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Candia Comes Clean

~ Candid cultural comments from the Isles of Wonder

Monthly Archives: October 2016

Grisly Tale Part 2

28 Friday Oct 2016

Posted by Candia in Summer 2012

≈ 1 Comment

However, the Laird had seven other daughters to give in marriage and

seemed to want to wash his hands of his errant flesh and blood, in spite of

His Majesty’s hints of potential clemency.

Dunnipace was reputed to have stated:

Gar nail her in a tar barrel

And hurl her in the sea.

Though macabre, these words were to remain in folk

memory for many a month, assisted by their musical

setting.

Later, when the ballads were printed on broadsheets, we had the

opportunity to piece the narrative puzzle together, trying to reason why

such a bonny lassie was to lose her head over such a diabolical affair.

Apparently, Jean Livingstone, as she had been christened, had felt ill-

prepared for wedlock and had told her hired woman that she hadna wit

to guide a man. She had learned her rede with admirable haste, many

would say, at the scaffold.

At fifteen she had been sent to John Kincaid, the Laird of Warriston and

her woman claimed to have witnessed violent altercations between them.

A dinner plate had been hurled at her mistress’ face by her furious

husband, cutting her lip badly.

Once when he returned to harbour, having been absent for nigh on a year,

Lady Warriston went to meet him on the shore, with the nurse cradling

their newborn son. Kincaid flew into a rage, struck his wife and cursed

the child, saying it was none of his.  Afterwards, the nurse told the hired

woman that her mistress had an impression of her husband’s teeth deeply

incised into her forearm.

Faithful though the nurse was to her mistress, she ill-advisedly interfered

and persuaded Lady Warriston to contact a groom who had worked for

her father, by the name of Robert Weir.  She pressurised her

by claiming that if they were not able to persuade the groom to do away

with the Laird, then she would do it herself.

Maybe it was the same young ostler who had led her mistress’ pony,

while the master was at sea.  Anyhow, it is too late for Jean Murdo, the

nurse, to express regrets, at the time of this conversation, as by now she

is a heap of ashes.

As for Robert, he was conspicuous by his absence, though

officers were scouring the Borders for him.

Weir, when summoned, came willingly enough and was secreted in

the cellar until the Laird and his brother had been plied with sufficient

alcohol and staggered to their repose.

Jean retired with her husband, but later rose and gave a signal at

midnight.  Her brother-in-law must have been more affected by his cups

than the Laird, who was awakened by the commotion the conspirators

created on entering the marital chamber.

Weir threw himself at Warriston and struck him in the jugular vein,

knocking him off the bed and kicking him on the floor.  Eventually he

strangled him.

Jean ran into the Hall and later admitted that though she had heard his

deathly screams, she had failed to produce even a counterfeit tear.

The groom escaped, gallantly telling Jean that if the crime were to be

discovered, he would take the blame. None dare pursue you, he

foolishly stated.

Perhaps the Laird’s brother had been roused, or the servants disturbed,

for the next morning, officers of justice arrived and took Lady Warriston,

Janet Murdo and two women to the Tolbooth, in the Heart of Midlothian.

Jean attested that the two female servants were innocent, but only one

was released.  It was this woman who had met Peter in a tavern, after the

event on Canongate and who had supplied the missing information over a

pint of porter.

She added that the Laird’s son bore an uncanny resemblance to young

Robert Weir.  Having narrowly escaped the pressure of the Boot, one

would have expected her to keep her trap shut.  She became a member of

the Rev. Balfour’s congregation thereafter and thanked God that she had

been spared.

Theresiana-Beinschrauben.jpg

Balfour told his flock that Lady Warriston’s dramatic repentance was a

miracle of grace.  At first she had repudiated spiritual counsel and

blasphemed, throwing his Bible to the floor of her cell.  Yet, once her

relatives cast her off, she naturally showed a greater interest in flitting to

God.

The title page's central text is:"THE HOLY BIBLE,Conteyning the Old Testament,AND THE NEW:Newly Translated out of the Originall tongues: & with the former Translations diligently compared and revised, by his Majesties speciall Comandement.Appointed to be read in Churches.Imprinted at London by Robert Barker, Printer to the Kings most Excellent Majestie.ANNO DOM. 1611 ."At bottom is:"C. Boel fecit in Richmont.".

Even her brother-in-law forgave her, kissed her and wished that he could

take her to himself, she was so jimp about the middle/ As ony willy-

wand.  Fifteen Presbyterians kept her company on the night before her

execution, so I expect that she slept little and took their spiritual medicine

meekly.

Her father, Lord Kincaid, arranged for the child to be cared for by the

hired woman who was telling us the tale and this same servant afterwards

led a disguised Weir back to catch a glimpse of the sleeping boy in

his cot, four years later. Unfortunately Weir was apprehended as he bent

over the child and practically throttled before being taken to the scaffold

to be broken on the wheel.

Breaking wheel in action

For months thereafter his corpse was

exhibited on the road between Warriston and the town of Leith. Fortune

had turned full circle, but sometimes a passing stranger will detect what

appears to be a female voice singing, when the breezes blow over from

Winderstrawlee and Blaw Wearie:

Now a’ ye gentle maids,

Tak warning now by me

And never marry ane

But wha pleases your ee.

 

 

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A Hallowe’en Grisly Tale Part 1

28 Friday Oct 2016

Posted by Candia in Crime, History, Relationships, short story, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Auld Reekie, Blaw Wearie, Canongate, Girth Cross, grisly tale, guillotine, Heart of Midlothian, Holyrood, James VI, Kincaid, Lady Warriston, Leith, Lord Dunnipace, The Boot, The Maiden, The Wheel, Tolbooth

DEATH AND THE MAIDEN

 

It was the summer of 1600 when I was permitted to abandon my loom

and I climbed onto the roof of my mistress’ tenement in the Canongate,

from which an excellent view of the Girth Cross of Holyrood could

easily be discerned.  All around, the citizens of Auld Reekie had

adopted the same strategy and were well-established, in spite of the

early hour.  A  unison intake of breath unbalanced me on my precarious

eyrie, so that I had to grab Nelly’s sleeve for support.

The sinister outline of the Maiden, transported from Halifax, dominated

the scene, looming over the slender figure approaching it.  Well might the

Memorial later describe her as a woman and a bairn.  Apparently, like

myself, she was twenty one, but, she had a child of her own, whereas I

only minded my employers’ weans.

The buzz of conversations receded and I first heard snatches of that

melody which would quickly enter the consciousness of all

Lowland ballad lovers:

O Warriston, ye acted ill

To lift your hand to your ain lady…

Then a ripple of wheeshts surged through the crowds below and Jean

Livingstone, Lady Warriston, removed her gold brocade, stepped

forward on her twa weel-made feet and knelt in her sark.

The parlourmaid, Nelly, poked me in the ribs, observing, She is

as cheerful as if she were going to her own wedding.

The cook shifted her bulk and craned forward dangerously, before adding

sententiously: She appears ravished by a spirit higher than that of man

or woman.

We giggled; she always speaks like her aptly named minister, The Rev.

Andrew Cant.

However, we soon sobered up as the blade began to fall.

Later our chimney sweep, Peter, told us that the blade had fallen just as

she began to pray: Into Thy hand, O..  She had got no further.

He also reported that he had tried to make his way up to Castlehill, to

witness the strangulation and burning of her nurse, Janet Murdo, but the

authorities had arranged the ghastly ceremony simultaneously, in order,

unsuccessfully, to create a counter-attraction, drawing attention away

from the young noblewoman’s plight.

Both punishments had been well- publicised, although the crime had

only been perpetrated a matter of days beforehand.  However, the

timing had been set to maximise and to demonstrate the very satisfying

show of repentance by the Lady, who had been well-rehearsed by the

Revs. Balfour and Bruce, God rest her soul!

Peter said that many in the mob were surprised that her father, the Laird

of Dunnipace, had not exerted himself on her behalf.  He was a well-

known sook, or favourite of King James, who had apparently expressed

His regal regret that such a beautiful young woman should be sacrificed

to Justice:

I never saw a woman’s face

I was sae sorry to see dee.

James I of England by Daniel Mytens.jpg

 

 

Part 2 next post- having problems with formatting!



 





 

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Trick or Treat?

23 Sunday Oct 2016

Posted by Candia in Community, Family, Film, Humour, Poetry, Relationships, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

clown costumes, ducking for apples, Frankenweenie, guising, Guy Fawkes, hallowe'en, Mars Bar, Milton, Paradise Lost, Trick or Treat, trug

Frankenweenie (2012 film) poster.jpg

(A seasonal re-blog, folks- enjoy!)

It was Hallowe’en and Carrie’s children were hyper-excited.  Tiger-Lily was

in charge of her siblings.  She had dressed as a witch and her brother,

Ferdy, was carrying a plastic trident and sported horns.  Ming had a

black plastic cape and his smile was rather disconcerting as he had

managed to retain plastic fangs from a Christmas cracker in his mouth,

in spite of the additional dental obstruction of a brace.  The whole effect

was akin to Frankenweenie.

Bill was a white-faced zombie with fake blood dripping down his jaw.

Edward’s face was green and he had a screw sticking out of his neck.

Rollo was a Ghostbuster.  Dressing up in clown costumes had been

verboten.

All carried pumpkin lanterns and empty, be- ribboned mini-trugs, for

the reception of donated goodies.

Now be polite, children, and only visit the houses on High Street.  Ring the

doorbells once only and say thank you if anyone gives you fruit.  You

mustn’t accept money…

Edward looked disappointed. I’ll wait round the corner in The Peal O’

Bells with the other mummies.  Stay together and when you’ve finished,

knock on the window.

Let’s go to Grandma’s first, said Ferdy. She won’t be scared of us.

Yes, let’s get it over with, said Tiger.

They rang the doorbell and stepped back politely.

Suddenly a white-sheeted figure with two black holes for

eyes opened the door and shouted: Boo!

Little Edward was terrified.  He seized his sister’s hand and

dropped his trug.

It’s only Grandma, silly, said Tiger, annoyed at the naughty

nonagenarian.

Trick or treat, Grandma?

Ginevra pulled the sheet off and smoothed her hair.

We’re not having that American nonsense here, she lectured.  When

your daddy was small he had to do guising properly.  We’re a traditional

family. 

So, who’s going to do the first turn?

Turn? quailed Rollo.

Yes.  A  recitation, dance or song.  You don’t get owt for nowt as

they used to say.

What’s a recitation?  asked Ming.

Come in.  I’ll show you, said Ginevra enthusiastically.  Ola! Have you

put the apples in the basin of water?

But Ola wasn’t there.  She had run off to Bric-a-Brac with Jean-

Paul, the opportunistic widower from the twinning visit.  Ginevra

had forgotten her new carer’s name.

Sorry.  Magda, then.

They all trooped into the sitting room and Ginevra moved her

case of Dewlap Gin for Discerning Grandmothers off the sofa, so that

they could sit down.

She took a deep, somewhat juniper-scented breath and launched

forth:

Of man’s first disobedience and the fruit

Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste

Brought Death into the world and all our woe…

Sing, Heavenly Muse!…

Two hours later Tiger had to shake Edward awake as their

grandmother uttered the final words:

..through Eden took their solitary way.

Ginevra bowed with a huge flourish and pronounced:

Paradise Lost: now that’s poetry!

She then proceeded to help herself to a bag of Mars bars which

Magda had been instructed to purchase for the children.

Now..

Grandma, we’ve got to go.  It’s past Edward’s bed-time, said Tiger-Lily

firmly.

Oh, what a pity.  We didn’t get round to ducking for apples, said Ginevra,

disconsolately.

There’s always next year, replied Tiger, scarcely banishing a rather

un- grand-daughterly thought: If the old bag is still around.

Carrie was frantic:  Where have you been all this time?

Blame Grandma, said Tiger.  Give her any opportunity or a platform and

you’ll be there all night.

You should have taken the crucifix and the garlic, like I told you, said

Carrie, bundling them into the 4×4.  She’s always been a monster.

Even to Daddy? asked an exhausted Ming.

Especially to Daddy.  Never mind.  We’ll have good fun at Clammie

and Tristram’s Guy Fawkes Party.  Burning effigies is so therapeutic!

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Location, Location, Location

22 Saturday Oct 2016

Posted by Candia in Celebrities, Humour, television, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Balti House, Boden, forever home, Kirstie Allsopp, Listed Building Consent, Little Greene paint, Location, micro-brewery, One Direction, Phil Spencer, poppadoms, Rumpelstiltskin, Skyfall, Welsh flagstones

Sorry, Cindy, this a re-blog!

Clammie had succeeded in getting her own way, as usual.  Tristram, her longsuffering husband, had been instructed to come home early from work, even though there was a big contract in the offing, as she had arranged a viewing of the eight-bedroomed, double-fronted Georgian house in High Street, Suttonford- (the one she had lusted after through the window of Shelley’s Estate Agency.)

Tristram had been unenthusiastic-understandably so-, given that their outgoings on school fees and mortgage were already crippling them financially and they had not even put their own home on the market.  So Clammie had brought in the big guns, namely Kirstie and Phil from the programme, Location, Location, Location.

Tristram was on a hiding to nothing and he knew it.  He had dutifully returned early, but Clammie had already smoothed most of the logistical difficulties by arranging for her boys to go to an early screening of Skyfall with Brassica and her twins.  Scheherezade was going to stay over at Tiger-Lily’s to work on their joint art project, while listening to One Direction.  Seven pm was an annoying time for a viewing, but Kirstie was a busy woman and that was the time they had been given.

Clammie had laid out his best, but casual Boden gear and then she had spent most of the afternoon trying to look cutting-edged, but understated.  This meant that she hadn’t organised a meal for their return, so Tristram telephoned and placed an order for an Indian takeaway with Benares Balti House.  He just hoped that the salt content wouldn’t do irreparable harm to his kidneys.

When Kirstie- certainly not understated- opened the door and ushered them into the hall of Nemesis House, Clammie fell instantly in love.  It would have made more economic sense if she had fallen for the rather dishy cameraman, but they squeezed past him as if he was invisible and the first soundbite to be recorded was Clammie uttering the totally original : Wow!  She then produced the suspect sentence that she had been invited to use in order to promote the programme:

Our priority is Location, Location, Location.

The camera focussed on Tristram, but not picking up the appropriate expression, swivelled to Clammie again, who said:

The large kitchen-cum-dining room has just the dimensions we crave for family bonding at mealtimes.

Kirstie felt she had it in the designer handbag, so she allowed them to go upstairs with Dan, the cameraman and then she texted Phil, who was sinking a pint in The Peal o’ Bells around the corner.

Get butt here pdq.  Sense sale.  Wild card not needed.  If no deal will eat espadrille. Kirstie addressed him differently off-camera.  She’d been on her feet all day and so she slipped off her wedged platforms and cooled her stockinged soles on the Welsh flagstones in the kitchen.

WIGWAM Woven Espadrille Wedges

Phil thought: In my own time, hussy.  (He was enjoying a third pint of the local micro-brewery’s Old Badger and was getting the low-down on the market from some of the locals.)  However, he knew all about being shown the red card, so he drained the glass, wiped the froth off his upper lip and hared it round the corner.

Clammie rushed into the kitchen, flushed and exclaiming:

Most of our furniture would fit and a lick of Little Greene paint would cover the cinnabar in the hall and the cardamom in the boot room.  Listed Building Permission for a few things and hello! –I mean, Voila! – Our Forever Home!  She looked into the lens, hoping that the entire nation would recognise her bilingual skills.

So you want me to phone Shelley’s in the morning to make an offer?  Kirstie could see a sunbed featuring on her horizon.  I think we should go in at the asking price.

Tristram wanted to put his foot down, but he knew that even Rumpelstiltskin could have put his foot through the floor and it would have made no impression on his wife.  The cameraman gave him a sympathetic look.  Both women ignored him.

Phil let himself in with the spare key.  Before he could enter the kitchen a make-up girl powdered his receding hairline.

Quick work, Kirstie, but just before you get too excited, I have something to say.  Do you want the good news or the bad news?

I don’t like these infantile games, Phil, Kirstie scolded, nodding to the cameraman to switch off.

A guy in the pub has just told me that the owner of the Balti House put in a good offer this afternoon and they’ve taken it off the market.

What did he offer? shrieked Clammie.

The full asking price, I believe, said Phil, who just wanted to go home.

But we would have offered more. Gazump them! screamed Clammie, turning the colour of Vindaloo.  Clearly she planned Montezuma’s revenge.

Sorry, said Phil.  He sealed the deal with a promise of complimentary poppadoms for life.

Kirstie spat, Poppadoms are SO last century.  It was difficult to make out what she was saying, though, as true to her word, she was beginning to eat her espadrille.

It dawned on Tristram that Balti, along with something else, was going to be off the menu for a very long time.  He hoped Kirstie and Phil, or the cameraman and make-up girl, might like a doggy bag at eight thirty. Meanwhile, the indignity of it: he would have to join the queue for pollock and chips at Frying Tonite.  He’d never get the smell out of his new Boden Chinos.

 

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Addled Strop

19 Wednesday Oct 2016

Posted by Candia in History, Humour, Language, Poetry, Social Comment, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Adlestrop, Attlesthorp, Bodleian, Dukes of Chandos, Edward Thomas, Heinz, Lord Saye and Sele, Repton, Richard Burton, Sir Thomas Leigh, Tatlestrop, Tedestrop, Tiddlestrop, Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes, You Tube

(Adlestrop station sign in bus shelter, 2007.

from geograph.org.uk

photo: Graham Horn)

 

Yes, I remember Adlestrop-

the name, because, quite uncertain,

of its precise pronunciation,

I referred to Richard Burton

 

(You Tube.)  Was that a mistake?

Once yclyped Tatlestrop, I trow-

where Repton landscaped Thomas Leigh’s lake.

‘Lee’, or ‘Lay?’  I don’t really know.

 

The church -St Mary Magdalene-

or should I call it ‘Maudlin?’

was linked to the Dukes of Chandos

(Shandos?) [ note to self:  Google the Bodleian]

 

Now I’m getting into a strop.

As for Twistleton-Wykham-Fiennes

of Tedestrop, or Attlestrop

or Tiddlestrop, it is like Heinz

 

Fifty-Seven Varieties.

It is hard to get it all off pat.

So, the present Lord Saye and Sele

shortened the whole shebang to ‘Nat.’

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Ruskin Falls

17 Monday Oct 2016

Posted by Candia in art, History, Nature, Poetry, Psychology, Relationships, Romance, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

battledore, Dante, Effie, Glenfinlas, John Everett Millais, John Ruskin, salmon leap, Trossachs

Millais Ruskin.jpg

(Portrait of John Ruskin by Sir John Everett Millais

-Ashmolean)

 

Another poem lost in the archives, which might be

worth a re-blog…

 

They thought I was in contemplative mood

when I gazed at those lichens and bubbles.

In fact, non-consummation makes one brood.

Damned rain exacerbated our troubles.

Effie assiduously sewed red cloth,

her hair crowned with a garland of foxgloves,

while Everett circled her like a moth,

the pair of them billing like turtle doves.

You’d look like a hyena if your wife

was trailing around the Trossachs like that.

You’d feel that you could take a palette knife

to the one against whom she leant and sat

for hours, reading Dante, while he drew.

And, having him cooped up in that snuff box,

tickling her with fern- as if I misconstrue.

His doodles made me uncomfortable.

He’d come in damp from studying these rocks,

clutching his oils, sepia ink, sable

brushes, teasing her, calling her Countess.

She even trimmed his hair for him one night,

collecting the blonde curls on The Witness,

some Edinburgh newspaper, not quite

read by William, or myself.  And his hand

was bandaged because the fool had injured

it, trying to make unstable stones stand

in the stream, for her to cross.  I’d endured

enough by then.  I watched the salmon leap

in Glenfinlas waterfall and pondered

what they were sowing and what they would reap.

They played battledore in the barn, wandered

the moors and bogs.  He said chilly mountains

made him love soft, warm breathing bodies and

all the while it incessantly rained- rains!

Do they think because they are in Scotland

the normal marriage vows do not apply;

that they can shelter under a shared plaid

and return soaking with another lie?

The bubbles have all burst, I’m afraid.

I stand in the midst of this turbulence.

Passions, torrent roars: I counter silence.

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The Kisokaido Road- after Hiroshige

14 Friday Oct 2016

Posted by Candia in art, Arts, Nature, Poetry, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

haiku, Hiroshige, Kisokaido

More haiku to match the previous post!

Image result for hiroshige wiki

(Wikimedia Brooklyn Museum; Frank L Babbott Fund)

 

Geese over the bay

curve through harboured boats’ masts, dark

against a full moon.

A firework’s flare

falls smoking over the bridge

where the daimyo passed.

 

People don’t notice

the moonbeams through transparent

petals of blossom.

  

In rain some wear capes

made of straw.  Their parasols

point towards the wind.

The temple precinct

is ankle deep in crisp snow.

Pipes are lit at fires.

Hiroshige

In a timber yard

Chows sniff each other: a tryst

beneath the lanterns.

Kimono hitched high,

a woman turns round to check

if her friends follow.

She is well balanced

on her little platform shoes

under louring skies.

 

 

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After The Stations of the Tokaiado Road – (Hiroshige)

14 Friday Oct 2016

Posted by Candia in art, Poetry, Writing

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Edo, haiku, Hiroshige, Kyoto, My Fuji, Tokaido

Getting into haiku.  Must have been after my post on The Perpetual Calendar.

Utagawa Hiroshige: First Cuckoo of the Year at Tsukudajima (Tsukudajima hatsu hototogisu), from the series Famous Places in the Eastern Capital (Tôto meisho) - Museum of Fine Arts

(Boston Museum Fine Arts, Wm S and John T Spaulding Collection)

 

Cuckoos fly the coast

from Edo to Kyoto.

It takes him three weeks

on foot, through high rocks,

where shrines hang in opaque mists.

In the riverbed

Fichier:Hiroshige Man leading an ox between mountain slopes.jpg

a man leads an ox.

Travellers huddle in clefts:

their sticks cast shadows.

File:26 - The Oi River Between Suruga and Totomi Provinces.jpg

Nude swimmers transport

goods on rafts over the river.

Fuji dominates.

Ayasegawa kanegafuchi

Against a plum sky

boats are poled past willows

in reedy waters.

A crescent slice hangs

below a suspended cobweb

bridge, which straddles the gorge.

Someone is carried

in a wicker hammock, under

austere battlements,

by men with crampons.

In the night they find their way

by white marker stones.

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The Perpetual Calendar

12 Wednesday Oct 2016

Posted by Candia in Animals, art, Community, History, Nature, Poetry, Social Comment, Writing

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

Book of Labours, Canaan, catharsis, hawking, pig sticking, reaping, sickle, sowing, threshing, vintage

We have just had Harvest Thanksgiving, so here’s an

old creation for you, in the manner of a Medieval Book of

Labours:

 

The Perpetual Calendar

I 

In January

he drinks by the fire,

mulling things over.

II

An icy landscape:

he raises his sharp axe blade,

then floats logs downstream.

III

March is for digging

and setting seeds in the fields;

sowing what they’ll reap.

IV

A flowering branch

is borne in April:

fertility sign?

V

Hawking is fine sport,

though not as lively as love-

but the bird is faithful.

VI

Hats keep off the sun.

It is the month of mowing.

All flesh is as grass.

VII

Sickles cutting corn…

thick- fleeced sheep need to be shorn.

It’s hot wearing boots.

VIII

Threshing with a flail,

his mouth set in a grim line

of concentration.

IX

Now vintage is here.

Grape clusters are as large

as those in Canaan.

X

Birds snatch winter seed

as fast as he can sow it.

Is there no respite?

XI

Knocking down acorns

provides some variety

and will plump his pigs.

XII

Pig – sticking’s grim work:

a December catharsis-

feasting, then fasting.

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ST KILDA

09 Sunday Oct 2016

Posted by Candia in Community, History, Nostalgia, Poetry, Religion, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

fulmar, guano, prehensile toe, puffin, St Kilda, Ultima Thule

A re-blog as a friend of mine has just returned from

St Kilda. I have always wanted to go there, but, so far I

have only managed to travel there in my imagination.  I

have been to the Melbourne alternative!

ST KILDA

Beyond the map, for months inaccessible,

except to nesting puffins on sheer stacks.

Once fearless, prehensile-toed men, able

to grasp guano-stained granite; to steal chicks,

abseiled, avoiding foul seagull spittle,

with straw ropes, to find food.  They fixed strong cleats

into bare rock, until the press prattle

brought voyeuristic tourist hordes in boats,

who wondered how men lived by sun and tide;

how those who’d never seen a rabbit, bee,

snake, apple, hard cash, earned their daily bread,

herding Stone Age sheep around the bleak bays,

anointing newborns’ umbilical cords

with vile, regurgitated fulmar oil,

which lit their candles.  They looked backwards

to William IV, before they set sail

for forest work (who’d never seen a tree).

Disease-rid, the surviving thirty-six

were taken from their archipelago

of Ultima Thule, to be shown like freaks

in geographical publications.

Now they wore tweed and lay in feather beds,

conformed to the Victorian fashion,

dictated by a different choice of needs.

But, in their souls they heard the clash of waves,

knowing they’d built their houses on the sand.

Whenever they were told that Jesus Saves,

their thoughts wandered to their Promised Land.

 

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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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