Viv Taken by her Son
Thank you so much for all your kind words, dedications and time given to thinking of Mum/Viv during the time of her funeral. In particular, thanks to Linda Cosgriff, Becky Giles and Restless Jo from the blogging community who managed to make it in person.
Mum and Linda 2013
Linda/Tilly Bud/the Laughing Housewife had a very dramatic journey by train as there was a problem with the overhead lines on the East Coast Mainline and her train was delayed. She sneeked into the funeral late but still managed to get up and read Mum’s epitaph posted earlier.
I read one of Mum’s poems, The Poetry of Every Day, about her life in France. Thanks again to Linda for coming up with a list of good poems of Mum’s to choose from.
Donations on the day and on our Just Giving page raised an impressive total of £277.50 for Cancer Research.
Mum and Jo on the top of Northumberlandia 2013
Restless Jo dedicated the following 6-Word-Saturday to Mum and wrote a lovely blog about the ceremony.
I would like to produce a book/booklet of the best of Mum’s poems but I did not inherit her linguistic skills so need your help to make suggestions about what poems I should include!
Rest assured, her blog will be kept live with me as adminstrator although you will have to put up with lots of bad English and grammar as Mum was my proof reader.
Viv Finally Succeeding in Getting an Arrow on the Board
Thank you for all the messages of condolence and poems dedicated to Viv. We know that many of you are scattered around the world and it is heartening to know that her blogging presence has spread so widely and is so much appreciated. Some of you who are closer at hand have already asked about funeral arrangements. This will be held on Wednesday 20 July at West Road Crematorium in Newcastle upon Tyne at 1:15pm. Some of you will have met her, others may only have done so via her online activities but anyone who would like to come along, and is able to do so, would be most welcome. We will follow the funeral with some light refreshments at a location still to be arranged. Please, if you would like to come along, leave us a message so that we can have an idea of numbers.
Viv specifically asked for no flowers but that any donations be given to cancer research. If anyone does feel that they would like to make a donation we have set up a Just Giving page for this.
It is with great sadness that we have to tell you that Mum (Viv) died on the night of Tuesday 5 July.
This was her own epitaph written in May 2014 as it seems most appropriate to use her own words.
I will go down fighting
for that which I hold most dear:
for home and family and friends,
but when it’s time for me to go
I hope it’s without fear.
I want to lie in idleness
beneath my favourite tree.
Let my biodegradable body be compost,
ensure nature’s continuity
by adding to fertility:
enrich the soil with me.
She loved blogging and the community of everyone out there in the blogging world with whom she communicated on-line. This had kept her going over many years since she made her first steps into this environment on 23 April 2010. Thank you to everyone who has helped and encouraged her over these 6 years of blogging.
Strange computer — bewitched, bothered and bewildered
I can’t get into my email, so there will be about a gazillion to read and/or delete by the time I get home. I can’t find the WordPress reader either, so I haven’t a clue what all my friends have been doing. Never mind, I’m sure you’re all posting wonderful things which I will see when I get back to France on Thursday.
Going to Carlisle tomorrow to watch my grandson row in a pair and a coxed four in the regatta.
Be good while I’m away and have a great weekend.
Image from Google
I’ve written many perfumed poems, including my favourite A Smelly Poem and I don’t want to re-cover old ground, so here are a couple of little senryu for Grace’s prompt at dVerse, to drizzle our poems with scents. I’m sure there will be some great perfumed poems there, so do pop over for a read.
Anyone who scents
bacon frying out of doors
yearns to eat it now.
sniffed when passing by ─
The bartenders at the dVerse poets’ pub are having a couple of weeks
off, and I am flying over to UK tomorrow for a week in Northumberland with daughter Sally. I may be laptop-less, so don’t be alarmed if you don’t see me here for a while.
The sun rose ─
we rejoiced to see it ─
on the way out, albeit
late and slow.
It didn’t get much better
as the days went past.
Some days hope rose
with the sun.
As July approaches
will summer come at last?
For dVerse Monday Quadrille, a 44 word poem using the word rose
Girls’ night for film and popcorn
Jock’s away, and K very kindly fetched me for a girls’ night in at the Mill
It was a beautiful evening and the garden was full of colour and bees, so I took lots of pictures. Then we settled down in squishy cushioned chairs for a weepy wallow.
Oh dear! The film had been wiped. Never mind, the popcorn was not wasted and we had a lovely chatty time with old property programmes on TV.
I decline to re-open the topic of the day – too depressing.
The back garden at the Mill was made after Jock terraced and built stone walls and steps and toiled for the better part of a year. This was the first time I had seen it in full summer glory, and I reckon it was worth the effort.
I also had the chance to photograph the wall hanging I made for K & S’s wedding present:
Bargello Wall Hanging on the stairs at the Mill.
Do pop over to Cate’s place for more 6-w-Saturdays.
Politics is a dirty game
of lies, exaggeration and skulduggery,
obnoxious scaremongering in our name
wielded with crass stupidity.
Britain’s going back
to the nineteenth century
in splendid isolationist misnomer.
We must pick up the pieces
in the aftermath ─
no-one knows quite how
to do that fairly. To keep the peace
will be almost impossible now.
The saddest thing for me to see
is my natal country on the way
towards the type of politics
that governs the US of A …
and I didn’t even have a vote.
I wanted to make my poem for dVerse open link night relevant, but I’m probably not making much sense: the shock of this morning’s results in the British referendum to leave Europe has completely overwhelmed me. The pound sterling in freefall has a disastrous effect on our income, which will be stretched beyond the feasible if we have to provide our own healthcare here in France. I pray that reason will prevail with a return to equilibrium.
British Library Harley 978folio 11v
Summer has hiccups this year.
Two sunny days tempt us
to shed the odd layer,
put up the canopy,
lunch in the garden;
then ten days of drear
most chilly, a few hot,
some rainy, a few not,
some waking to fog
or bright white frost;
and so it’s been since April.
Summer is icumen in is a medieval English rota, possibly attributed to William of Wycombe, from the mid-13th century, in Wessex duakect of Middle English
Walt Wotjenik is behind the bar at dVerse for Poetics, and he wants us to look at summer poetry, and write about summer. That is a joke this year, so I have treated it as such.
A car navigates its way through the floodwaters of Mont Fleuri, one of the busiest districts in the capital city of Victoria, Mahe on Saturday evening (Derrick Young Khon, Pure FM Seychelles)
A New Year ’s Day trip to an artist’s studio-cum-café on Praslin, Seychelles saw us waiting at a bus stop when the monsoon started in earnest. Machine gun bullets rained down on us in our shorts, tee shirts and flip-flops. So what, we grinned cheerfully, it was a nice warm drenching.
The bus gave up when the flood reached the top of the tyres, so we got off and trudged through near waist-high water to the café. Power was off – not unusual – so having admired all the artwork, we waited, steaming slightly, while lunch was improvised. I was not popular when I sat down at the out-of-tune piano and played Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude.
We had to catch the plane back to Mahé in time for work next day, so we decided to walk the few miles to the airstrip via the driest place on the island – the beach. We found the airport seething with passengers waiting for the flood to subside so aircraft could land. Eventually the sky cleared, a plane came to shuttle the stranded passengers. Home and dry.
Warm rain teems, in
machine gun paradiddle –
fills every hollow
For dVerse Haibun Monday
Posted in haibun
Jock seems to be getting quicker at these embroideries: it only seems five minutes since he finished the goslings. The idea for this one came from an advertiseent in the Radio Times.
courtship or antagonism
ruffled feathers suggest a fight –
maybe a bit of both
Forgot to take the camera today
which is a shame, as while lunching at Pirou, the sea was sparkling in the sun and we were gifted with the sight of a trotter being trained along the shoreline. In default of today’s scene, you’ll have to be content with one of riders, taken last year on a dreary winter’s day.
Victoria Slotto is talking about meter for dVerse Meeting the bar today. Meter to me is not so much a discipline of choosing the number of beats or type of foot, but of bringing musicality to a poem. I am, therefore inclined to take liberties with strict meter to suit the mood and the sense of a poem.
Here is an example of a Spenserian Stanza which swings between pentameter, tetrameter and hexameter. It also changes from first to second person, in order to give myself a good talking to.
That fellow did not deserve my absolution
for using me and dropping me the way he did
but time has a way of creating resolution –
it soothes the hurt in order to remit
the blame, erase resentment, call it quits.
Remember only good times – and they were –
to re-live historic bitterness forbid.
Life comes again, you were not burnt
but only scorched. Move on, forgive, towards re-birth.
And here are a couple of short strict(ish) iambic tetrameter triolets:
What do you think this is ? A game?
eight line metrical rhyming verse
with repeats, a triolet is its name.
What do you think this is? A game?
It’s fun to write one all the same –
to fun I’m not at all averse.
It really is some kind of game,
to write in metrical rhyming verse.
A woman’s place is in the wrong,
to stroke the ego of her man.
Despite the fact that she is strong
a woman’s place is in the wrong.
To keep the peace – her canny plan –
she has to jolly him along,
pretend that she is in the wrong –
to soothe the ego of her man.
For the comfort of familiarity
the relaxation of wild hilarity
the consolation of whimsicality
we give thanks.
For the drab routine of boring mundanity
the culture shock of harsh reality
the discomfort we feel at crass inanity
we close our eyes
For meeting life with adaptability
responding to change with flexibility
living our lives with originality
we do our best.
Miz Quickly comes up with some great prompts. This one was to write an ode to celebrate the drab, peculiar or mundane with a touch of sadness. As it’s a while since I wrote an ode, I looked it up and found the unhelpful advice to write three stanzas with lines of unequal length; strophe, antistrophe and epode. Your guess is as good as mine.