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Candia Comes Clean

~ Candid cultural comments from the Isles of Wonder

Monthly Archives: September 2013

Forest Boy

29 Sunday Sep 2013

Posted by Candia in Film, Humour, mythology, Nature, News, Poetry, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

'Forest Boy', Aga, Bambi, Black-backed woodpeckers, feral child, fire ecology, Giant Sequoia, gingerbread house, Gopher Tortoise, goshawks, Grimms' Fairy Tales, indigo snakes, martens, mountain bluebirds, Mountain Grey Gum, Ponderosa pine, salamander, Where the Wild Things Are, wood-boring beetles

Forest Life

That first Spring, after the fierce infernos,

wood-boring beetles marched and drilled,

laying eggs in the bark of fallen trees.

Big, black-backed woodpeckers banged for their food,

gorging on larvae from smoked branches;

where lightning first struck, they found their store.

In dark cavities that they created,

the mountain bluebirds and martens soon moved in,

attraction for raptors and foraging

goshawks, which landed on the high, charred crowns

of Ponderosa Pine and Mountain Grey Gum.

Light shafted in so the Giant Sequoia

could establish seedlings on the burnt floor.

Burrowing animals emerged unscathed

from deep tunnels, or from cool river mud,

into snag forest.  Gopher tortoise,

indigo snakes soon slithered into place.

Activated buds tentatively

opened, undeterred by the fired clearings.

Seeds germinated, soon they were sprouting,

all the stronger for their fiery trials.

From the blazes sprang up salamanders

of resurgence- scorched earth, ready for life.

I wandered into Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe, clutching my tablet

and sat down next to Clammie and Carrie.

Did you read about that Forest Boy who tricked Berlin officials into giving him

the equivalent of £168 a month spending money as he had claimed that his

parents had died and he had no knowledge of his identity or where he had

come from? I asked them.

You mean he purported to be a kind of feral child? asked Clammie.

Yes, he said he had been living in the forest, I elucidated.

Carrie interrupted:  Ooh, where the wild things are!  I absolutely adored

that book.

Where the Wild Things Are

Yes, I gave her a cautionary look and resumed, but his friends in the

Netherlands soon exposed his ruse, so now he has to do community

service.

Life in the forest sounds like fun, Carrie continued.  It is like a Grimms’ fairy

tale.  Maybe he was brought up by a witch, threatened by a wolf, or basted,

ready to go into an Aga in some little gingerbread house.

Did they have Agas in gingerbread houses? asked Clammie.

Not so nice if there was a forest fire, I stated firmly. (Otherwise Carrie gets

carried away by the sentimental aspects of life, such as Agas.)

I suppose so, she admitted.  Tiger-Lily used to become hysterical when we

watched Bambi, the video.  She had post-traumatic stress disorder for

months afterwards.  Bambi and mother fleeing the flames- oh, it was too

too horrific.

Walt Disney's Bambi poster.jpg

But fire is a good thing, I persisted.  It regenerates arboreal life.  We

understand so much more about fire ecology now.

Do we? asked Carrie, doubtfully.

Is that what you’ve been writing about today? Clammie enquired.  Go on, hand

it over.

And she took my tablet, swiped it and, as Costamuchamoulah has Wi-Fi

connection, she was able to read the above.

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Keeping Abreast

26 Thursday Sep 2013

Posted by Candia in Celebrities, Humour, Poetry, Suttonford, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Angelina Jolie, breast screening, cupcakes, Gossard wonderbra, Mammary gland, mammogram, mastectomy, Monte Carlo, Papua New Guinea, Suttonford

Mammogram.jpg

It was that week which rolled around with surprising speed every three

years.

Yes, every female of a certain age received the summons to come on down

to Suttonford’s nearest town hospital in order to have their mammary glands

squeezed so hard that it couldn’t have been more painful if they had been

trapped in a bank vault’s door.  It was called Breast Screening.

However, it was quite a social occasion and neighbours who hadn’t seen

hide nor hair of each other in as much time gone by, greeted one another,

either with false bonhomie, or with deep embarrassment.

Then they were subjected to unknown levels of radioactivity.

Carrie was telling me that she met Brassica and Chlamydia there and then

they all went for coffee afterwards and burst out laughing when they had

cupcakes with raspberries on top.

It was an expression of relief, no doubt.

They also started talking about my poem, which was entirely fictional, but

had been written about a woman who might have come to terms with

necessary surgery which saved her life, but disfigured her body.  Everyone

else was embarrassed, but she was just relieved and wanted to get on with

her life.

Angelina Jolie at the launch of the UK initiative on preventing sexual violence in conflict, 29 May 2012 (cropped).jpg

Like I imagine that brave Angelina Jolie behaving? suggested Brassie.

Maybe, replied Clammie.  How did the poem go?

Carrie recited it.  She has a better memory than I do.  But who has the better

mammaries?  Ah, that’s debatable.  We don’t flaunt them much nowadays, but

like that Gossard Wonderbra model who gained the older woman respect and even

admiration, it might surprise everyone how shapely we still are!

KEEPING ABREAST

After my mastectomy, I was duly asked,

‘one lump or two?’…and then a pregnant pause ensued.

Swollen with deep embarrassment, glibness unmasked,

The hostess halted her outpouring; the tea stewed.

‘Actually, I have none.’ – Discomfiture again.

(my voice as brittle as her porcelain cup and plate).

And one misguided ‘friend’ tried to conceal my pain –

‘she’s on a diet and has lost a lot of weight’.

‘Yes, I’ve just been picking up a new bikini.

I’ve thought of Monte Carlo for my autumn week’.

‘Or bust!’ said a girl whose breasts were like zucchini.

(My silicon implants provoke a good deal of pique).

‘Well, Papua New Guinea sounds like fun,’ I quipped.

My wit was rising like some vast protuberance.

‘Let’s say I keep my cards close to my chest’. Tight-lipped,

my hostess said, ‘we usually go to France’.

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Skeleton Crew

22 Sunday Sep 2013

Posted by Candia in Arts, History, Humour, Poetry, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Captain George Carew, David Austin roses, Grenville, Mary Rose, Master Carpenter, Portsea, powder monkey, scurvy, Solent

I was looking round Brassica’s garden and we were discussing whether

the roses had finished for this year.

I always have David Austin roses, she commented.  They are so much more

subtle- unlike some of our friends.

What do you mean? I asked.  It wasn’t like Brassie to be so prickly.

Well, one of our so-called bossy acquaintances said my Mary Rose would

never flower in a tub and it excelled itself this year.

It does look a bit pot-bound now, though, I pointed out.

Yes, but I daren’t move it, as I enjoyed seeing her reaction when it was

in full bloom.  Hopefully it will do the same next year and I can prove her

wrong again!

I thought this was cutting off her nose to spite her face, but it is her business,

I suppose.  She likes being a thorn in people’s sides!

Changing the subject, I asked if she had taken her twins, Castor and Pollux,

to The Mary Rose Exhibition in Portsmouth, since they have built the new

centre.

Yes, we went almost as soon as it opened, before it became too busy over

the school holidays. They loved all the bows and arrows and the wax figures. 

Have you been, Candia?

Yes, I went years ago, before they built its new accommodation. We returned

to see everything so beautifully displayed. It made an impact on me- especially

the skeleton of the dog trapped in the cabin.

The ratter?  The boys were fascinated by it too.  You didn’t..did you?

What?  Write a poem?  As a matter of fact, I did.  Do you want to read it?

Send it to me tonight, if you remember.

So, I did.

A man with a thick, full beard and a calm expression wearing a doublet jacket and a wide-brimmed hat

Carew: Wikipedia

SKELETON CREW

The Master Carpenter left it ajar.

I think he’d gone on deck to take a leak.

I’d done my job and couldn’t smell a rat,

let alone catch one.  On his wooden chest

I’d spied some hard tack crumbs- just what I liked.

See, unlike me, he hasn’t got the teeth,

but biscuits, weevil-free, were quite a draw.

I’d checked the cauldron, but the lousy cook

was otherwise engaged, so no pig bones.

The ship and I- the only females there-

but gender no protection from a bosun’s stick.

Grenville clyped me his feisty little cur,

which wasn’t the compliment one might think:

fisting connoting closely with a stink!

He didn’t give a fart that I’d just killed

a skulking rattus that had chewed a rope.

I was two years old and had near forgot

the Portsea farm where I had been whelped.

My four sea legs were not so firm quayside;

my gait was rolling, like the scurvy crew’s

(and that included Captain George Carew’s.)

The Master Carpenter was unlike Christ:

he’d built a cage to keep me cribb’d, confin’d,

where I would sit, watching him roll his dice,

playing backgammon, to while away dock time,

his back bent, black eyes like dull peppercorns.

Sometimes I would hear the gunner’s whistle

and his powder monkey would chuck me scraps,

but woe betide me if I crossed the bowmen-

tense archers- they were always highly strung

and wouldn’t spare you a nit from their combs.

The door slid shut and, trapped in this space,

I yelped and sensed the whole hull start to tilt;

sink faster than a merchant telling beads,

from the first Ave to Paternoster.

I hope the Master Carpenter escaped,

even though he’d skelped me with his holey shoe.

After four centuries in Solent silt,

it’s odd to be a sea dog on dry land.

Then only rats could leave the sinking ship.

English: The Tudor period carrack Mary Rose un...

 

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First Rehearsal

21 Saturday Sep 2013

Posted by Candia in Arts, Education, Film, Humour, Music, Religion, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Bishop of Lyra, Bourbon biscuit, bratwurst, Britten, Camelot, Ceremony of Carols, Elijah, Elisha, Frankfurter, Nunc Dimittis, Old Hundredth, Peter-Pears, Richard Burton, Richard Harris, St Nicolas

Mr Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster of St Birinus Middle School, was over-

excited as usual.  It was almost the end of September and he had given a

great deal of consideration- mainly in the wee sma’ hours-to the

programme for his showcase Christmas term concert.

Greetings, chaps and chapesses! he enthused. (Several singers groaned.)

Welcome to the parents and staff who are supporting the boys in the end of

term concert.  I am delighted to announce that we will be performing Britten’s

Ceremony of Carols and St Nicolas. If ever there was an accessible

programme, then this is it.  Now I know that you will be wondering who the

soloists are going to be and I can announce that the youngest boy in the

choir will be the youthful Nicolas, as is traditional..

Here some parents looked as if they were about to vote with their feet, as

they had assumed that their mini Peter-Pears-in-the-Making was going to

land the eponymous role.

Peter Pears publicity photo 1971 crop.png

In fact, John Boothroyd-Smythe might have been a good choice as he

had nerves of steel, but his voice was about to break.

Geoffrey couldn’t imagine the latter springing from his mother’s womb, singing

‘God be glorified!‘  He had tried to keep the delinquent on board, but when he

had offered him the part of the final member of the trio of pickled boys,

Timothy, Mark and John, the ingrate scornfully replied, Who wants to be a

singing sausage?

The answer to that was none of the boys, particularly, but all of their parents

were gagging for them to be chosen and were ready to literally sacrifice their

darlings, whether they were to be actually preserved in brine or not, for the

sake of a favourable mention in a review in the school magazine.

John’s rudeness had earned him a detention with Mr Snodbury.  When he saw

the on-duty master reach into his briefcase for a quick snifter from what looked

suspiciously like a hip flask, John felt that the old boy would have been first

rate as a pickled adult.

John’s interpretation of the boys as Frankfurters, or chipolatas, en vinaigrette,

was somewhat literal.

Geoffrey had bitten back a comment to the effect that the role of

metamorphosed, or resurrected bratwurst would be highly appropriate for

such a pupil as himself.

Some of the semi-professional male instrumentalist members of staff who had

turned up to lead the Junior String Orchestra had been hoping for an elevation

from the ranks and  longed for a recognition of their solo tenor voices.  In

short, they wondered if one of their cohort might land the part of the adult

Nicolas.

And so it came as a surprise when Poskett announced that Mr Nigel

Milford-Haven was going to sing the role of the saint, in view of his

enhanced experience which had been finely tuned– ahem!( he was aware

of his own pun) at the Bath Monteverdi workshop over the summer.

Nepotism! muttered one of the viola players, but that was to be expected

from a musician in their section.

Over tea in the staffroom the following day, Nigel raised the subject very

casually with Mr Snodbury as he stood in line to choose a biscuit from the

hostess trolley. He mentioned that he had been elected to sing the part of

the Bishop of Lycra.

Snod looked at him as if he was a first former and corrected him: Lyra, sir! 

Lyra! He then snaffled the last Bourbon biscuit, which Nigel had been eyeing

throughout the conversation. Still, he couldn’t have everything, he supposed.

Cup of tea and bourbon biscuit.jpg

Lyra, yes, of course, that’s what I meant to say, he stuttered.  Yes, it’s a

marvellous piece and the eighth movement is so homophobic.

Snod put half of the biscuit in his mouth and sprayed Nigel with a cascade of

dark brown crumbs:  Homophonic, you ass! 

He was clearly not having a good day.

Nigel considered reporting the Senior Master to the union representative

and fantasised about receiving enormous damages for his loss of self-esteem

and injured feelings, but to complain might mean that his stellar role would

be endangered and it was too important to risk that.

I heard the parental chorus sang the Old Hundredth fairly competently, Snod

remarked, as if nothing untoward had been voiced.

Yes, sir!  He was relieved that he was on surer footing now and sat down

beside Snod in an ingratiating manner which irritated the eminence grise.

The boys enjoyed the part where Nicolas is enjoying his bath, he volunteered.

Snod had heard that there had been one or two sniggers at this point.

We rehearsed the section where the bewildered mothers were looking for

their lost sons.  They assumed that the ‘wurst’ had happened.

Nigel congratulated himself on a very good joke, but Snod ignored it.

There’s a plethora of that type of female in the school yard, I always find.

Snod drained his tea in one-a practice he had perfected over many a break.

I don’t suppose Poskett was other than spoilt for choice. I hear he gave

the parts to the pushiest ones as usual.

I don’t know about that, Nigel practised being pontifically diplomatic, if that

wasn’t an oxymoron- ie/ he tried to sit firmly on the fence on any thorny

matter.

I expect that you can relate to the sixth movement, as can we all, mused

Snod.

How so, sir?

Isn’t it a description of the barren years of incarceration? Snod said wryly.

Still, everyone gets their Nunc Dimittis in the end.

He was hoping for his very soon.  Pension! God be glorified!  But you will have

to wait much longer for yours, won’t you, under the new government

regulations?  Never mind- God moves in a mysterious way.  Maybe you will win

the lottery, if you say your prayers.  You should buy a ticket in our

consortium. A tenner a month, that’s all.

Is that Camelot? asked Nigel who was somewhat otherworldly regarding such

vices and, in that respect, made more of a a convincing saint than any other

member of staff.

Camelot? repeated Geoffrey, who had only three minutes of break left, having

collected his large bundle of hate mail from his pigeon hole, all protesting about

his casting skills. Oh, there’s no Bourbons left!  He looked devastated.

Camelot! Now there’s a good summer musical for you, suggested Snodbury,

rising from his club chair. I once sang the role of King Arthur many moons ago,

but I leave you my musical mantle, Milford-Haven.  Even Elijah had to divest

himself of his garment so that the young Elisha could grow into his sandals.

Gentlemen, adieu!

And though there was no rushing wind or cloud of unknowing, he cast a

cursory glance at his empty pigeon hole and left humming:

Don’t let it be forgot

That once there was a spot

For one brief, shining moment

That was known as Camelot..

And Geoffrey and Nigel had to admit that there was a deal of musicality left

in the old dog yet!  In fact, there was even a look of the young Richard Burton

in his profile- or was it Richard Harris?  Both were before their time.

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Buzz off!

19 Thursday Sep 2013

Posted by Candia in Humour, Nature, Poetry, Romance, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

apiculturist, bee colony, centrifugal extractor, hive, Royal Jelly, St Birinus Middle School, Suttonford

 

SWEET TALK AT THE APICULTURIST ASSOCIATION’S AGM

He combed the colony for Deborah,

until his social antennae quivered.

He thought a centrifugal extractor

lacked the pulling power he manifested.

Having made a bee-line for her, he droned

on and on in his rather bumbling way,

waxing lyrical under the codlin trees,

thinking at last he might be in clover;

certain he was the proverbial knees.

She didn’t find his voice mellifluous,

though he employed trite honeyed endearments.

She wished he would not swarm all over her,

so her responses were rather barbed.

He almost made her want to take the veil.

She became disaffected by stamens.

And that stingy little drink he’d bought her!

How was it she felt so pistillated?

It would be super if he would buzz off-

then she could go and forage for some grub,

or go and hide in the larvatory.

Didn’t he know she couldn’t stand smoking,

or his pungent ambrosial aftershave?

Oh, Melissa’s got some Royal Jelly,

she said, making for the alighting board.

Must fly!  What an e-skep!  She could smell rape.

The mere thought of him brought her out in hives.

At least she didn’t have to dance with him.

It would be nectar right, nor propolis:

no success for his sting operation.

Candia, you’ve got to stop these awful punning poems!

Brassie was being candid with me and that was usually my take

on everything.

For goodness sake, hurry up and tell me what is going on at St Birinus

Middle School.  It will be half term before we know it and everything has

gone quiet regarding Snodbury & Co. If I ask Castor and Pollux what the

latest is at school, they just say, ‘Nothing much.’  It is most frustrating

being the only female in an otherwise all-male household.  They don’t do

gossip.  Even the dog is male and since the op, doesn’t do bitching either.

Well, have a care, I soothed her.  I will tap into the Suttonford grapevine

and, once I have rightly interpreted a few Chinese whispers, I will let you

know the truth, varnished or unvarnished, according to my sources.    

That will be largely highly augmented and over-polished then, laughed

Brassie.

As the philosopher said, the best poets are the best liars, I parried.

Ooh, you are awful..

..but I like you.  I finished the quote- an annoying habit of mine, I must

admit.

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Sweetness and Light

15 Sunday Sep 2013

Posted by Candia in Arts, History, Humour, Literature, mythology, Nature, Poetry, Religion, Summer 2012, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Aphrodite, Aristomachus, Aristotle, Asiatic hornet, Astarte, Benedictine, Brother Adam, Buckfast Abbey, Clocalus, Daedalus, Empedoclean, entomology, Erice, Golden Honeycomb, Huber, John the Baptist, Maeterlinck, Mexican honey, Minos, ovipositor, Pantalica, parthenogenesis, Pindar, Plagues of Egypt, propolis, Sicels, Sicily, Superbee, The Sunday Times, Tim Rayment, varroa, Vergil, vespula germanica, Vincent Cronin, Wasp Factory

Have you read that book, The Wasp Factory? I asked Brassica, while flicking

away yet another of the little pesks.

(Suttonford seems to be overrun with the stripey menaces.)  It is as if we

are being afflicted by one of the Plagues of Egypt. I wonder what we have

done to deserve this castigation?    Perhaps it is part of our having

experienced at least seven lean years.  I do hope that the River Sutton

doesn’t turn to blood, or we find frogs in our beds.

No, can’t say I have read it, Brassie replied.  It seemed to be a bit violent,

from what I heard.  Wasn’t it Iain Banks’ first novel?

Yes, it was… Well, perhaps I have been accused of being waspish, I continued,

but it is only my tales that have a sting. These wretched vespula germanicas

had a go at me in my own kitchen when The Husband was making apple juice.

I was oviposited when I tried to open my fridge door.  One of the blighters

was skulking behind the handle and didn’t take kindly to being squeezed.

They say that Asiatic Hornets are going to invade us, so I don’t know what

we humans will have to do to wreak revenge on the whole entomological pack

of them.

I thought ‘entomological’ meant something like ‘cut into pieces’, Candia.  So

couldn’t you chop them up and anatomise them?  But you don’t hate bees,

do you? Didn’t you write a bee poem once, Candia?

Ah, yes, but bees are different. I did write about them.  I was incensed when

I read an article by Tim Rayment in The Sunday Times about Buckfast Abbey

stocking its gift shop with Mexican Honey when they had Brother Adam, a

world expert in their community, cultivating his own hives.  He knew all about

bee genetics and the coming dangers of varroa, but they didn’t appear to fully

value his lifelong expertise.

Bruder Adam ScAD0009.jpg

(Brother Adam: Wikipedia)

Ah well, expertise is not valued as it was in our day. Buckfast Abbey?

Isn’t that where monks produced that fortified wine? 

I was surprised that Brassie had heard of it.

The one that all the down and outs imbibed, to drink themselves

into oblivion? she persisted.

An empty bottle of Buckfast discarded in the street.

Yes, I laughed. I don’t suppose they could afford Benedictine proper.

It was a favourite tipple in Glasgow, as I recall. I’d be surprised if Ginevra

didn’t have a couple of bottles stowed away.  She probably developed a

nose for it when she lived up north.

But, surely all that outcry about Brother Adam was ages ago? Brassie

queried. I remember people being cynical and re-naming the abbey

Fastbuck!

Yes, it was in the Nineties, but the wise old monk is dead now, I elucidated.

Tell you what, though, I will try and find that poem and give it an airing. 

You might find it a tonic!

Bad pun, Candia!

SWEETNESS AND LIGHT

That consummate Cretan craftsman Daedalus

delivered the golden comb to Astarte,

at Erice, in Empedoclean obedience-

a votive for deliverance from vindictive Minos

and hospitality in a land far from home.

The divine sanctuary was perched

on a parched plain, pervaded by mists.

Clocalus, King of Sicily, harboured him,

though homicidal.

When Astarte became Aphrodite,

the bees performed for the Romans.

Pindar sang with a swarm surrounding his lips,

savouring ambrosia; waxing lyrical,

achieving honey-sweet immortality.

Bees no longer born from bulls,

were winged messengers, bringing fortune;

reciting rosaries;

nourishing neophytes, even as in Nazareth-

before honeycombs became catacombs.

Man would not live by bread alone

and John the Baptist found this so.

Parthenogenesis proved paramount;

passion usurped by agape.

But now the Fastbucks,

who neither know nor care about

Aristotle, nor acarine disease;

Vergil nor varroa

usurpthe Superbee with entrepreneurial excess.

He could hermetically seal them up

in a sepulchre of propolis and wax,

like acherontia atropus.

Brother Adam could have them balled,

or left like open-eyed statuary of Daedalus.

For this monk, equal of kings

and approaching the gods

has known Rule without recognition

and obedience rendered-

a Pope, and regulator of reproduction;

equaliser of wealth and

dabbler in dethronement,

halting hostilities and honing harvests,

unveiling the comb as blind Huber.

Aristomachus may have had a bee in his bonnet,

buzzing around for nigh on sixty years,

but Adam, superceded after seventy,

degraded, drone-like, yet faithful to his queen

will enter Pantalica’s passage

and swarm, immortal in a golden prism.

The king will bate his barb,

but abbots should not suffocate their saviour.

Notes to follow-

Daedalus, although reputed to have come from Athens, probably came

from Crete. He was said to have made a fantastic golden honeycomb and

presented it to Aphrodite, or Astarte, at Erice, Sicily.  He was thought to

have brought apiculture to Sicily- see Vincent Cronin, The Golden Honeycomb.

Daedalus was on the run from Minos, King of Crete.  Daedalus’ nephew and

apprentice had been murdered.  Maybe Alan Sugar ain’t that bad!

Empedocles suggested that Aphrodite could be made propitious by

offering her honey.

The bees- this was a nickname for the priestesses of Aphrodite.  Two

hundred Roman soldiers guarded her shrine at Erice.

Pindar wrote about Sicily. A poet described him as above.

Bees were thought to have been born from bulls- a superstition much

like scarabs being thought to originate from dung.

The boy Jesus was given a honeycomb so that he would associate

scripture with sweetness.

John the Baptist lived on locusts and wild honey.

Parthenogenesis- reproduction in insects, without the ovum being

fertilised.

Aristotle wrote treatises on bees.

Varroa- a bee disease

Brother Adam created the Buckfast Superbee

Maeterlinck describes how the invader is not expelled but suffocated

in the hive.

Daedalus was the first sculptor to represent the eyes as open.

Balling -to surround the old queen until she suffocates, rather than

directly killing her.

Huber- blind and born in Geneva in 1750.  he devoted himself to the

study of bees.

Aristomachus-another ancient bee lover.

Pantalica- where the Sicels built tombs in the gorge.  Bees swarm into

the rock clefts and produce inaccessible combs.  Was this the site of

Daedalus’ missing masterpiece? A possibility, according to Cronin.

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Some Animals Are More Equal

12 Thursday Sep 2013

Posted by Candia in Celebrities, Education, Film, Humour, Literature, Social Comment, Suttonford, television, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Animal Farm, Botticelli, Cheryl Cole, commissario, Davide Camarrone, Golding, greasy pole, Jessie and Bluebell, Lolita, Lord of Flies, Michel Riondino, Montalbano, Napoleon, Old Major, Orwellian, Russell Group, Snowball, Sophia Loren, Squealer, totalitarian

Mum!  Tiger-Lily raised her voice.  Mum!

Oh, eh, what is it, Tiger?

Mum, do you think you could stop salivating over The Young Montalbano

and tell me where you put my lacrosse shirt?

Carrie replied, In the utility room, I think, without taking her eyes off

the screen.

Duh! expostulated the teenager.  And dad…

Mmm? Gyles made a kind of non-committed non-verbal response.

There was a rather attractive girl, a cross between Cheryl Cole and the

young Sophia Loren, being fed forkfuls of food in a prison cell by the

eponymous hero of the programme.

Young Montalbano ep 1 BBC4 Viola

Though she appeared to have learning disabilities and had tried to shoot

the nouveau inspector, or commissario, he of the Botticelli curls did not

look as if he was deterred.  In fact, he had given the girl the dress his

girlfriend had asked him to buy her from the local market.  It seemed to be

an incentive to talk, or do something else.  It wouldn’t earn him any

promotion with his enamorato, you wouldn’t think!  But somehow he

seemed to get away with it, though the girlfriend recommended the

recipient for a cleaning job.

Gyles was riveted.

Carrie thought being banged up in a cell with Michele Riondino would

be anything but a punishment.  Where could she get a gun?

Dad!  Did you hear me?  Have you got a spare battery?

Gyles reluctantly raised himself from the sofa and interacted with his own

Lolita-in-the-making.

Glad to have some parental attention, Tiger became fairly chatty.

Dad, you know John Boothroyd-Smythe, or B-S, as Mr Snodbury calls

him?

The naughty boy?

Yeah.  Well, he is in Big Trouble this time.

What’s he been up to now?

He set up a website called Squealer’s Trash Blog and criticised the

management of St Birinus’ and said that Mr Snodbury was Napoleon

and Mr Poskett, the choirmaster, was Snowball.

Did he say the Headmaster was Old Major? laughed Gyles.

How do you know, Dad?  Tiger was amazed by her father’s acuity.

John used big words like ‘totalitarian’ when discussing the first rugby

team and how it was chosen.

Sour grapes then? Gyles remarked.

He said the places on the team were allocated by a nepotistic dictator.

So the headmaster’s nephew is in the First team then?  The rugby coach

stole Bluebell and Jessie’s prime puppies for himself?!

Dad, John defaced the sports fixture list on the criss-cross board and

when the class were challenged to admit who the culprit had been, six

boys confessed and had to run round the sports field at break.

Excellent!  Just like the hens in Animal Farm!

Tiger didn’t understand her father’s Orwellian comments.  She was

going to be studying Lord of The Flies this year instead.  Let’s just hope

that John, or B-S, isn’t in a group that is going to study Golding for GCSE.

On the other hand, that particular author had been a schoolmaster himself,

so there wouldn’t have been any flies on him either.  Tiger is sure to be

enlightened as to human nature and political systems and their hierarchies.

William Golding 1983.jpgV

Well, a bit of exercise is better than having your neck wrung, I suppose,

quipped Gyles. I’m amazed that Old Snod hasn’t been sent to the knackers’

yard by now.  He’s been doing something in Education for aeons and must be

past his sell-by date.  He’s probably constructed more metaphorical windmills

than I have had hot dinners.  He would produce a fair bit of glue, I am sure,

given that ample paunch.

Tiger thought her father was slightly mad.

Dad, Castor and Pollux confessed just to get the Headmaster to leave

everyone alone.  They were accused of being anarchists.  The Headmaster

wrote to their parents and said that they would never get into a Russell

Group university if they continued to misbehave.

Hah! I don’t think he went to one himself, grinned Gyles.  His eyes strayed

to the screen again.  He didn’t think that the young Montalbano was doing

too badly, in spite of his waywardness and unorthodox approach to crime

detection and force discipline.  Probably B-S would triumph in life, in spite of,

or indeed because of, his individualistic approach.  After all, some animals are

simply more successful than others.  Even in a police cell, some folks will

manage a dalliance with a dumb goddess. Jammy devils!

He watched the credits go up.  Politics is ubiquitous, he mused.  And human

nature involves getting one over the Joneses.

How daft of the Headmaster not to recognise that the jockeying for position

and fight to get to the top of the greasy pole is par for the course of any

aspiring bratlet and its progenitors.

It was then that Gyles noticed that the lyrics to the programme’s

theme music had been accredited to a Davide Camarrone.

Case proven.  Politicians get into everything!  Some animals are simply

more versatile and more equipped than others.  Especially if they have

had the benefit of a private education, such as Jessie and Bluebell’s

puppies!

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All Saints, Minstead

09 Monday Sep 2013

Posted by Candia in History, Poetry, Romance, Summer 2012, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

All Saints, Great War, Harvest Festival, Leicestershire Regiment, Lt Smeathman, lych gate, Menin Gate, Minstead, New Forest, The Long Long Trail

We had to put on our heating last night, sighed Clammie.

We were no longer sitting outside Costamuchamoulah must-seen

cafe.  We had to go inside.

The mornings are now distinctly autumnal, I ventured. Have you been

blackberrying?

Not yet.  Soon it will be Harvest Festival, I suppose.

Clammie looked down at her nails.  She didn’t want them to be stained

indelibly with berry juice. The Lady Macbeth  look wasn’t one that she

sought to emulate.

Do you remember that Autumn when we visited that lovely little church in

The New Forest? I asked her.  The window ledges had been decorated with

pumpkins and the sunlight made them appear aflame, like lanterns.

What church?  Do you mean All Saints, Minstead?

Yeah, that’s right.  Do you recall how, just as we were about to leave, I

saw that brass plaque on the wall, which commemorated the death of

Lieutenant Smeathman? Its date was the very same one on which we were

visiting the church.  The twenty fourth of October, I believe it was.

Oh, that was spooky!  I remember.  Didn’t you write a poem about it, in

some sort of weird verse form?

I did, but, you know, I was looking for it the other day and I decided to

investigate the life of Smeathman.  I discovered that he was called Julian

Missenden and his brother, Cecil, had been killed on the same day, but in

a different location.  It was a double tragedy.

Where did you find that out?

It was on a site for Family Historians called The Long, Long Trail. A woman

called Carole Standeven had posted the information that Cecil and Julian

were both killed on the 24th October.  Julian had been married in All Saints

on the 1st. They were with the 1st Leicestershire Regiment Battalion and

the 55th Field Co. RE, respectively.

Their poor parents!  And Julian’s poor bride!

Yes.  She was called Gladys Monia Browne. Their father was a

Captain Lovel Smeathman MC.  Julian is commemorated on the Menin

Gate, but he has no known grave.

I wonder what happened to his wife?...Do you still have

a copy of your poem?

Yes, but I may want to revisit it, now that I have more information.

Maybe that will be a different poem.  Remind me what you wrote.

Lychgate of Minstead Church

(Hants Library and Info Service photograph)

ALL SAINTS’, MINSTEAD (October, 24th 1996)

Wedded for three weeks, returning to ask the Almighty the reason

why she was widowed, she leant on her father’s support; re-traced her steps.

Crossing the deeply eroded threshold, they entered the chancel.  Why?

One of the bells was inscribed with the motto: In God is my hope.  Now

pillars were tilting; her world was collapsing; the lilies were waxen.

Fires were extinguished in damp parlour pews and the carillons silenced.

Heartrending, harrowing scenes had been witnessed by grave ancient yews,

their bleeding of scarlet arils on the grass, an autumnal stigmata.

Nineteen were lost from this parish alone and their bows, as the Bible,

open at Isaiah said, were completely destroyed and their seed dashed.

He is not here; he is risen: the stained panel seemed to admonish.

Pumpkins, ovoid on the sills, were a tumescent harvest of blessing,

mocking her empty, unburgeoning belly.  She steadied herself in

front of the font which was prospectless, void.  But today there are christening

flowers in abundance and someone has polished a plaque with his name, so

I am aware of their story; remember Lietenant J. Smeathman:

bridegroom and soldier, who did not return from the war, but whose spirit

tinctures this sacrosanct space and who’s present, though absent in body.

Eighty two years to the day, anniversary not to be feted,

fated to visit this altar of sacrifice, I also falter.

Under the lych gate I notice a coffin could rest on its grooved plinth.

Maybe his bride at her end made a journey again through the archway,

pall­­bearers trampling confetti- the mulch from an earlier service.

Fastening the gate, contemplating the path, I leave my footprints there.

 

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Musical Bumps

06 Friday Sep 2013

Posted by Candia in Arts, History, Music, short story, Suttonford, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Beethoven, Donizetti, Eisenstadt, Esterhazy, Florian Gassmann, Gall& Spurzheim, Gumpendorf, Hundsthurm, Joseph Haydn, Joshua Reynolds, Karl Rosenbaum, Mrs Billington, Napoleon, Nepomuk, phrenology, Princess Maria Josepha Hermengild, Seven Last Words, St Cecilia, The Creation, The Princess & The Pea, The Seasons

Brassica was moved to tears by my poem, (see previous posting)

but then she is somewhat emotionally labile at the best of times.

Since you called me ‘cerebral’, Brassie, I will let you see my latest short

story, based on the composer, Haydn’s skull.  It is too long to read in this

noisy cafe, so I will e-mail it to you.  Let me know what you think.

MUSICAL BUMPS

In the end, it was not The Seasons that gave him his finishing stroke,

but rather a sharp instrument which severed his skull from his spinal

column.  Eight days after his internment, he might have been as

surprised as his audiences, not by any symphonic eccentricity, but by

the admission of light, as his coffin lid was prised open.  Perhaps his

agitated outburst at his final attendance of The Creation implied some

premonition, for he exclaimed: It came from hence!  (Rather than a shaft

of divine inspiration, however, this interruption emanated from an

earthier and more material source and might have been deemed a

diabolical intrusion, instead of an ethereal epiphany.)  In fact, the whole

episode had been engineered by my thoroughly material amateur

phrenologist spouse and his associate.

We had all been friends for years.  My husband, Karl Rosenbaum, had

been Secretary to the Esterhazy family and we even attended the burial

at Hundsthurm churchyard in Gumpendorf, the suburbs where Haydn had

lived.  Thank God that Napoleon had ordered his troops to be respectful

and the simple service passed without incident.  However, the memorial

plaque’s inscription could be seen to have been proleptic and ironic, I

suppose: I will not die completely.

Personally, I liked Josef.  He was generous enough to offer me solos in

his masses and in his Seven Last Words.  I wonder what his seven last words

to me would have been, if he had known that I would make an exhibition of

his skull in an ebony box with a golden lyre on the lid.  Musicians and those I

considered important enough to be invited to my soirees marvelled when I

displayed the great relic, reposing on its cushion of white silk.  They gawped

through the glass side panels with gratifying envy and voyeuristic intensity.

My father, Florian Gassmann, the Viennese chamber composer might not have

approved, I fear, nor would Haydn’s patroness and friend, Princess Maria

Josepha Hermengild.  However, Josef had no children to object, nor a wife by

then.  Why should we not have preserved some remains for posterity?

Maria Josefa of Austria.jpg

(Princess Maria Josepha Hermengild: Wikipedia)

It was not as if it was a very pleasant task for Karl and his friend, Johann,

to have to boil and examine the skull.  However, it was for research purposes,

you understand, and for the advancement of human knowledge.

Number 17 cranial organ was as expected, Karl told me. It showed great

musical aptitude, confirming Gall and Spurzheim’s theories on the links

between mental capacity and aspects of anatomical protuberances.

Musical bumps, I joked.

There had been no malice in the procedure whatsoever, I vow.  As I said,

Haydn, though swarthy and pockmarked and generally unattractive physically,

was genial and complimentary to the female sex- even to his insufferable wife,

whose cranial convexities must have been minimal.  She used to line her pastry

tins and curl her ringlets with paper from his manuscripts.  She selected the

house that he lived in latterly, telling him that it was suitable for a widow. Yet

he loved ladies and was chivalrous and Platonic in his behaviour and

demeanour.  He quipped that if four eyes could have been sealed, he could

have married his nineteen years old, already espoused enamorata.  He also

praised the vocalist, Mrs Billington, who was having her portrait painted by

the great Joshua Reynolds, as St Cecilia listening to the angels.  Haydn stated

that there must have been some mistake, for the angels should have been

depicted as attending to her.

We did not take possession of it immediately.  It was eleven years later

when Prince Nikolaus Esherhazy was suddenly reminded that he had

promised to remove Haydn’s remains to the family seat in Eisenstadt.

Sturm und Drang! he expostulated.  He made some stronger comments

when he realised that the skeleton was incomplete.

Johann passed the skull to us and we hid it under my straw mattress.  I

feigned indisposition when the search party raided- women’s matters!- and

so no trace of it was discovered.  Meanwhile I felt like the Princess and the

Pea and wager that Haydn himself would have appreciated the  farce, in

addition to enjoying the intimacies of my bed.

A bed piled high with mattresses.

However, the Prince grew imperious and we tried to distract him with

a substitute, but unfortunately, being amateur phrenologists, we did

not discern the differences between the skull of a seventy year old and

that of a twenty year old man.  In the end, though, he accepted an

alternative.

Everyone in Vienna knew where the skull was.  After all, we passed it

around with post-prandial spirits and it received due homage.  Karl had

promised to return it to Johann on his own decease, in order that it should

finally be given to the Society of Friends of Music, but I preferred to retain it

and willed it to my doctor, so that it should receive veneration at the Austrian

Institute of Pathology and Anatomy, as well as being of benefit to medical

advancement.

How was I to know that it would be a century and a half and two

intervening World Wars before the dear old boy would be made whole?

For a time he lay in two different zones: the Soviet and International, but,

let us be clear, he already belonged to a wider audience than Austria alone.

And Johann kept the secret well.  His middle name was Nepomuk, so I expect

his patron saint assisted him, even when the heavens were telling.  At least he

died with his tongue intact, unlike his namesake.  So, although our associate

knew the truth, others, such as Beethoven, knew nothing. Well, he would not,

would he?

Johannes von Nepomuk Hinterglasbild.jpg

Haydn often said that he made something out of nothing.  I feel that the

musical world did the same.  When all is said and done, he is at peace and a

man who exchanged his best quartet for a good razor would surely not have

minded us sharing his effulgence.  We cannot all get what we want-like Jacob,

he had to take the sister of the girl he really loved.  We just made sure that

we took what we wanted.  At least the Nazis did not appropriate the head

and we preserved him from Donizetti’s fate: apparently his skull was sold to

a pork butcher who used it as a receptacle for collecting money.  Some people

have no respect!

Beethoven’s ear passages were excised and two of his teeth stolen, so, all in

all, Josef suffered no sacrilege and was surrounded by music, rather than the

silence of the grave.

Many a time a visiting tenor directed his dulcet tones to his casket:

His large and arched brow sublime

Of wisdom deep declares the seat..

At least when the Lord took the great man’s breath away, he did not

disappear into dust.  And now the heavens and earth his power adore.

Achieved is his glorious work.  The Lord beholds it and is pleased.

And we were that happy pair, misled by false desire to covet that we should

not have, nor should have striven to know what was not meet.  Nevertheless,

I did enjoy possession for a while, but you have his essence for eternity.

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Mists of Time

06 Friday Sep 2013

Posted by Candia in Poetry, Romance, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Brockenspectre, chromatography, France, hydrangeas, Mist, Port Racine, Proust

You didn’t tell me about your French trip, Brassie.

No.  I’ve just been so frantic sewing all the name tapes into the twins’

clothes.  After the start of term I always feel like another holiday.  In

fact, whenever we are en vacances as a family I realise that I can’t

recreate the dream of those first magical trips across the Channel.

Yes, I responded with feeling.  Do you remember the romantic holidays

with your first boyfriend?  Everything was innocent in those days. There

was a sweetness that kids today will never experience, because of the

restraint, which makes the relationships all the more poignant in the

recherche du temps perdu, to make a Proustian reference.

Oh Candia, you always take a cerebral approach to life.

Not at all, I replied, taking a folded up piece of paper from my designer

vintage handbag- a trophy from Help The Ancient charity shop- before their

prices took a Himalayan hike. Read this.  I found it in my desk drawer

yesterday.

Port-Racine.jpg

MISTS OF TIME

It was the smallest port in France.  Sea mist

stole in, shrouding an ashen harbour, name

forgotten now.  I recollect we kissed,

lay curled in gloom, till dank fog damped our flame

of desire.  All around loomed hydrangeas:

the palest lilac I had ever seen.

And though Time’s chromatography changes

the memory of that dimmed scene,

their hue persists; that tone tinctures my mind.

Sere shadows, like Brockenspectres assume

monumental presence; therefore I find

they remain, though all else has lost its bloom.

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← Older posts

My name is Candia. Its initial consonant alliterates with “cow” and there are connotations with the adjective “candid.” I started writing this blog in the summer of 2012 and focused on satire at the start.

Interspersed was ironic news comment, reviews and poetry.

Over the years I have won some international poetry competitions and have published in reputable small presses, as well as reviewing and reading alongside well- established poets. I wrote under my own name then, but Candia has taken me over as an online persona. Having brought out a serious anthology last year called 'Its Own Place' which features poetry of an epiphanal nature, I was able to take part in an Arts and Spirituality series of lectures in Winchester in 2016.

Lately I have been experimenting with boussekusekeika, sestinas, rhyme royale, villanelles and other forms. I am exploring Japanese themes at the moment, my interest having been re-ignited by the recent re-evaluations of Hokusai.

Thank you to all my committed followers whose loyalty has encouraged me to keep writing. It has been exciting to meet some of you in the flesh- in venues as far flung as Melbourne and Sydney!

Copyright Notice

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Candia Dixon Stuart and candiacomesclean.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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