(Pear tree blossom by Ruslan; Wikimedia Commons ; uploaded to Flickr by Pauk)
The pear tree’s blossom
seemed of little consequence
to my casual glance.
I would not have fastened it
to a love letter;
but when I scrutinised it,
I noticed something
quite remarkable, in fact:
its petals have a blush tinge,
right around the edge
and so, I then understood
why Yang Kuei’s face,
dampened with tears, was described
as a rain-streaked spray of pear.
Fathers grow pleased when
sons beat the competition
and ascend the ranks.
When one has waited a long
time for promotion
and it comes at last, one can’t
help reflecting that
it would have been nice sooner.
When a woman is honoured,
dignity is hers,
but, if her age is advanced,
she’ll have lost her looks;
may have less of an impact.
It’s sad, but it’s the world’s way.
(Photo by Meneerke Bloem. Wikipedia, 2008)
Its leaves don’t move me,
but when I think the phoenix
chose to dwell in it,
fore-telling the Emperor’s
advent, then I bow
before its magnificence.
Many a zither
gains fine resonance from it;
it makes good boxes
and produces gunpowder,
its bark a fast dye.
Regeneration from its roots
links it to the bird legend.
(Photo: Edible Dormouse: Michael Hanselmann;
Have just won 3rd Prize with this at The Buxton International
Festival and Book Weekend, Nov 24th, 2017…..
We’re Die Siebenschlafer – The Seven Sleepers;
the fat, Continental cousins let loose
on Tring, from a Rothschild menagerie.
(Yes, we broke out of his glilaria
and formed menages ad infinity.)
A Mad Hatter invited us to come,
but we were the wrong sort, right from the start.
Delicacies, we are quite edible,
not like those pink, or white sugar rodents,
but are establishing our own Empire,
while the Romans, who ate us, are long gone.
Those deep-fried insults are deep-dyed in us:
an elephant never forgets. It’s said
that we mice are its closest relative.
We estivate and hibernate: that’s true.
And we sleep (dormir) hidden from your view –
remove your kitchen kickboards and you’ll see!
We appropriate the nests of others,
or a box some tit has tied to a tree.
We power nap under duvets till Spring.
Fermented fruit gives us a boozy snooze.
At three weeks, our offspring will see daylight.
We chuck them out before they’re a month old
and we don’t suffer empty nest syndrome.
If The Border Police catch us by the tails,
we slough them off and go back underground.
We furry refugees from Hungary
are hungry and upwardly mobile too,
aspiring to lifestyles arboreal.
We have no respect for native culture
and will gnaw away at your church candles.
This is immigration on a grand scale.
We can’t be stopped, as a Protected Species.
Invasion is just a fact of Nature.
The world will have a rude awakening.
Wachet auf! Don’t drowse to your extinction,
for the meek/mouse may inherit the Earth.
My third posting of poetry I like by other people.
Maybe a nod to Philip Larkin in this one?
It doesn’t come easy.
In spite of it all,
I can’t help pushing open
the doors of country churches;
shoving a coin or two
in the box on the wall,
paying twice over
for the leaflet I take.
It doesn’t come easy.
Wandering among gravestones
departure is almost
impossible. I delay
it over and over
to hear once more the song of the blackbird.
It doesn’t come easy.
As I race back
into the modern
I think of cathedral towns
and country rectories
and gentle rectors’ wives
arranging the flowers.
Another poem that I liked- by Winifred Young. One of two I am
posting today (see previous post)
Some miracles are slow:
white lilac each returning Spring
(whiter than all detergent claims);
healing of tissue- failing that,
the spirit’s adaptation, achievement of serenity;
faith’s slow gestation- many months or years,
a lifetime even;
(and who can know how long a labyrinth of thought
the Spirit threaded
that St Paul should see a sudden light?)
awareness of Your presence
– though always there.
How many miracles in soul or body
go without recognition?
the nerve that grows, the strengthened will,
Some miracles don’t happen, but
there are alternatives.
today I am sharing a poem which I found on a postcard
at an Anglican Retreat Centre. I have never forgotten its
sensitivity- and I have never yet seen the kingfisher, nor
the answer to some of my prayers. Yet, I still hope.
DISCLOSURE by Ann Lewin
Prayer is like waiting for the
Kingfisher. All you can do is
Be where he is likely to appear, and
Often, nothing much happens;
There is space, silence and
No visible sign, only the
Knowledge that he’s been there
And may come again
Seeing or not seeing cease to matter,
You have been prepared
But when you’ve almost stopped
Expecting it, a flash of brightness
… an advertising endorsement on a cardboard tag attached to
a pair of new socks which someone I knew found in a desk drawer
in their new office (or should I have called it ‘brown study’)!
The next incumbent found them at the back
of a desk drawer: unopened; kept in case.
The trite endorsement on the cardboard pack
guaranteed every woman would chase
the sporter of these elasticated
brown socks. So, why had they never been worn?
Maybe his blonde secretary hated
being recumbent if he kept them on;
maybe his wife bought him deodorised
versions; perhaps he required more support,
especially if said spouse had surmised
why he was late every night; caught short.
He had had to vacate his office and
forgot these. Brown was the colour of it,
she’d thought. We always try to understand
and bless their cotton socks that never fit.
And their over-stretched imagination
envisages that we’ll believe all lies.
Now The New Boss, with anticipation,
severs the link and finds they are One-Size.
…based on the decription of a log jam of carriages in 10th
century Japan, in The Pillow Book!
After an event,
everyone wants to escape.
Some drivers push in;
some people give way, politely;
but others are rude
and drive right up your exhaust
when you leave the grounds
and exit onto the road.
Someone always overtakes
and may flip the bird
from the safety of their car.
They wouldn’t do this
in normal circumstances,
but are brave behind the wheel!