STILL LIFE WITH FRUIT
1869
Claude Monet
1840-1926
Nationality - French
-o0o-
THE BRIGHT FIELD
R.S. Thomas
I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the
pearl of great price, the one field that had
treasure in it. I realise now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying
on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.
-o0o-
TOMORROW
Dennis O'Driscoll
1954-2012
I
Tomorrow I will start to be happy.
The morning will light up like a celebratory cigar.
Sunbeams sprawling on the lawn will set
dew sparkling like a cut-glass tumbler of champagne.
Today will end the worst phase of my life.
I will put my shapeless days behind me,
fencing off the past, as a golden rind
of sand parts slipshod sea from solid land.
It is tomorrow I want to look back on, not today.
Tomorrow I start to be happy; today is almost yesterday.
II
Australia, how wise you are to get the day
over and done with first, out of the way.
You have eaten the fruit of knowledge, while
we are dithering about which main course to choose.
How liberated you must feel, how free from doubt:
the rise and fall of stocks, today’s closing prices
are revealed to you before our bidding has begun.
Australia, you can gather in your accident statistics
like a harvest while our roads still have hours to kill.
When we are in the dark, you have sagely seen the light.
III
Cagily, presumptuously, I dare to write 2018.
A date without character or tone. 2018.
A year without interest rates or mean daily temperature.
Its hit songs have yet to be written, its new-year
babies yet to be induced, its truces to be signed.
Much too far off for prophecy, though one hazards
a tentative guess - a so-so year most likely,
vague in retrospect, fizzling out with the usual
end-of-season sales; everything slashed:
your last chance to salvage something of its style.
-o0o-
Trees are
always a relief,
after people
-David Mitchell
-o0o-
TWO KINDS OF PEOPLE
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
1850-1919
There are two kinds of people on earth to-day;
Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.
Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood,
The good are half bad, and the bad are half good.
Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth,
You must first know the state of his conscience and health.
Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span,
Who puts on vain airs, is not counted a man.
Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years
Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears.
No - the two kinds of people on earth I mean,
Are the people who lift, and the people who lean.
Wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses,
Are always divided in just these two classes.
And oddly enough, you will find too, I ween,
There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.
In which class are you? Are you easing the load,
Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?
Or are you a leaner, who lets others share
Your portion of labour, and worry and care?
-o-0-o-
THE WINDOW
Alhed Larsen
1872-1927
Nationality - Danish
-o0o-
Photo thanks to Pexels
-o0o-
MISS FOGARTY'S HOME BAKED CAKE
Anon
As I sat in my window last evening,
The postman brought in to me
A little gilt-edged invitation sayin':
"Gilhooley, come over to tea."
I knew that the Fogarties sent it.
So I went, just for old friendship's sake.
The first thing they gave me to tackle
Was a slice of Miss Fogarty's cake.
There were plums and prunes and cherries.
There were citrons and raisins and cinnamon, too
There was nutmeg, cloves and berries,
And a crust that was nailed on with glue.
There were caraway seeds in abundance,
Such that work up a fine stomach ache
That could kill a man twice after eating a slice
Of Miss Fogarty's home baked cake.
Miss Mulligan wanted to try it.
But, really, it wasn't no use,
For we worked in it over an hour,
And we couldn't get none of it loose
Till Murphy came in with a hatchet
And Kelly came in with a saw.
That cake was enough, by the powers above,
For to paralyse any man's jaw.
Miss Fogarty, proud as a peacock,
Kept smiling and blinking away
Till she flipped over Flanagan's brogans.
And she spilt the home brew in her tea.
"Aye, Gilhooley," she says "you're not eatin'.
Try a little bit more, for me sake."
And "No, Miss Fogarty," says I,
"For I've had quite enough of your cake."
Maloney was took with the colic.
O'Donald, a pain in his head.
McNaughton lay down on the sofa,
And he swore that he wished he was dead.
Miss Bailey went into hysterics,
And there she did wriggle and shake.
And everyone swore they were poisoned
Just from eating Miss Fogarty's cake.
-o0o-
SWAMP SUNSET
Harold Rudolph
1850-83
Nationality - American
-o0o-
UPDATED EVERY WEEKEND
-o=0=o-
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the
pearl of great price, the one field that had
treasure in it. I realise now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying
on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.
-o0o-
This is typical view of what became known as “Miners’ Rows.”
One part of the village where I live consists of former miners’ houses. Nowadays they’re all privately-owned, and most have extensions, conservatories added at the rear or additional rooms built in the attic space.
My great-grandfather George was a miner. He died long before I was born, but I remember the area in which he lived. The pit houses of his day are long gone of course; many would consist of just a room and a kitchen, and with big families common then would certainly be overcrowded.
Later my grandfather, who worked in the pit, first as a train driver and then as a power station attendant, lived in one of those houses.
People were lucky if they had an inside toilet. Often outside toilets had to be shared with other families, and sometimes they were situated at a distance from the house. Not good if a visit during the night was needed!!!
A few miners were fortunate in having electricity laid on from the pit. Electricity didn’t come to general housing till much later. It wasn’t till 1936, when my father bought his own house, that I lived in a place where the flick of a switch lit up a room.
-o0o-
THE ARTIST'S MOTHER
1896
Pastel on Paper
Pablo Picasso
1881-1973
-o0o-
Dennis O'Driscoll
1954-2012
I
Tomorrow I will start to be happy.
The morning will light up like a celebratory cigar.
Sunbeams sprawling on the lawn will set
dew sparkling like a cut-glass tumbler of champagne.
Today will end the worst phase of my life.
I will put my shapeless days behind me,
fencing off the past, as a golden rind
of sand parts slipshod sea from solid land.
It is tomorrow I want to look back on, not today.
Tomorrow I start to be happy; today is almost yesterday.
II
Australia, how wise you are to get the day
over and done with first, out of the way.
You have eaten the fruit of knowledge, while
we are dithering about which main course to choose.
How liberated you must feel, how free from doubt:
the rise and fall of stocks, today’s closing prices
are revealed to you before our bidding has begun.
Australia, you can gather in your accident statistics
like a harvest while our roads still have hours to kill.
When we are in the dark, you have sagely seen the light.
III
Cagily, presumptuously, I dare to write 2018.
A date without character or tone. 2018.
A year without interest rates or mean daily temperature.
Its hit songs have yet to be written, its new-year
babies yet to be induced, its truces to be signed.
Much too far off for prophecy, though one hazards
a tentative guess - a so-so year most likely,
vague in retrospect, fizzling out with the usual
end-of-season sales; everything slashed:
your last chance to salvage something of its style.
-o0o-
Trees are
always a relief,
after people
-David Mitchell
-o0o-
TWO KINDS OF PEOPLE
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
1850-1919
There are two kinds of people on earth to-day;
Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.
Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood,
The good are half bad, and the bad are half good.
Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth,
You must first know the state of his conscience and health.
Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span,
Who puts on vain airs, is not counted a man.
Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying years
Bring each man his laughter and each man his tears.
No - the two kinds of people on earth I mean,
Are the people who lift, and the people who lean.
Wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses,
Are always divided in just these two classes.
And oddly enough, you will find too, I ween,
There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.
In which class are you? Are you easing the load,
Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?
Or are you a leaner, who lets others share
Your portion of labour, and worry and care?
-o-0-o-
THE WINDOW
Alhed Larsen
1872-1927
Nationality - Danish
-o0o-
-o0o-
MISS FOGARTY'S HOME BAKED CAKE
Anon
As I sat in my window last evening,
The postman brought in to me
A little gilt-edged invitation sayin':
"Gilhooley, come over to tea."
I knew that the Fogarties sent it.
So I went, just for old friendship's sake.
The first thing they gave me to tackle
Was a slice of Miss Fogarty's cake.
There were plums and prunes and cherries.
There were citrons and raisins and cinnamon, too
There was nutmeg, cloves and berries,
And a crust that was nailed on with glue.
There were caraway seeds in abundance,
Such that work up a fine stomach ache
That could kill a man twice after eating a slice
Of Miss Fogarty's home baked cake.
Miss Mulligan wanted to try it.
But, really, it wasn't no use,
For we worked in it over an hour,
And we couldn't get none of it loose
Till Murphy came in with a hatchet
And Kelly came in with a saw.
That cake was enough, by the powers above,
For to paralyse any man's jaw.
Miss Fogarty, proud as a peacock,
Kept smiling and blinking away
Till she flipped over Flanagan's brogans.
And she spilt the home brew in her tea.
"Aye, Gilhooley," she says "you're not eatin'.
Try a little bit more, for me sake."
And "No, Miss Fogarty," says I,
"For I've had quite enough of your cake."
Maloney was took with the colic.
O'Donald, a pain in his head.
McNaughton lay down on the sofa,
And he swore that he wished he was dead.
Miss Bailey went into hysterics,
And there she did wriggle and shake.
And everyone swore they were poisoned
Just from eating Miss Fogarty's cake.
-o0o-
Harold Rudolph
1850-83
Nationality - American
-o0o-
UPDATED EVERY WEEKEND
-o=0=o-
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