My Life by Jade: Hot Weather Lament

Mummy wanted me to write a traditional tanka. She told me it has to have 31 syllables in five lines, where the syllables line up 5-7-5-7-7.

So I came up with this:

Pavements burn my paws.

Minutes after leaving house

I am panting hard.

Best not walk in blazing heat.

Wait till the sun has gone down. 

Today's Haiku

pic by Martin Addison

Wind makes oak leaves dance,
warm gold in the autumn sun,
yet we still shiver.

pic by David Hawgood

A Poem

I'm not sure if I've posted this before, but if so, here it is again.

Strolling

Behind the park, the sea was still – like glass –
and quiet – just a ripply murmur where gentle waves met the shore.
Below the wooden pier the posts seemed elongated,
then their reflections shimmered, for the breeze stirred the water
as I strolled by.

To the right, the wooded shores of Arne loomed dark against the sky and sea.
Far ahead the massive ferry liner soared over tiny boats
as it slid slowly and silently into its docking place,
two small spirals of grey smoke climbing from its funnels,
as I strolled on.

The sand was polka-dotted with prints of people, dogs and birds,
yet empty of life until, around the corner, one brave sunbather stretched out.
The line of beach huts closed and shuttered, except for one
which an old man painstakingly painted bright green before the winter,
as I strolled on by.

Silly Poem

Nothing to Read on the Train

I left my Kindle on the train
on the outward journey.
What a stupid thing to do.

Now I have nothing to read on the train
on the homeward journey.
I am beside myself.

I spent an hour on the internet
to find out what to do.
Then I made the call.

"Sorry you lost your Kindle on our train.
Here's another number to call."
I made a second call.



"Sorry you lost your Kindle on our train.
Here's another number to call."
I made another call.

Someone called to tell me this:
my Kindle came off at Plymouth.
God bless the honest man.

They sent my Kindle to Bristol
where the found things go.
I made another call.

Bristol know nothing about it.
"Call again next week.
The system needs an update."

It's pretty amazing really,
the number of people who wave
as the train trundles by.

I see more on my homeward journey,
gazing through the window,
because I have nothing to read.

(The photo is by CrazyD: source Wikimedia Commons: NB. If you can read the text you'll see it's not English and looks to me like German)

Haiku Diary for Today

Wind pushes us on
along the noisy shoreline,
as waves crash and splash.

We find some shelter
up the steps to Ham Common
and walk back that way.

New Poem

I've created a new poem, Nature's Kaleidoscope.

It has been snapped up by Marc for his Folding Mirror blog, so you need to head over there if you'd like to check it out.  He's found a rather better image for it than mine as well.

Seeing the verses on the screen, I'm not sure about the last line now.  It may have to change.  What do you think?

A Concrete Poem

Many moons ago, when I was at college, my English lecturer told us that a concrete poem took the shape of its subject, and we all had to try to make one up. This was my effort.

The Tree at the Top of the Hill

I remember the days
when I climbed up your hill,
and rested awhile in your shade,
gazing out on the slopes to the stream and the mill
at the birds on the wing and the deer in the glade.
Now my eyes must look out on the flat city streets
where the park has its trees but the trains rush on by.
While there’s shade, there’s no peace on those seats
with the roar of the traffic nearby.
But I remember those days
of climbing
and resting
and gazing
and seeing
the living
of wild things
not sad things
but glad things.
With everywhere still,
From the tree at the top of the hill.

Children and Food

Tomorrow I'm off to London to care for my youngest granddaughter while her mother takes off for a friend's 40th birthday party in Bristol. Those two met when they were both working as nannies for ex-pat families in Holland. It's great that now they both have children of their own and live about 100 miles apart, they still make time for each other.

Even at six years old, my granddaughter is a very slow and particular eater. A couple of years ago, after she'd been to stay with me, I wrote this poem.

If you eat up all those greens
there’s another Yorkshire pud.
I don’t like those beans.
Eat them up; you really should.

Can I have some chocolate cake?
Only if you eat those peas,
and the mashed potato too.
Money doesn’t grow on trees.

Why don’t I have some chicken?
Mum said you like fish fingers better.
I’d like to have a bone to chew.
I’ll take a pic and send a letter.

These chips are not good, you know.
Mummy always buys McCains.
Seems I cannot get it right;
even baked beans must be Heinz.

Morning Tanka

Rain pounds on rooftops.
Snuggle duvet closer round.
When bed is cosy
with dreams of sun-baked beaches,
why begin a day like this?

A Wintry Mood

We drive through the wood
where the trees stand naked.
Stark leafless branches
twist and snake towards the grey
sunless sky.

We drive past the fields
bare of crops and sludgey.
Rain falling dankly.
Thin hedge revealing brown
sullen earth.

We slide on wet roads.
Flashes light the puddles
dull green and greasy.
Matching our hopeless mood
this winter.

Poem First Draft

It's been a long time since I have been inspired to try my hand at poetry. I've never claimed to be a poet, but occasionally it happens. And as I was walking yesterday, these words started to come to me. I thought they were going to be descriptive prose but they've turned into this little prose poem.

The photo is a bit of a cheat - taken at a different time and in a different place, although close. But it does serve to illustrate one of the poem's lines.

I'm not really sure it's a finished poem yet. What do you think?

Strolling

Behind the park, the sea was still – like glass –
and quiet – just a ripply murmur where gentle waves met the shore.
Below the wooden pier the posts seemed elongated,
then their reflections shimmered, for the breeze stirred the water
as I strolled by.

To the right, the wooded shores of Arne loomed dark against the sky and sea.
Far ahead the massive ferry liner soared over tiny boats
as it slid slowly and silently into its docking place,
two small spirals of grey smoke climbing from its funnels,
as I strolled on.

The sand was polka-dotted with prints of people, dogs and birds,
yet empty of life until, around the corner, one brave sunbather stretched out.
The line of beach huts closed and shuttered, except for one
which an old man painstakingly painted bright green before the winter,
as I strolled on by.

English Weather Tanka

Rain pounds on rooftops.
Snuggle duvet closer round.
When bed is cosy
with dreams of sun-baked beaches,
why begin a day like this?

For anyone who doesn't know, this tanka follows the Japanese form of syllables: a sequence of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables on consecutive lines.

In Defence of Haiku

When I read Jim Murdoch's post about hating haiku recently, I had to agree with a lot of what he wrote. But I also have a reason to love haiku.

I first learnt about haiku on a college course as a mature student when I was about 34. I'd been going through a bad patch after my first husband left me and our two children.

My love life was erratic. I'd had a few dates but couldn't seem to click with anyone. If they wanted to see me again, I wasn't interested, and if I was, they weren't. I was feeling unattractive and uninteresting. At the same time, I was trying to make a happy and comfortable life for my children while pursuing some higher education on a students' grant. (In retrospect, I was so lucky that it was a grant and not a loan as it might be today.)

One evening I found a babysitter and went to listen to some music in my local church. I thought it might be uplifting, but I found it bitter sweet, and in this mood I wandered home along the path by the river in the dark. Selfishly not thinking about my children, I couldn't care less if there was a psychopath around to bump me off. It would have been a happy release. Silly me.

My college assignment to write a haiku drifted into my mind as I looked at the reflection of the moon in the water beside me, and this just popped up in my head.

The moonlight shimmers
as the breeze stirs the water
on a warm June night.

I've never forgotten it. Every time I think of it, I remember my hopeless mood and how fortunate I am to be not still in that place.

Now I write a haiku diary, picking a small moment or event in each day that seems memorable. I always stick to the 5–7–5 syllables but not always the Japanese rules on content. How factual or poetic they are varies a lot but reading them afterwards usually brings back the emotions and feelings along with the memories. I post these in my other blog over at Writelink. Here's a link to the last one in case you'd like to see.

So that's why I love haiku. I couldn't be without them in my life now.

A Haiku Diary

About 18 months ago I started to write a haiku a day. Gradually this turned into a haiku diary, where I try to instil the essence of a memorable part of each day. It’s amazing how it jogs my mind to remember when I read a few from months ago.

I try to do this every day, but often fail. However, I do keep a factual journal inherited from when I was in a business partnership and needed to record what I did with my time. At the end of each month I refer to this so I can go back and fill in the gaps. Some of my blog entries help too.

It gets done each month because I always post my monthly haiku diary in my Writelink blog. The link is to the last one posted for November.

As I look back, I can often recognise the ones I wrote as they happened because they are more poetic and less about the factual things. But even if the words in my haiku are less tangible, I can still relate them to what I did on the day.

December is a very busy month so I have lots of gaps to fill. But below is one I wrote for Boxing Day on the 26th. My last post here was a prose version of that day too, one which I wrote in the evening.

Summer’s leaf curtains
are drawn back to air the views
on our country drive.



Pic is by Raould at Wikimedia Commons

A Poem

I'm feeling a bit down today - some family problems. I'm not feeling much like writing so I looked out a poem from last year. I wrote it while travelling on a stormy day. On re-reading it, it seemed to run a gamut of emotions but end on a note of hope. That's what I need right now.

To Exeter from the coast

On a wild, wet, windy day
white horses surging shorewards,
with sea spray leaping high
as the train roars by.

Birds clustering on the waves
in the wide estuary.
Little boats bobbing the swell,
the train flies pell-mell.

By the river the pub looks bleak
and the cows seek shelter;
rain strafes the sodden sheep
while travelling children weep.

Seagulls sit in the city park,
branches flail, leaves flurry.
Sun breaks out to rekindle passion
as the train draws to the station.

Summer Sundays

The sunny weather we’ve been having reminded me of this poem I wrote last year. It started off as a much shorter entry into a Writelink competition for a poem about summer Sundays. Then I learnt about a new poem structure, which is based on the number of syllables, starting with just one, and adding one to each succeeding line.

Anyway I thought I’d put a couple of these stanzas in my poem, reversing one of them. Although you can go on editing poems for ever, I’m not too unhappy with the result. The subject matter is very personal, and if I’m in a sentimental mood, it can still bring tears to my eyes.

Family album

On lonely summer Sundays
I take out the photo album
to help me remember
family togetherness.

There was one summer Sunday
we picnicked out at Wim Green
high above Blackmore Vale,
a family together.

We
were glad
to be there
in just one place,
romp through knee high grasss
wing toddlers in rough games
eat food sweeter than at home
enjoy the magnificent views
be one big family together.

How bitter sweet to see these pictures
of sons and daughters in good times
with partners and young offspring
before the world snatched them
far away from here.
So Sundays now
spent alone
must be
borne.

In my dreams I wander high
above the Vale and meet them
dancing in the meadow,
a family together.

PS I almost forgot that I had promised to give a mention to my pal, David Robinson's new novel, The Haunting of Melmerby Manor. It's currently available as an e-book and the paperback comes out later this summer. David has written about the hard work involved in marketing after publication as a guest blogger here.

A Prompt

Occasionally I have to resort to using prompts to get me started on writing something. Recently I accepted the word synchronicity as a prompt for a poem. What came to my mind was this:

Using synchronicity is making connections

between things in your life,

and letting those connections

add up to an opportunity

that takes you from where you are

to somewhere better.

My wonderful Readers’ Digest Wordpower Dictionary tells me that synchronicity is the simultaneous occurring of events.

In his book, The Celestine Vision (the reading of which I was assured would completely change my life), James Redfield wrote about synchronicity. He refers to a series of amazing coincidences that lead to opportunities which we must grasp on our journey through life, if we are to follow the spiritual path set out for us. I’m not sure I’m ready for the spiritual side, but I sure agree about the coincidences.

One of my treasured memories is bumping into an acquaintance I liked and admired but had lost touch with. It happened that we both took a holiday on a Greek island starting on the same day. And we both chose to eat in the same restaurant on that day so that we met up there. We were both bowled over by this coincidence and spent a lot of time together during that holiday. That was about twenty years ago and we are still firm friends who trust each other and rely on each other for all kinds of support.

That’s what I call synchronicity.

Moody Poem

This will be my last post this week. I'm frantically trying to get everything done before I head off to London tomorrow to look after my granddaughter while her mother is away on a jolly. The weather's not too good but my mood is still better than it was last year. Here's a poem I wrote then to reflect my mood. Thanks to franscud for encouraging me to post it.

Winter

We drive through the wood

where the trees stand naked.

Stark leafless branches

twist and snake towards the grey

sunless sky.

We drive past the fields

bare of crops and sludgey.

Rain falling dankly.

Thin hedge revealing brown

sullen earth.

Flashes light the puddles

dull green and greasy.

Matching our hopeless mood

this winter.