Day 53 & 54: Frogs, roses, chocolates and poems!

On Saturday, I arrived in Sussex whilst my mother was still working, so got the bus to where she lives. The moment I got on the bus, I found a box of chocolates and a chocolate medallion saying You are the Best on it on the seat. I doubted anyone would claim it if I handed it in, so I took it with me to give to David (I shall give him the same pseudonym I have given him in my book Off The Rails) for his birthday.

Mum tells me, whilst we sit in front of the TV and I read her some of my blog, that David does not eat sugar. I suggest perhaps it would be better if I ate the lot myself, but we decide, on balance, perhaps not.

On Sunday, I help mum clear some debris which has become something of a compost heap out the front, on the drive, as builders are due to come Monday and re-pave it. I clear it whilst mum rushes off to work again and I unearth about ten frogs hiding in a fern that mum bought for next to nothing but which took over the place. I re-locate the frogs to the pond, though they wriggle and try to leap out of my gloved hands.

The back garden and front are both exquisite – the back garden is something Monet would have struggled to do justice too, such is its array of colours, especially of the roses: bold pink ones, standing high; red ones, deep and strong; orange roses, of a rare and delightful hue; yellow ones, red-pink ones, white ones…The front garden too – though I do not even know all the names of the flowers – is a splendour, with the eternal, deep-red roses, orange nasturtiums and a carpet of blue star-like flowers growing on the rockery.

I get a lift with David to his party, as mum has to work again and says she will come later. When there, we sit in the garden of the house he has rooms in and share food (I give David his medallion and box of chocolates, although I tell him the fortune that led to them becoming mine) with other guests. Next to the garden is a church and we periodically hear the bells chime the hour. In the corner of the garden is a wild white rose that is perhaps twenty foot tall and a resplendent beauty, climbing a tree that is its neighbour.

We discover that there are many creative types amongst us: two storytellers and two poets, even before the ladies re-join us from admiring more roses in a rose garden. Therefore, David requests a poem and we all oblige, one highly talented man with a voluminous memory reciting a poem by Dylan Thomas (one of the ones to a friend on their thirty-fifth birthday, although David is a few years older). It is an emotional poem; rich and deeply affecting and we all like it so much we request him to read it again, which he does, again from memory.

Later, David sings one of his poems whilst the memory man recites it simultaneously, to great success. We all share a poem (I share Nostalgie, added to this blog on Day 2 or thereabouts) and mum comes with a beautiful lily for David an hour before the end.

Nine days to go before the Twins are born to my brother’s wife! Mum may stay the night with me that night and I may go to the hospital along with her to offer my support to my brother and his wife. Right, crossing the Thames now, so I will sign off and close the laptop.

Day 50: Poetry

I had intended to blog this yesterday, however, after working intensively on the computer, my eyes became very painful, so I stopped work for the day. The day before yesterday, I went to a poetry workshop locally and there made a female friend with whom I went to a film. Following on from the poetry workshop, I share with you a poem by Pablo Neruda, extracted from the third poetry book he published, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.

Every Day You Play

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing,
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwind in turning fans.
My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

I want to do with you
what spring does with the cherry trees.