as that,
Did you turn up that Icelandic firework's thermostat?
Did you light the blue touch paper, in the land of fire and ice,
Shades of James Bond, a villain, a world dominance device?
When I saw you burn that sausage and admire fields of reflectors,
A mad scientist I thought! - and Heaven please protect us!

The quintessential Englishman,
You will forever be,
An eruption, a drive and an afternoon flight,
But back in time for tea.

Elaine x

Sad Story of a Motor Fan
H. A. Field

Young Ethelred was only three
Or somewhere thereabouts, when he
Began to show in divers ways
The early stages of the craze
For learning the particulars
Of motor-bikes and motor-cars.
He started with a little book
To enter numbers which he took,
And, though his mother often said,
‘Now, do be careful, Ethelred;
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What shall I do
If anything runs over you?’
(Which Ethelred could hardly know,
And sometimes crossly told her so),
It didn’t check his zeal a bit,
But rather seemed to foster it;
Indeed it would astonish you
To hear of all the things he knew.
He guessed the make (and got it right)
Of every car that came in sight,
And knew as well its m.p.g.,
Its m.p.h. and £.s.d.,
What gears it had, what brakes, and what –
In short he knew an awful lot.

Now, when a boy thinks day and night
Of motor-cars with all his might
He gets affected in the head,
And so it was with Ethelred.
He called himself a ‘Packford Eight’
And wore a little number-plate
Attached behind with bits of string,
And cranked himself like anything,
And buzzed and rumbled ever so
Before he got himself to go.
He went about on all his fours,
And usually, to get indoors,
He pressed a button, then reversed,
And went in slowly, backmost first.
He took long drinks from mug and cup
To fill his radiator up
Before he started out for school
(‘It kept,’ he said, ‘his engine cool’);
And when he got to school he tried
To park himself all day outside,
At which the Head became irate
And caned him on his number-plate.

So week by week he grew more like
A motor-car or motor-bike,
Until one day an oily smell
Hung round him, and he wasn’t well.
‘That’s odd,’ he said; ‘I wonder what
Has caused the sudden pains I’ve got.
No motor gets an aching tum
Through taking in petroleum.’
With that he cranked himself, but no,
He couldn’t get himself to go,
But merely buzzed a bit inside,
Then gave a faint chug-chug and died.

Now, since his petrol-tank was full,
They labelled him ‘Inflammable,’
And wisely saw to it that he
Was buried safely out at sea.
So, if any time your fish
Should taste a trifle oilyish,
You’ll know that fish has lately fed
On what remains of Ethelred.

Scarface! Surely not?

In My Craft or Sullen Art
Dylan Thomas

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

No, sorry Rocky, apart from the odd classic
and some amazing guitar work,
I am still not a rock fan!

Out Of The Night That Covers Me
William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Longing
by Matthew Arnold

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth,
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say, My love why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

This is the Song
Felix Dennis

This is the song that none can sing,
This is the gift the old gods bring,
Sung this once as the soul takes wing
In the emptiness of night.

Here is the powerlessness of speech,
The letting go that none can teach,
The song of things beyond our reach
Singing to it's own light.

I've been gardening today,
the lawn needs mowing!

Scarface uses the excuse,
nine lives therefore nine ladies...
Another of his conquests dreams about him!

Fashion model pose!

Well Morrisons has Hammond,
why not James for M&S.

Driven to Distraction
--------------------------
What!
For dear old Marks and Spencer,
you would recommend the censor,
'cos their ads know where to hit you,
re your fruit and nut dispenser?
You see it's all subliminal,
It's your dominant brain they target,
And considering how these ads affect,
you surely cannot argue it.

For now you will associate,
M&S with all things nice,
And if Woman says "Oh, lets shop there",
you'll pay, whatever the price.
Their latest Christmas ad had,
gorgeous models and stars mingle,
Ah! NOW I see what you're up to!
Hoping for a part in this year's jingle.

"Houston, we've had a problem."
Forty years ago - FORTY YEARS!!!!

Do you remember just hanging around in the summer?

Black Pride
Muhammad Ali

I woke up this morning feeling good and black.
I got out my black bed;
I put on my black robe,
played all my best black records,
and drank some good black coffee.
Then I put on my black shoes,
walked out my black door,
and, oh Lord, white snow!

There Is No God
Arthur Hugh Clough

"There is no God," the wicked saith,
"And truly it's a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
It's better only guessing."

"There is no God," a youngster thinks,
"or really, if there may be,
He surely did not mean a man
Always to be a baby."

"There is no God, or if there is,"
The tradesman thinks, "'twere funny
If He should take it ill in me
To make a little money."

"Whether there be," the rich man says,
"It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
Are not in want of victual."

Some others, also, to themselves,
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.

But country folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and the parson's wife,
And mostly married people;

Youths green and happy in first love,
So thankful for illusion;
And men caught out in what the world
Calls guilt, in first confusion;

And almost everyone when age,
Disease, or sorrows strike him,
Inclines to think there is a God,
Or something very like Him.

Iceland looks exciting and dangerous!

Another incredible experience you will be able to look back on....

La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente
(Lovely Lady of my Memory)
Oscar Wilde

MY limbs are wasted with a flame,
My feet are sore with travelling,
For calling on my Lady's name
My lips have now forgot to sing.

O Linnet in the wild-rose brake
Strain for my Love thy melody,
O Lark sing louder for love's sake,
My gentle Lady passeth by.

She is too fair for any man
To see or hold his heart's delight,
Fairer than Queen or courtezan
Or moon-lit water in the night.

Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,
(Green leaves upon her golden hair!)
Green grasses through the yellow sheaves
Of autumn corn are not more fair.

Her little lips, more made to kiss
Than to cry bitterly for pain,
Are tremulous as brook-water is,
Or roses after evening rain.

Her neck is like white melilote
Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
The throbbing of the linnet's throat
Is not so sweet to look upon.

As a pomegranate, cut in twain,
White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,
Her cheeks are as the fading stain
Where the peach reddens to the south.

O twining hands! O delicate
White body made for love and pain!
O House of love! O desolate
Pale flower beaten by the rain!

I went for a drive this morning and found yet another sign of spring.

I've come to the conclusion that
the entire human race is completely bonkers,
and therefore, I must console myself with
a chocolate biscuit!

Come the rapture, can I have your car?

Return
Earl of Rochester.

ABSENT from thee, I languish still;
Then ask me not, When I return?
The straying fool 'twill plainly kill
To wish all day, all night to mourn.

Dear, from thine arms then let me fly,
That my fantastic mind may prove
The torments it deserves to try,
That tears my fix'd heart from my love.

When, wearied with a world of woe,
To thy safe bosom I retire,
Where love, and peace, and truth does flow,
May I contented there expire!

Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,
I fall on some base heart unblest;
Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven—
And lose my everlasting rest.

Fodder for Cannon
Katharine Lee Bates

Bodies glad, erect,
Beautiful with youth,
Life's elect,
Nature's truth,
Marching host on host,
Those bright, unblemished ones,
Manhood's boast,
Feed them to the guns.

Hearts and brains that teem
With blessing for the race,
Thought and dream,
Vision, grace,
Oh, love's best and most,
Bridegrooms, brothers, sons,
Host on host
Feed them to the guns.

Col has been doing a bit of gardening!

Easter Sunday
Still a bit of snow on the higher Derbyshire hills.
Photo taken from outside the late 'Johnnie' Johnson's house at Wormhill.

Love and Life
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647–1680

ALL my past life is mine no more;
The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.

The time that is to come is not;
How can it then be mine?
The present moment 's all my lot;
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phillis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy,
False hearts, and broken vows;
If I by miracle can be
This live-long minute true to thee,
'Tis all that Heaven allows.

Happy Easter!

“There is nothing to fear but fear itself.”
Franklin D. Roosevelt
If only that were true!