A Thanksgiving
Started the day learning that my poem A sparrow at 30,000 feet will be in the first issue of a new magazine from Guernsey called Written In. The editors have also kept hold of other poems to use them in subsequent issues, so this is all good. It is important to me to have work appear in Guernsey.
Also I recieved a note from Joan who has been talking to Dick about my megalithic find, (see previous entry) and thinks it is a stone age scraper used to scrape hair and fat off hides. He was familiar with this instrument because he just read a book dealing with the prehistoric natives of Ontario. I have sent my jpegs off to a local museum to see if they make anything of it, or simply tell me it is a piece of stone.
Then up to Edgware for Mason's tradional late Thanksgiving supper. A cheerful gathering there, with Tanya and Robert, Ben and Poppy (over from Guernsey) and Diane who is looking remarkably good after her recent radiotherapy treatment. Nice to fork into some turkey, and meatloaf too. Mase has brought us the taste of America for decades now. I remember the apparent wrongness of bacon with maple syrup which now after my US experiences seems totally acceptable - and those brownie bad boys which Mum and Mase now forbid themselves, simply because they lack self control.
Nice to meet Poppy and Ben again. They are a lovely couple. And Poppy has some interesting insights about Iran, having been born there. Generally the conversation was not of the small talk sort but dealing with big issues over the pumpkin pie. Or punkin pie as Mase always calls it.
I left fairly early, as Di gave me a lift back into Clapham. Quite a long journey home, and in the end I had to walk from Hove under the streetlights and full moon. Walking wasn't a bad thing though given my waistline.
Listened to a fascinating discussion about Wordsworth's Prelude chaired by Melvin Bragg. Never been wild about Wordsworth. I remember in my mid twenties going on a Withnail & I style trip with my old friend Andy Smith to the Lake District, and standing with Andy in Dove Cottage looking at the Wordsworth's ice skates, while Andy steadily cursed them and all their works.
But there are a few bits in the Prelude that certainly butter my parsnips, however, such as the opening nine lines which always remind me of getting back to Guernsey.
Started the day learning that my poem A sparrow at 30,000 feet will be in the first issue of a new magazine from Guernsey called Written In. The editors have also kept hold of other poems to use them in subsequent issues, so this is all good. It is important to me to have work appear in Guernsey.
Also I recieved a note from Joan who has been talking to Dick about my megalithic find, (see previous entry) and thinks it is a stone age scraper used to scrape hair and fat off hides. He was familiar with this instrument because he just read a book dealing with the prehistoric natives of Ontario. I have sent my jpegs off to a local museum to see if they make anything of it, or simply tell me it is a piece of stone.
Then up to Edgware for Mason's tradional late Thanksgiving supper. A cheerful gathering there, with Tanya and Robert, Ben and Poppy (over from Guernsey) and Diane who is looking remarkably good after her recent radiotherapy treatment. Nice to fork into some turkey, and meatloaf too. Mase has brought us the taste of America for decades now. I remember the apparent wrongness of bacon with maple syrup which now after my US experiences seems totally acceptable - and those brownie bad boys which Mum and Mase now forbid themselves, simply because they lack self control.
Nice to meet Poppy and Ben again. They are a lovely couple. And Poppy has some interesting insights about Iran, having been born there. Generally the conversation was not of the small talk sort but dealing with big issues over the pumpkin pie. Or punkin pie as Mase always calls it.
I left fairly early, as Di gave me a lift back into Clapham. Quite a long journey home, and in the end I had to walk from Hove under the streetlights and full moon. Walking wasn't a bad thing though given my waistline.
Listened to a fascinating discussion about Wordsworth's Prelude chaired by Melvin Bragg. Never been wild about Wordsworth. I remember in my mid twenties going on a Withnail & I style trip with my old friend Andy Smith to the Lake District, and standing with Andy in Dove Cottage looking at the Wordsworth's ice skates, while Andy steadily cursed them and all their works.
But there are a few bits in the Prelude that certainly butter my parsnips, however, such as the opening nine lines which always remind me of getting back to Guernsey.
Oh there is a blessing in this gentle breeze,
A visitant that while it fans my cheek
Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings
From the green fields, and from yon azure sky.
Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come
To none more grateful than to me; escaped
From the vast city, where I long had pined
A discontented sojourner : now free,
Free as a bird to settle where I will.
Comments
Just consider the delightful experience that is honey smoked ham and it all starts to make sense...