Doddington Hall Revisited

I couldn't get Doddington Hall out of my mind. Had my previous visit been dream or reality? I had to go back and find out. The church looked real enough . . .  

. . . as did the tomatoes, the courgettes and the sunflowers in the farm shop . . .

. . . but as soon as I entered the gardens the world turned topsy-turvy again. To witness the birth of an angel is no everyday occurrence . . . 

These miniature queens were vaguely unsettling . . .

. . . and the topiary unicorn behind them just plain surreal . . .

I wasn't sure whether this royal homunculus was yelling at me to curtsey or was simply bored by my presence, so I fled in relief  . . .

. . . to this owl-shaped assemblage of bric-a-brac for a few wise words . . .

. . . and to this bearded tramp for some sartorial tips.

The mannequins just got more and more lifelike. Imagine my astonishment when I came across these lifesize and hyperrealistic figures, the very spitting images of Dominic from the blog . . . made out of words and his wife Karen . . .  

. . . and this waxwork model of my own wife, Carmen . . .

Confused and disorientated, I pinched myself, then ran my fingers along an old blue wheelbarrow full of geraniums and poppy seedheads to make sure I was still in touch with reality . . .

Reassured, I pressed on through the vegetable garden, though it was a mistake to handle the artichokes, which had scales like daggers. Nursing my wounded hand, I sought the way out, panic-stricken . . .

. . . and was immediately confronted by this svelte Cinderella, naked but for one golden slipper. 'You will go to the ball, Robert,' she commanded, 'and you will go with me. I need a male companion. I know you are no prince, but, hey, who cares? Take off your clothes!'   

Fearing the jealousy of the model wife I'd left behind in the courtyard, I hastily retreated from such a brazen seductress, eavesdropping on this conversation as I approached the exit. One talking head was telling the other something about aliens landing in a fleet of flying saucers on that very lawn. On the verge of madness, I looked round desperately for the gate . . .  

. . . then stopped in my tracks, open-mouthed . . .

UFO

Well, it's happened. Something I never thought would happen to me. I've seen a UFO.

Last night we were sipping a glass of wine on the patio watching banks of grey cloud edged with coral move slowly northward in a darkening sky. There was a red smudge of sunset on the western horizon. All colour gradually disappeared as night crept in. No moon or stars were visible. We stayed outside, searching the dusk for bats.

Suddenly we both spotted a round orange light, with a brighter orange centre, speeding noiselessly across the sky. You could hardly miss it. It was travelling low, fast and in a straight line towards the east. After little more than twenty seconds it had flown over our house roof and disappeared.

Now, I'm not a gullible person, and I'm always quite sceptical and questioning about so-called supernatural events. But this sighting has me well and truly foxed. I've checked through all the possibilities and no explanation fits. It was certainly no natural phenomenon — no meteor, fireball, star or planet. It was flying very low, as I said, and across the sky at a level height, fast and steady and with intent. It was perfectly round and completely quiet. As I see it, the other possibility (little green men aside) is that it was some kind of man-made craft or object. But it was much too small and low for an aircraft, not the right shape, and soundless. And it was flying far too quickly and evenly to be any kind of weather balloon, blimp or Chinese lantern. And it was not high enough for an orbiting satellite.

Scanning the internet I've found that, when you've made allowances for all the hoaxers and crazies out there, there are many documented sightings of the same occurrence I witnessed last night: low and fast-moving bright orange lights. But what on earth are these things? And how are they propelled?

On The Road To Santiago

Carnival is what you dare
Flesh farewell the soul goes bare
Your face is just a mask you wear
But masks are hidden faces
All night long from bar to bar
The devil is a falling star
He knows who you really are
And he walks in hidden places

On the road on the road
On the road to Santiago
The wind can howl the waters roar
Night come down and your feet get sore
A priest goes dancing with a whore
You won't be who you were before
We'll walk that wild Atlantic shore
And the devil walks behind us
On the road to Santiago

This is what the devil sells
Broken vows and broken spells
Voices out of empty wells
Fire in December
Burning horses burning trees
Steps to climb up on your knees
Missing days and missing keys
And dreams you can't remember

Holy bandits band of hope
Hauling an unholy rope
Halfway up the slippery slope
That's where you will find us
We met the devil strolling round
On the midnight side of town
He said halfway up that's halfway down
There's no need to remind us
You don't need to remind us

Oysterband

Pity

No sooner had we left than I regretted
Going with you.
The price one pays for pity.

I was embarrassed
How shy and quiet you seemed.
Others found you odd

Or so I thought,
Being twenty-one
And ultra-sensitive

To what I arrogantly
And mistakenly believed
Were others’ feelings.

How blind I was, how selfish,
How pitiably wrapped up
In my own self-importance!

We inter-railed round Spain
The south of France, north Italy,
Ending up in Switzerland.

The sharp wedge of the Matterhorn
Rose magically above the hostel
Full of drunk Germans.

You turned in early.
I got drunk and cursed you,
Remembering how I’d snapped at you

Earlier on the beach at Nice
Where we were sleeping,
And afterwards felt guilty.

In Strasbourg we admired
The doll’s house Fachwerkhäuser,
Kitsch balconies, geraniums,

Drank beer in smoky Gaststuben,
Which eased the silences between us, 
Not knowing then that you,

My only sister, would so soon
Carry the tumour that would prove to be
The death of you at only twenty-nine.

The Passionate Transitory

Today I launched an online poetry journal entitled The Passionate Transitory. I'm inviting original, quality contributions from new and existing poets. Its scope will be broad, but with a particular emphasis on "life, landscape, travel and pilgrimage" — that's "pilgrimage of the mind, the body and the soul". Here's a copy of the home page:

The Passionate Transitory

New online poems about life, landscape, travel and pilgrimage

Submissions are invited for Issue 1 of an exciting, new, online poetry magazine: The Passionate Transitory. Poems should be original and well-crafted, and have something resonant to say. Whether the poem is rhymed or unrhymed, direct or oblique, it's the quality of the writing that counts, and that mysterious, visceral frisson you get from reading it.

This is what love does to things: the Rialto Bridge, / The main gate that was bent by a heavy lorry, / The seat at the back of a shed that was a sun trap. / Naming these things is the love-act and its pledge; / For we must record love’s mystery without claptrap, / Snatch out of time the passionate transitory.

Patrick Kavanagh

I'm excited by this new venture, and hope that some of you will consider contributing!

You can find the website here: www.thepassionatetransitory.yolasite.com

Mindful Walking (3)

A human foot carved in limestone in Egypt around 600 BC.

. . . Take a look at your feet: the slanting row of toes, the ball, the arch, the heel, the ankle. Why don't you admire them? Go even further — love them! Why not? They are beautiful. Think of what they do for you. They are masterpieces of design; they are miracles. Stand up on them. Sway forwards a little, then backwards, then from side to side. See how you balance. You could not do this without them. Be conscious of how your body is standing upright, erect, the centre of gravity running straight from the top of your head through your spine and pelvis and legs right down to your feet. Watch how the mind controls what the body does. Wriggle your toes. Stand on tiptoe. Rock back on your heels. Bend your legs, one after the other, flexing the Achilles tendon. Your legs and your whole body are supported and balanced by your feet. It feels good, doesn't it?

Step out of the bedroom. What freedom you have on your own two feet, what choices, what infinite possibilities! You could take them — or they could take you — across the landing to the bathroom or into another bedroom. You could move them downstairs into the kitchen or the living room or the garden. Or down the street and round the park and into the shops. Or up the hill and through the woods and by the lake and past the crossroads and along the river as far as the sea. And beyond the ocean there's Yssingeaux, Xanadu, Morocco, Samarkand . . . 

Don't try putting on your socks just yet. Why don't you go barefoot for a while? It's normal, it's natural, it's liberating. We don't walk barefoot enough. We lose touch with our feet, our beautiful feet, in thick socks which make them hot and sweaty. We encase them in ill-fitting footwear, fashionable and expensive shoes and boots, which cause them suffering and deformity. We pervert four million years of evolution by forcing our feet into unnatural contortions. Go barefoot for a while and taste the freedom. Feel how directly and naturally the heel and the ball of the foot touch the wooden floorboards, the cool tiles, the lush carpet, the dew-laden grass. Feel how the skin loves this contact, and hardens a little to protect itself, yet remains sensitive to all the textures and temperatures of the ground surface . . .

(Image from Wikimedia Commons.)

Mindful Walking (2)

The human foot is a masterpiece of engineering and a work of art. LEONARDO DA VINCI

The feet of the Solitary Walker encased in a pair of Keen walking sandals.

Where does it start? Muscles tense. One leg a pillar, holding the body upright between the earth and sky. The other a pendulum, swinging from behind. Heel touches down. The whole weight of the body rolls forward onto the ball of the foot. The big toe pushes off, and the delicately balanced weight of the body shifts again. The legs reverse position. It starts with a step and then another step and then another that add up like taps on a drum to a rhythm, the rhythm of walking. The most obvious and the most obscure thing in the world, this walking that wanders so readily into religion, philosophy, landscape, urban policy, anatomy, allegory, and heartbreak. REBECCA SOLNIT Wanderlust: A History Of Walking

You don't have to embark on a long and significant trek before engaging in a bit of mindful walking. You only need swing your legs out of bed in the morning, plant them on the floor, and you can begin.

But first let us consider briefly the human foot, that masterpiece of engineering and work of art. It's a wonderful, remarkable thing — one of the most complex mechanical structures in the human anatomy. The foot comprises twenty-six bones (only the hand has more, one more to be exact), thirty-three joints (twenty of them articulated) and over one hundred muscles, tendons and ligaments. The hands and feet alone contain more than half the total number of bones in the human body, and just two bones in each foot carry the bulk of its whole weight.

It's taken four million years of evolution to walk upright. Walking on two legs distinguishes us from the rest of the animal kingdom (ok, birds and kangaroos also manage on two legs, but they hop rather than walk, and use their tails for balance). This miracle of bipedalism was an essential evolutionary step forward in the development of the hominid, leading to our present unique human shape: straight toes, arched feet, long straight legs and spine, flat stomach, flexible waist, low shoulders and erect head.

Now back to those feet on the bedroom floor . . .

Click here for Mindful Walking (1)

(Click here for the daily Turnstone quote.)

squeezing an orange

squeezing an orange
why don’t you do it
slowly
sensuously
voluptuously
mindfully

sieving the pips
between cupped fingers
dripping sticky-sweet

the tiny cut
in your thumb
at the corner
of the cuticle
smarting

juice spurting
all over the counter
the beef cutlet
and your blouse

why don’t you do it
for life is short
and death is long
and now is all we have
just this moment now

this precious moment
of bittersweet oranges
sharp pain acidic rain
of juice and your smile
trickling through the curses
the chaos and the tears

Silent Space

Eathrise: photo taken by Apollo 8 crew member Bill Anders on 24 December 1968. 

See the latest post on words and silence for my thoughts on silence and empty space.

Henry Moore sculpture, Gernica, Spain.

(Click here for the daily Turnstone quote.)