If you go down to the woods today – #Bluebells #poetry #video pic.twitter.com/kq9vFPaOJP

Oh to be in England
Now that April’s there…..

So begins the famous poem Home Thoughts, From Abroad  by Robert Browning, written in 1845 when he was feeling homesick in Italy. It is a lovely poem and I have always taken pleasure from poems of Nature. One of the few “arty” things I learned at school was the poem “Daffodils” by William WordsworthIn later life as a wannabee poet I discovered the words of John Clare and wept with frustration at my dullness. These days what poetry I have I secrete in my novels like a pinch of mono-sodium glutamate among the stir fried bean sprouts of new love. (Guess what I’ve been cooking for dinner?)

It was a release to get away from the office and go to the Bluebell woods at Mottisfont in Hampshire. I took my camera and tried to capture the crushing fragility of such beauty. All I could think of was the poem by Oscar Sparrow entitled simply “Bluebells”So much of our longing as humans comes down to a need to hold on and endure. Humble flowers with their immense beauty and perfume fade before our eyes and we cannot hold them any more than we can hold ourselves on the shingle shores of Time. And yet in poetry we can pass on a few moments that in the act itself of sharing, flower over and over as seeds, roll over and over as waves, kiss over and over as innocent lovers: as if no bloom before had offered such beauty or no lips before had ever known the joy of the kiss.

These were my feelings when I first read Oscar Sparrow’s poem. Putting away all the bawdy splash and dash of selling the stuff and beating the drum which is a novelist’s/publisher’s life, I was in those woods – trying to hold back Time, trying to breathe in the blue. 

Emma thinx: Memory is your portrait. Select your poses to paint you

Mutton Dressed As Ram

Oh yes – I’ve been following the Boston police radio scanners and the Twitter feeds. I can know everything – except why and how all the awfulness of life can ever be converted to love, pleasure and and happiness. Of this I know nothing and thus I am at one in ignorance with the great statesmen, the priests and the tormented dispensers of sorrow alike.

Chance me a crack, blow me a wind and I’ll seed you a life

All the same, today the sun came out. Indeed Oh to be in England now that April’s there  – to quote Robert Browning. I often wonder if cruelty truly is the unique realm of mankind. Nature is indifferent to suffering, but takes no satisfaction from it either. If (as I do suspect) we may well be the only intelligent life in the universe – how unique is our cruelty to one another. 

Will you just shut up and admire my bloody innocence!

These thoughts fell upon me as I walked in fields near the house in the UK. As I photographed a lamb for a nice schmaltzy blog-pic, the mother arrived to stare me down. To be frank, she was rather terrifying. She had that awful righteous “j’accuse” expression worn by French teachers returning my French homework, now more red ink than blue.(I used to quip to Madame Guillotine that at least by dipping my essay in red she had made a revolutionary tricolor of my efforts. I don’t think she liked me).  

Mutton dressed as Ram. 

I really MUST learn some French grammar by the way. Although I’ve gabbled away for years and years among French folk, I don’t have an inkling of la grammaire. (Between you and me, for many years when the French ticked me off for the faults of ma grammaire, I always rose to her defence by proclaiming that my grandmother  was at least as good as theirs.) A few days ago in England I found myself in a femaelstrom of adolescent student bile over the use of the double reflexive subjunctive tense in secondary clauses following an indirect dative objet. I may have tripped over my subordinate sub clause of comprehension in explaining this matter clearly. Pardonnez-moi mes amis! (Oooh – I do miss home!)

Emma thinx: Scanners shaketh man.