08 Sunday Oct 2017
Posted in art, Arts, Literature, Nostalgia, Poetry, Relationships, Romance, Writing
Tags
(Metropolitan Museum Art http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works-of-art/55.94.1.2;
Momoyama period. Tale of Genji)
…difficult to leave –
the cherry blossoms in bud
and also the mists
from the mountains, in evening.
She had misgivings,
but put on her floral robes
for the city move.
She thought of her dead sister.
Kaoru offered his service.
She was so distressed.
Poignancy of rose plum scent
tinctured memories.
She gifted her combs to nuns
and the carriages arrived.
13 Wednesday Sep 2017
Posted in Arts, Literature, Nature, Poetry, Psychology, Relationships, Romance, Writing
Even after death,
entrenched jealousy persists,
tainting a man’s new
relationships, endeavours,
with melancholy.
Lady of Orange Blossoms,
you were a comfort.
The cherry branches broken;
exile no place for spouses.
Stripped of his office,
a cock crowed as he discussed
memories, regrets.
The waning moon obscured him:
his a shadowy future?
31 Monday Jul 2017
Tags
(Photo by Brian Adler: Wikipedia)
The cherry blossom
began in Kazan’s reign* and
his mausoleum
marks the resting place of one
who preferred to be a monk.
16 Saturday Mar 2013
Posted in Arts, Humour, Poetry, Suttonford, television
Tags
Blue Peter badge, Cherry Blossom, detective work, Enid Blyton, Expulsion from Eden, Honor Blackman, I-Spy, Keyhole Kate, KGB, Man from UNCLE, Mata Hari, MI6, rescue mission, spying
Having had a nostalgic conversation regarding childhood reading matter, I went
home and unearthed a poem I had written years ago on the same topic that
Carrie, Clammie, Brassie and I had discussed in Costamuchamoulah cafe earlier
in the day.
Here it is!
What MI6 Didn’t Tell Us
That summer Enid Blyton had a lot
to answer for. We all turned detective,
solving mysteries, prying into what
was forbidden fruit, having invective
shrapnelled at us by parkies and wardens.
If someone chucked an Embassy packet
over a hedge, into neighbours’ gardens,
we deduced that a KGB racket
was involved. Honor Blackman and Mata
Hari, The Man from UNCLE, Keyhole Kate
were our role models. We conserved data-
benchmarks, registration numbers lent weight
to our magnified evidence. We saved string,
coins for the phone, balloons, Elastoplast,
an old police whistle, chalk and anything
useful for a rescue mission. We passed
some hours on a cemetery wall,
keeping watch on a newly-opened grave,
convinced that bodysnatchers at nightfall
would steal the corpse and we would be the brave
Famous Five, Secret Seven, defending
decency, earning a Blue Peter badge.
There would be no use in them pretending
innocence, as by our espionage,
we had collected many fingerprints
with Cherry Blossom, to eliminate
the guiltless from our enquiry. Hints
on disguising one’s appearance and gait
were avidly studied, But penknives’
blades suddenly folded, keys were returned
when one gang member divulged human lives’
origin, so-called facts of life. Cheeks burned
and we decided to investigate
no more. Shortly after we would trail boys,
but only in the manner of I-Spy,
and not with the sophisticated poise
which fabricates an instant alibi.
We were to some extent still in the dark
and flaming angels barred us from the park.
