The Best Days Ever

     

 

    I enjoy watching cookery programmes, and I have my favourite go-tos. The other day, I viewed an episode of a series of programmes that featured picnic food. It got me thinking back to when I was a kid and when my grandmother used to take me on a picnic regularly.

    The food we ate on the picnic was very different from the food suggestions on this programme. There was no quiche, sausage rolls, scotch eggs or Battenberg cake, washed down by iced lemon tea.

    Our feast usually consisted of jam or cheese sandwiches accompanied by a flask of tea. They were the best days ever.

 

    I’ve included a classic poem today, written by African-American Julius C. Wright. I hope you enjoy it.

 

 Going to the Picnic

 

There is a large crowd of folk

Hurrying down the road

They are going to have a picnic now 

And spread the news abroad

They're wearing beautiful bouquets

And carrying bright tin dippers

New straw hats are waving high

And patent leather slippers

Their hats are made of fine chiffon

And decorated too

There will be plenty of goodies

For your friends and for you

They will have a big barbecue

And a lot of other stuff

They are going to eat and drink

Till everybody puff 

They will have cakes and candy by the heaps

And ice cream pressed in cakes

Peanut parched fresh and hot

And a lot of fine milkshakes

They will have fish croquettes by the bushels

And coconut jumbles too

They are going to feed their friends and foes

And have enough for you

They are going to have a big dance

And have a Jolly time

They want to show their handsome looks

Because they look so fine

 

One barrel or two of lemonade

Mixed all through with ice

Lemons cut and thrown therein 

Gee! it’s awful nice 

 

Of all the fun and jollities

And all the places of rest

Just go to an old picnic ground 

They tell me that's the best

 

 

 

 

 

Hope

 

 

    Life isn’t always plain sailing as we all know. Illness can strike unexpectedly and lives can be turned upside down.

    For those who are admitted to the hospital and face a long stay, feelings of despair and abandonment can creep in and trying to remain optimistic is hard.

    All they can do is hope that their future may become brighter than the dark days they are experiencing.

    The poem extract featured today is by John Keats and is about finding ourselves searching for hope and comfort, whilst facing moments of despair.

To Hope

 

When by my solitary hearth I sit,

And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom; 

When no fair dreams before my mind's eye flit,

And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;

Sweet hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,

And wave thy silver pinions over my head!

Whenever I wander, at the fall of night,

Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray,

Should sad despondency my musings fright,

And frown, to drive fair cheerfulness away,

Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof,

And keep that fiend despondence far aloof!

 

John Keats  1795-1821

 

 

March #Doing It For The Girls

   This week we've been celebrating ‘International Women's Week’ on 4th -10th March 2024 and ‘International Women's Day’ on 8th March 2024. This year's theme is ‘Inspire inclusion.’

     Through the centuries, it has been hard for women to have gender equality and inclusion. Because of this, many talented women have been excluded from society and branded as being different, causing them to lead a secluded and lonely life.

    

    Their work not being recognized until they were sadly not with us. One such talent was the American poet, Emily Dickinson. Today I want to pay homage to her and I've included one of her poems. Some of the #photographs I took in the month of  March a few years ago, so I felt were fitting. I hope you enjoy it.

 

    Remember, we’re #DoingItForTheGirls!!

 

 

Dear   March

Dear March ... Come in ...

How glad I am ...

I hoped for you before ...

Put down your hat ...

You must have walked ...

How out of breath you are ...

Dear March, how are you and the rest ...

Did you leave nature well ...

 Oh March, come right up the stairs with me ...

I have so much to tell ...

 

I got your letter, and the birds ...

The Maples never knew that you were coming ...

I declare, how red their faces grew ...

But March, forgive me ...

 And all those hills you left for me to hue ...

There was no purple suitable ...

You took it all with you ...

Who knocks? that April ...

Lock the door ...

I will not be pursued ...

He stayed away a year to call.

When I am occupied ...

But trifles look so trivial

As soon as you have come

That  blame is just as dear as praise,

And praise as mere as blame ...

Emily Dickinson 1830 ⁄ 1886

Words from the Heart

 

 

To love, is to cherish

To cherish, is to adore

To adore, is to treasure

To treasure, is to be devoted to 

To be devoted to, is to be faithful

To be faithful to, is to be committed to 

To be committed to, is what I am to you

My darling Valentine 

 

Inspiration from the Tedium

    The last few weeks I’ve been nursing a cold and annoying cough. The good news, for my partner is that I lost my voice for a few days. Of course, for every piece of  great news, there is a piece of not-so-good that seems to come along and smack you in the face. Yes, my voice has returned.

    Due to the tedium of spending all day at home and my eyes feeling a little tired, with screen time, I decided it was time to look through old notebooks and files.

    Some notebooks contain the blogs I've written over the last eleven and a half years. That's six hundred and twenty-five to be exact. I even came across a few surprises along the way, as to how I chose my subject matter in the early years.

    Now, my  completed and unfinished manuscripts, are contained in plastic folders. Some of the unfinished works have been printed out on paper and some not, I hold them all on my hard disk drives anyway. But, each file has a notebook enclosed and sometime these are also accompanied by sheets of lined A4. 

    These notebooks/A4 sheets contain outlines, descriptions of characters, plots and rough drafts for each of the chapters. All written in longhand, as unfortunately, shorthand is not something I ever managed to grasp.

    There was one of these unfinished works  that caught my eye dating back to 2015. I started to try and remember why I just never finished it. The answer is that in everything I write, I always require to know how it's going to end. This story I just could never think of an ending.

    I read through the notes and character outlines, call it inspiration or, boredom, the ending came to me in a flash. 

    So guess what I’m working on?

    Have a great week.

   

    

    

Nature Sculpting the Landscape

 

    If you live in Tenerife or any of the principal Canary Islands, it's impossible to not realize that the landscape has been resculpted by volcanic explosions in years gone by.  

    The last one in Tenerife was November 18 1909. The following extract from a poem by William Cowper, although written about Mount Etna, Italy, is very appropriate and could have been written about Mount Teide.

 Slept unperceived, the mountain yet entire;

When, conscious of no danger from below, 

She towered a  cloud capped pyramid of snow,

No thunders shook with deep intestine sound

The blooming groves that girdled her around.

Her unctuous olives and her purple vines

Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines

The peasant’s hopes, and not in vain, assured,

In peace upon her sloping sides matured.

When on a day, like that of the last doom,

A conflagration laboring in her womb,

She teemed and heaved with an infernal birth,

That took the circling seas and solid earth.

Dark and voluminous the vapor rise,

And hang their horrors in the neighboring skies,

While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day,

In dazzling streaks the vivid lightning's play.

 But oh! what muse, and in what powers of song,

Can trace the torrent as it burns along?

Havoc and devastation in the van,

It marches over the prostrate works of man;

Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear.

 

Heroism by William Cowper (1731-1800)

Come To My Sun–land!

 

 

    Do the first, second, and third words or lines of poems and books capture your imagination when you first read them? 

    Yes, it is a rhetorical question, I know. For many of us, that's why we keep reading an author’s work. It reminds us of something we've already experienced or want to add to our bucket lists.

    Today, I've included an excerpt from a poem written by Joaquin Miller, which reminds me of the  sights I've seen on my trips around Tenerife.

    I've also included a collage of some of the pictures I've taken along the way. Hoping that if you haven’t already visited the island, you will definitely want to add it to your travel bucket list.

Come to my sun-land! Come with me,

To the land I love; Where the sun and sea

Are wed forever; where the palm and the pine

Are filled with singers; where tree and vine

Are voiced with prophets! O come, and you

Shall sing a song with the seas that swirl

And kiss their hands to that cold white girl,

To the maiden moon in her mantle of blue.

The Arizonian by Joaquin Miller

The Bells Are Ringing

 

     All over Puerto De La Cruz, the name of Tomas De Iriarte is celebrated, with a street, a school and a library bearing his name. Born in the city in 1750 the poet was educated in Madrid under the supervision of his uncle Juan De Iriarte, who was librarian for the King of Spain.

    Every time I visit the city, I can't help but take photos of the cathedral and churches of the city and surrounding areas. Since it's the time of year when church bells ring out regularly, I've included a fable by the poet and some of my photos.

   

The Cathedral Bell and The Little Bell

In a certain cathedral a huge bell there hung,

But only on solemn occasions was rung;

It's echoes majestic, by strokes three or four,

Now and then, in grave cadence, were heard never more,

For the stately reserve and its wonderful weight,

Throughout the whole parish, its glory was great.

In the district the city held under its sway,

Of a few wretched rustics, a hamlet there lay;

And a poor little church, with a belfry so small,

That you hardly would call it a belfry at all,

There a little cracked cowbell, that in it was swinging,

For the poor little neighbor who did all the ringing.

Now that this little belfry might ape in renown,

The cathedral's huge tower, that loomed up up over the town;

That briefly and seldom on festivals noted,

The safe little bell should be rung it was voted,

By this cunning device, and their rustical eyes,

It's tinkle soon past for a bell of great size.

 

A fable by Tomas de Iriarte

#NoExcuse

    

    International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women was marked on the 25th of November all over the world.  

    Violence against women and girls continues to be a problem in our world, and the UN wants us to join together to show that we do care. We are asked to remind our worldwide governments that there is no place for violence in our societies in any way we can.

    The UNiTE campaign, incorporating this violation of human rights commenced on the same day and will last for 16 days, their slogan this year is #NoExcuse.

    Today I've included a poem By Lord Byron from the early 19th century. I've included this because I want to celebrate women for their beauty inside and out. Women deserve to be respected for who they are and there is #NoExcuse.

 

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more,  one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens over her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and over that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days and goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

George Gordon Byron 1814