Welcome to Powsowdie at Home. I hope you are all well in these strange times. Powsowdie is a themed reminiscence project, with food and music. Normally we meet once a month at Heron Corn Mill but as coronavirus has led to isolation we decided go online! Please explore, dip in and out. Click or tap on a month below to go directly to that part of the page.
April
Spring
Hello Powsowdie friends! Welcome to this months theme of Spring. We have all sorts of bits and bobs for you: poems, songs, stories and a short relaxation to the sound of Spring birds. So please pop the kettle on, make a cuppa, get comfy and have a listen to the track below. Feel free to join in, in any way at all: dance, sing, sway and la along! There is a PDF document you can click on below for all the text and lyrics or you can keep scrolling down as the tracks plays to read them on screen. There are photos below relating to the theme.
March
The Weather
Hello Powsowdie folk and friends! Welcome to this months theme of The Weather. We have all sorts of bits and bobs for you: poems, sayings, songs, stories and a short relaxation to the sound of the rain. So please pop the kettle on, make a cuppa, get comfy and have a listen to the track below. Feel free to join in, in any way at all: dance, sing, sway and la along! There is a PDF document you can click on below for all the text and lyrics or you can keep scrolling down as the tracks plays to read them on screen. There are photos below relating to the theme. I’ve also added a PDF document of the letters on the theme of Things we Love from last month, click on it and have a read.
The Rain by William Henry Davies
William Henry Davies (1871-1940) was a Welsh poet who started out as a rounder but ended up a respected poet. Raised by grandparents after his father died and his mother remarried, William was inclined toward a life of adventure; he traveled by boat to North America repeatedly before losing a leg in attempting to jump a train. He eventually returned to England, wrote a book about his wandering years, paid and starved his way into becoming a published poet and, eventually, gained equal standing with such contemporaries as Yeats and Ezra Pound.
I hear leaves drinking rain;
I hear rich leaves on top
Giving the poor beneath
Drop after drop;
‘Tis a sweet noise to hear
These green leaves drinking near.
And when the Sun comes out,
After this Rain shall stop,
A wondrous Light will fill
Each dark, round drop;
I hope the Sun shines bright;
‘Twill be a lovely sight.
Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head
Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head
And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed
Nothin’ seems to fit
Those raindrops are fallin’ on my head, they keep fallin’
So, I just did me some talkin’ to the sun
And I said I didn’t like the way he got things done
Sleepin’ on the job
Those raindrops are fallin’ on my head, they keep fallin’
But there’s one thing I know
The blues they send to meet me won’t defeat me
It won’t be long ’til happiness steps up to greet me
Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head
But that doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be turnin’ red
Crying’s not for me
‘Cause I’m never gonna stop the rain by complainin’
Because I’m free
Nothing’s worryin’ me
It won’t be long ’til happiness steps up to greet me
Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head
But that doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be turnin’ red
Crying’s not for me
‘Cause I’m never gonna stop the rain by complainin’
Because I’m free
Nothing’s worryin’ me
‘Red sky at night, shepherds delight, red sky in a morning, shepherds warning’
Here Comes the Sun
Song by The Beatles
Here comes the sun do, do, do
Here comes the sun
And I say it’s all right
Little darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here
Here comes the sun do, do, do
Here comes the sun
And I say it’s all right.
Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been here
Here comes the sun do, do, do
Here comes the sun
And I say it’s all right.
Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been clear
Here comes the sun do, do, do
Here comes the sun
And I say it’s all right
Here comes the sun do, do, do
Here comes the sun
Here comes the sun.
It’s alright
It’s alright.
Weather by Thomas Hardy
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly;
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at ‘The Traveller’s Rest,’
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.
This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.
The faithful sailor boy, song
It was on a dark and stormy night the snow lay on the ground
A sailor lad stood on the quay his barque was outward bound
His sweetheart standing by his side shed many a bitter tear
And as he clasped her to his breast he murmured in her ear.
Farewell farewell my own true love this parting gives me pain
You’ll be my hope my guiding star ‘til I return again
My thoughts will be on you my love while storms are raging high
Farewell my love remember me your faithful sailor boy.
‘Twas in a gale that ship set sail the storms ran mountains high
She watched the vessel out of sight while tears they dimmed her eyes
She prayed to god in heaven above to guide him on his way
And then as if his parting words re-echoed o’er the bay.
Farewell farewell my own true love this parting gives me pain
You’ll be my hope my guiding star ‘til I return again
My thoughts will be on you my love while storms are raging high
Farewell my love remember me your faithful sailor boy.
But sad to say that ship returned without that sailor boy
For he was drowned while out of site the flag flew half mast high
And when his comrades came ashore and told her he was dead
And in a letter that he wrote these last few lines she read.
Farewell farewell my own true love on earth we’ll meet no more
But I hope to meet in heaven above on that eternal shore
My thoughts will be on you my love while storms are raging high
Farewell my love remember me your faithful sailor boy.
Vincent
Song by Don McLean
Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and grey
Look out on a summer’s day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colours on the snowy, linen land.
Now, I understand what you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they’ll listen now.
Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflect in Vincent’s eyes of china blue.
Colours changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist’s loving hand.
Now, I understand, what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they’ll listen now.
For they could not love you
But still your love was true
And when no hope was left inside
On that starry, starry night
You took your life as lovers often do
But Iiii could have told you, Vincent
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you.
Starry, starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Frameless heads on nameless walls
With eyes that watch the world and can’t forget
Like the strangers that you’ve met
The ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloody rose
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.
Now, I think I know
what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free
They would not listen they’re not listening still
Perhaps they never will.
Names for clouds
Most of our names for clouds come from Latin and are usually a combination of the following prefixes and suffixes:
- Stratus/strato = flat/layered and smooth
- Cumulus/cumulo = heaped up/puffy, like cauliflower
- Cirrus/cirro = high up/wispy
- Alto = medium level
- Nimbus/Nimbo = rain-bearing cloud
Where these names are combined, we can often build up an idea of that cloud’s character. For example, if we combine nimbus and stratus we get ‘nimbostratus’ – a cloud which is flat and layered and has the potential for rain.
‘Oak before ash, we’re in for a splash
Ash before oak, we’re in for a soak’.
This refers to the leaves of the trees appearing and what the weather will be like through summer from their emergence in spring.
‘Rain before seven, fine before eleven’.
‘Mares’ tails and mackeral sky
Not long wet and not long dry’.
Based on the clouds it foretold a showery patch.
He taught us to look at certain flowers too, most of them close their petals to protect their pollen as the humidity rises so we used to say ‘Pimpernel, pimpernel tell me true, whether the weather be fine or no’.
We never picked then, we could only observe.
The pimpernel is known as The Ploughman’s Weatherglass.
‘Onion skins very thin, mild winter coming in.
Onion skins thick and tough, coming winter cold and rough’.
Summer Wind
Frank Sinatra
The summer wind came blowin’ in from across the sea
It lingered there, to touch your hair and walk with me
All summer long we sang a song and then we strolled that golden sand
Two sweethearts and the summer wind
Like painted kites, those days and nights they went flyin’ by
The world was new beneath a blue umbrella sky
Then softer than a piper man, one day it called to you
I lost you, I lost you to the summer wind
The autumn wind, and the winter winds they have come and gone
And still the days, those lonely days, they go on and on
And guess who sighs his lullabies through nights that never end?
My fickle friend, the summer wind
The summer wind
Warm summer wind
The summer wind.
January Brings The Snow
January brings the snow,
Makes our feet and fingers glow.
February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.
March brings breezes sharp and shrill,
Shakes the dancing daffodil.
April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daisies at our feet.
May brings flocks of pretty lambs,
Skipping by their fleecy dams.
June brings tulips, lillies, roses,
Fills the children’s hands with posies.
Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots and gillyflowers.
August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.
Warm September brings the fruit,
Sportsmen then begin to shoot.
Brown October brings the pheasant,
Then to gather nuts is pleasant.
Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves go whirling past.
Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire and Christmas treat.
A Thunderstorm by Emily Dickinson
“A Thunderstorm” is a poem written by Emily Dickinson. This poem has been released under both the title “A Thunderstorm” and the title “The Wind begun to rock the Grass” throughout the years. It is about the damage that nature can have on nature and how it should seek shelter before the storm. Of course, it can also be a metaphor for life in general.
This poem is written as five stanzas with four lines in each. Dickinson rhymes the second and fourth lines using an imperfect rhyme scheme. Even though there is not a set meter struction in terms of line length, each line seems to be written in some form of iambic meter. As well, the even lines are shorter than the odd lines.
A Thunderstorm
The wind begun to rock the grass
With threatening tunes and low, –
He flung a menace at the earth,
A menace at the sky.
The leaves unhooked themselves from trees
And started all abroad;
The dust did scoop itself like hands
And throw away the road.
The wagons quickened on the streets,
The thunder hurried slow;
The lightning showed a yellow beak,
And then a livid claw.
The birds put up the bars to nests,
The cattle fled to barns;
There came one drop of giant rain,
And then, as if the hands
That held the dams had parted hold,
The waters wrecked the sky,
But overlooked my father’s house,
Just quartering a tree.
The Weather
This poem, from the local newspaper, was sent to my mother, by my father, before they were married. Sometime before 1932.
My father had written the following on the newsprint:
“I thought you would like to read this.
I don’t think it helps much.
But it is true.”
Just take the weather as it comes, and never make a fuss:
Don’t you suppose the good Lord knows just what is best for us?
Then, don’t find fault on summer days because it is too hot;
Make up your mind to take what comes—you’ll find it helps a lot.
You can’t improve on things, you know, no matter how you fret;
Fussing won’t make a hot day cool or make a dry spell wet;
In fact, the more you fuss, the more unhappy you will be,
And nobody’ll admire you—take that, now, straight from me.
We need all sorts of weather, and we’re going to get it too;
The program won’t be changed at all, not even to please you.
So make the best of what you have and do not fret and fuss,
And you can make a humid day seem quite salubrious.
—Somerville Journal
Bring Me Sunshine
Bring me sunshine
In your smile
Bring me laughter
All the while
In this world where we live
There should be more happiness
So much joy you can give
To each brand new bright tomorrow
Make me happy
Through the years
Never bring me
Any tears
Let your arms be as warm
As the sun from up above
Bring me fun
Bring me sunshine
Bring me Love
Bring me sunshine
In your smile
Bring me laughter
All the while
In this world where we live
There should be more happiness
So much joy you can give
To each brand new bright tomorrow
Make me happy
Through the years
Never bring me
Any tears
Let your arms be as warm
As the sun from up above
Bring me fun
Bring me sunshine
Bring me Love, sweet love
Bring me fun
Bring me sunshine
Bring me Love
Hey!
February
Love
Hello Powsowdie folk and friends, I hope you are all keeping well. This months theme is Love, love of tea, people, dogs, trees and bright copper kettles! We have songs, poems and a meditation. So please pop the kettle on, make a nice cup of tea and get comfy. The soundtrack, poems, lyrics and photos are below (there are some photos at the top but if you scroll all the way down there are lots more) there is also a downloadable PDF document you can view on your computer or device or print off them off if you want them in your hand. Please feel free to join in, sing along or dance!
NICE CUP OF TEA
I like a nice cup of tea in the morning
For to start the day you see
And at half past eleven
Well my idea of heaven
Is a nice cup of tea
I like a nice cup of tea with me dinner
And a nice cup of tea with me tea
And when it’s time for bed
There’s a lot to be said
For a nice cup of tea
Some folks put much reliance
On politics and science
There’s only one hero for me
His praise we should be roaring
The man who thought of pouring
The first boiling water onto tea
I like a nice cup of tea in the morning
For to start the day you see
And at half past eleven
Well my idea of heaven
Is a nice cup of tea
I like a nice cup of tea with me dinner
And a nice cup of tea with me tea
And when it’s time for bed
There’s a lot to be said
For a nice cup of tea
From the London Musical “Home And Beauty” (1937)
(Music: Henry Sullivan / Lyrics: A.P. Herbert)
Gracie Fields – 1937
Joe Loss & His Orch. (vocal: Chick Henderson) – 1937
Leap Year
By Annette Wynne
Little month of February,
You are small, but worthy—very!
Will you grow up like the others,
Like your sister months and brothers?
Every four years with a bound
With a leap up from the ground,
Trying to grow tall as they—
All you stretch is one small day!
Even then you’re not so tall
But just the shortest month of all.
My Favourite Things
Oscar Hammerstein II, Richard Rodgers
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favourite things.
Cream coloured ponies and crisp apple strudels
Door bells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
These are a few of my favourite things.
Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes
Silver white winters that melt into springs
These are a few of my favourite things.
When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I’m feeling sad
I simply remember my favourite things
And then I don’t feel so bad.
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favourite things.
Cream coloured ponies and crisp apple strudels
Door bells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
These are a few of my favourite things.
When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I’m feeling sad
I simply remember my favourite things
And then I don’t feel so bad.
Daisy Bell
There is a flower within my heart
Daisy, Daisy
Planted one day by a glancing Dart
Planted by daisy bell
Whether she loves me or loves me not
Sometimes it’s hard to tell
Yet I am longing to share the lot
Of beautiful daisy bell.
Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do
I’m half crazy, all for the love with you
It won’t be a stylish marriage
I can’t afford the carriage
But you look sweet upon the street
On a bicycle built for two.
LITTLE DOG’S RHAPSODY IN THE NIGHT
Mary Oliver
He puts his cheek against mine
and makes small, expressive sounds.
And when I’m awake, or awake enough
he turns upside down, his four paws
in the air
and his eyes dark and fervent.
“Tell me you love me,” he says.
“Tell me again.”
Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over
he gets to ask.
I get to tell.
Loveliest of Trees
A. E. Housman – 1859-1936
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
This poem is in the public domain.
A Red, Red Rose
BY ROBERT BURNS
My Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
My Luve is like a melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
O fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
My Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
My Luve is like a melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
O fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
Skye Boat Song
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that’s born to be king
Over the sea to Skye.
Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunderclaps rend the air;
Baffled, our foes stand by the shore,
Follow they will not dare.
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that’s born to be king
Over the sea to Skye.
Many’s the lad, fought in that day
Well the claymore did wield;
When the night came, silently lay
Dead on Culloden’s field.
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward! the sailors cry;
Carry the lad that’s born to be king
Over the sea to Skye.
Light between leaves
The light between the leaves and under the leaves-
Do not forget these,
The mouth which turns and touches, the eye which loves,
Here are our ecstasies
Or some of them. They started long ago
Back in our infancies,
Others came later when there was pain to know
But there are always those
Treasures of kindness, comfort during grief,
Learnt opportunities
But now the summer leaves are full of life
And teachers mistress.
Nothing as usual, nothingCommonplace,
Nothing easy to please,
There is a sky of comments in a loved face,
A thousand astronomies.
The leaves are turning under an easy win,
The evening starts to cool
And love moves gently in a shared state of mind
And comforts and makes us whole.
What a Wonderful World
I see trees so green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and you.
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.
I see skies so blue and clouds so white.
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night.
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.
The colours of the rainbow so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by.
I see friends shaking hands saying how do you do.
They’re really saying I love you.
I hear babies crying, I watch them grow.
They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know.
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.
Yes I think to myself what a wonderful world
Yes I think to myself what a wonderful world.
December
Christmas
Hello Powsowdie folk, I hope you are all very well. This month our theme is Christmas! We have carols, poems, limericks, stories, bassoon pieces and a meditation. So please pop the kettle on, get comfy and enjoy the track below. Do sing along if you like! there is a PDF with all the carols, poems and stories if you want to download it and print it out, or they are below so you can scroll through as you listen. I’ve added a selection of Christmas themed pictures too. Merry Jingle Bells!
O come, all ye faithful
O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!
O come ye, O come ye, to Bethlehem
Come and behold Him
Born the King of Angels
O come, let us adore Him
O come, let us adore Him
O come, let us adore Him
Christ the Lord!
God of God, Light of Light
Lo, He abhors not the Virgin’s womb
Very God
Begotten, not created
O come, let us adore Him
O come, let us adore Him
O come, let us adore Him
Christ the Lord!
Sing, choirs of angels, sing in exultation
Sing, all ye citizens of heaven above!
Glory to God
All glory in the highest
O come, let us adore Him
O come, let us adore Him
O come, let us adore Him
Christ the Lord!
CHRISTMAS THANK-YOUS [Mick Gowar]
Dear Auntie, Oh what a nice jumper.
I’ve always adored powder blue,
and fancy you thinking of orange and pink
for the stripes. How clever of you!
Dear Uncle, the soap is terrific.
So useful and such a kind thought
and how did you guess that I’d just used the last
of the soap that last Christmas brought?
Dear Gran, many thanks for the hankies.
Now I really can’t wait for the flu.
And the daisies embroidered in red round the ‘M’
for Michael. How thoughtful of you!
Dear Cousin, what socks! And the same sort you wear
—so you must be the last word in style,
and I’m certain you’re right that the luminous green
will make me stand out a mile.
Dear Sister, I quite understand your concern—
it’s a risk sending jam in the post.
But I think I’ve pulled out all the big bits of glass,
so it won’t taste too sharp spread on toast
Dear Grandad– don’t fret, I’m delighted.
So don’t think your gift will offend.
I’m not at all hurt that you gave up this year
—and just sent me a fiver to spend
Mick Gowar
White Christmas
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
Just like the ones I used to know
Where the treetops glisten and children listen
To hear sleigh bells in the snow
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
With every Christmas card I write
May your days be merry and bright
And may all your Christmases be white
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
Just like the ones I used to know
Where the treetops glisten and children listen
To hear sleigh bells in the snow
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
With every Christmas card I write
May your days be merry and bright
And may all your Christmases be white
In the Bleak Midwinter
In the Bleak Midwinter
In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan;
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.
R God, heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain,
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty —
Jesus Christ.
Enough for Him, whom Cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom Angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.
Angels and Archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air;
But only His Mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.
Twas the Night before Christmas
Clement Clarke Moore (1779 – 1863) wrote the poem Twas the night before Christmas also called “A Visit from St. Nicholas” in 1822. It is now the tradition in many American families to read the poem every Christmas Eve.
The poem ‘Twas the night before Christmas’ has redefined our image of Christmas and Santa Claus. Prior to the creation of the story of ‘Twas the night before Christmas’ St. Nicholas, the patron saint of children, had never been associated with a sleigh or reindeers!
Clement Moore, the author of the poem Twas the night before Christmas, was a reticent man and it is believed that a family friend, Miss H. Butler, sent a copy of the poem to the New York Sentinel who published the poem. The condition of publication was that the author of Twas the night before Christmas was to remain anonymous. The first publication date was 23rd December 1823 and it was an immediate success. It was not until 1844 that Clement Clarke Moore claimed ownership when the work was included in a book of his poetry.
Twas the Night before Christmas
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”
Reindeer Report – UA Fanthorpe
Chimneys: colder.
Flightpaths: busier.
Driver: Christmas (F)
Still baffled by postcodes.
Children: more
And stay up later.
Presents: heavier.
Pay: frozen.
Mission in spite
Of all this
Accomplished –
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
The Holly and the Ivy
The holly and the ivy,
When they are both full grown,
Of all the trees that are in the wood,
The holly bears the crown.
The rising of the sun
And the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ,
Sweet singing in the choir.
The holly bears a blossom,
As white as the lily flower,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ,
To be our sweet Saviour.
The rising of the sun
And the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ,
Sweet singing in the choir.
The holly bears a berry,
As red as any blood,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
For to do us sinners good.
The rising of the sun
And the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ,
Sweet singing in the choir.
The holly bears a prickle,
As sharp as any thorn,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
On Christmas Day in the morn.
The rising of the sun
And the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ,
Sweet singing in the choir.
The holly bears a bark,
As bitter as any gall,
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
For to redeem us all.
The rising of the sun
And the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ,
Sweet singing in the choir.
The holly and the ivy,
When they are both full grown,
Of all the trees that are in the wood,
The holly bears the crown.
The rising of the sun
And the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ,
Sweet singing in the choir.
WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS
We wish you a Merry Christmas
We wish you a Merry Christmas
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year
Good tidings we bring to you and your kin
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year
Oh, bring us some figgy pudding
Oh, bring us some figgy pudding
Oh, bring us some figgy pudding
And bring it right here
Good tidings we bring to you and your kin
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year
We won’t go until we get some
We won’t go until we get some
We won’t go until we get some
So bring it right here
Good tidings we bring to you and your kin
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year
We wish you a Merry Christmas
We wish you a Merry Christmas
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year
Good tidings we bring to you and your kin
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year
We wish you a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year
November
Home and Hearth
Hello Powsowdie people, I hope you are all well, here we are again and this month is all about the Home and Hearth. We have songs, poems, stories, superstitions and a short meditation to the sound of crackling fire. So pop the kettle on, grab a cuppa and click on the track below. All the poems and lyrics are below if you want to join in with the singing or read along. There are photos relating to the Home and Hearth.
Here are last months letters on the theme of friendship.
Logs to Burn
Logs to Burn is a poem attributed to Honor Goodhart that was printed in Punch in 27 October 1920.
Logs to burn; logs to burn;
Logs to save the coal a turn.
Here’s a word to make you wise
when you hear the woodman’s cries;
Never heed his usual tale
That he’s splendid logs for sale
But read these lines and really learn
The proper kind of logs to burn.
Oak logs will warm you well,
If they’re old and dry.
Larch logs of pinewoods smell
But the sparks will fly.
Beech logs for Christmas time;
Yew logs heat well;
‘Scotch’ logs it is a crime
For anyone to sell.
Birch logs will burn too fast;
Chestnut scarce at all;
Hawthorn logs are good to last
If cut in the fall.
Holly logs will burn like wax,
You should burn them green;
Elm logs like smouldering flax,
No flame to be seen.
Pear logs and apple logs,
They will scent your room;
Cherry logs across the dogs
Smell like flowers in bloom,
But ash logs all smooth and grey
Burn them green or old,
Buy up all that come your way
They’re worth their weight in gold.
Logs to Burn
Logs to burn, logs to burn,
Logs to save the coal a turn.
Here’s a word to make you wise
When you hear the woodman’s cry.
Beech wood fires burn bright and clear,
Hornbeam blazes too,
If the logs are kept a year
To season through and through.
Logs to burn, logs to burn,
Logs to save the coal a turn.
Here’s a word to make you wise
When you hear the woodman’s cry.
Oaken logs will warm you well
If they’re old and dry.
Larch logs and pinewoods smell
But the sparks will fly.
Logs to burn, logs to burn,
Logs to save the coal a turn.
Here’s a word to make you wise
When you hear the woodman’s cry.
Pine is good and so is yew
For warmth through wintry days.
The poplar and the willow too,
They take too long to blaze.
Logs to burn, logs to burn,
Logs to save the coal a turn.
Here’s a word to make you wise
When you hear the woodman’s cry.
Birch logs will burn too fast,
Alder scarce at all.
Chestnut logs is good to last,
Cuten them in the fall.
Logs to burn, logs to burn,
Logs to save the coal a turn.
Here’s a word to make you wise
When you hear the woodman’s cry.
Holly logs will burn like wax,
burn them when they’re green.
Elm logs like smouldering flax,
No flames with them are seen.
Logs to burn, logs to burn,
Logs to save the coal a turn.
Here’s a word to make you wise
When you hear the woodman’s cry.
Pear logs and apple logs,
They will scent your room.
Cherry logs across the dogs
They smell like flowers in bloom.
Logs to burn, logs to burn,
Logs to save the coal a turn.
Here’s a word to make you wise
When you hear the woodman’s cry.
Ash logs so smooth and grey
Burn them green or old.
Buy up all that come your way
They’re worth their weight in gold.
Logs to burn, logs to burn,
Logs to save the coal a turn.
Here’s a word to make you wise
When you hear the woodman’s cry.
Logs to burn, logs to burn,
Logs to save the coal a turn.
Here’s a word to make you wise
When you hear the woodman’s cry.
Need Fires: the last Celtic tradition
Not that long ago – until only 150 years or so – if your cattle came down with murrain or foot and mouth, there was a solution. The ‘need fire’.
Each household extinguished their hearth fire, then a new, communal fire was lit using friction, either with flints or by rubbing sticks together. Damp wood was added to the fire to create a lot of smoke, then the village’s cattle and swine1 were driven through the smoke in order of age. The householders then lit a brand in the communal fire, and re-lit their domestic hearth.
The cattle-curing aspect may be the last surviving memory of something much more significant. Today, we might wonder if the smoke or the heat had some affect on the micro-organisms that were causing the illness, and hence if there was some logical, albeit hit-and-miss, basis for believing this might work. And perhaps this is true, but, of course, knowledge of bacteria is recent, and this tradition is not. Two hundred – and two thousand – years ago, people feared the cause was otherworldly.
The firewood poem was written by Celia Congreve, is believed to be first published in THE TIMES newspaper on March 2nd 1930.
Beechwood fires are bright and clear
If the logs are kept a year,
Chestnut’s only good they say,
If for logs ’tis laid away.
Make a fire of Elder tree,
Death within your house will be;
But ash new or ash old,
Is fit for a queen with crown of gold.
Birch and fir logs burn too fast
Blaze up bright and do not last,
it is by the Irish said
Hawthorn bakes the sweetest bread.
Elm wood burns like churchyard mould,
E’en the very flames are cold
But ash green or ash brown
Is fit for a queen with golden crown.
Poplar gives a bitter smoke,
Fills your eyes and makes you choke,
Apple wood will scent your room
Pear wood smells like flowers in bloom
Oaken logs, if dry and old
keep away the winter’s cold
But ash wet or ash dry
a king shall warm his slippers by.
Over the Rainbow
Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high
In the land that I heard of once, once in a lullaby
Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true
Someday I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops, that’s where you’ll find me
Someday I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Oh, way above the chimney tops, that’s where you’ll find me
Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true
If happy little bluebirds fly above the rainbow, oh
Oh, why can’t I?
Hearth and Fire
Hearth and fire be ours tonight
And all the dark outside,
Fair the night, and kind on you
Wherever you may bide.
And I’ll be the sun upon your head,
The wind about your face;
My love upon the path you tread
And upon your wanderings, peace.
Wine and song be ours tonight,
And all the cold outside;
Peace and warmth be yours tonight
Wherever you may bide.
And I’ll be the sun upon your head,
The wind about your face;
My love upon the path you tread
And upon your wanderings, peace.
Hearth and fire be ours tonight
And the wind in the birches bare;
Oh, that the wind we hear tonight,
Would find you well and fair.
And I’ll be the sun upon your head,
The wind about your face;
My love upon the path you tread
And upon your wanderings, peace.
Keep The Home Fires Burning
Ivor Novello & John McCormack.
They were summoned from the hillside
They were called in from the glen,
And the country found them ready
At the stirring call for men.
Let no tears add to their hardships
As the soldiers pass along,
And although your heart is breaking
Make it sing this cheery song
Keep the Home Fires Burning,
While your hearts are yearning,
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home.
There’s a silver lining
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out
‘Til the boys come home.
Keep the Home Fires Burning,
While your hearts are yearning,
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home.
There’s a silver lining
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out
‘Til the boys come home.
Turn the dark cloud inside out
‘Til the boys come home.
Tree Superstitions from the British Isles
Apple
If the sun shines through an apple tree on Christmas morning (or in some areas, Easter morning), it is a sign of a good crop to come and a prosperous year for the tree’s owner.
Apples must be blessed by rain on St. Peter’s Day or St. Swithun’s Day. It is said that the fruit is unfit to eat until this has happened. (St. Peter’s Day is June 29th and St. Swithun’s Day is July 15th).
It is unlucky to strip a tree of all apples. An apple or two should be left for the birds. Another version of this tale is that a few apples should be left for fairies or other nature spirits.
Ash
The ash tree’s leaves and wood protect all who keep them in the house or wear them from witchcraft and evil. In some parts of Scotland, ash wood was preferred by herdsman because it protected the cattle from witchcraft.
An old Devonshire legend says that the Infant Jesus was given his first bath by a fire of ash wood. For this reason, a newborn in this area was first washed by ash wood whenever possible.
An ash leaf is lucky – especially a leaf with an equal number of divisions on each side. It’s a sign of good fortune to find one, especially if the finder carries it in his or her pocket.
Aspen
Aspen leaves “tremble” easily, even in light breezes. Because of this, aspens were credited with the power to cure fevers. An old magical tradition held that ailments could be treated by something that resembled their effects. Since fevers can cause the patient to tremble, he was likely to be healed by the tree.
Bay
Standing under a bay tree during a storm is a safe spot because it is claimed that these trees never get struck by lightning.
When growing near a house, these trees protect residents from illness.
Bay leaves placed under a pillow at night can produce pleasant dreams.
Birch
An old Herefordshire custom was to decorate a birch tree with red and white streamers and set it against a stable door on May Day. This tree then protected the horses from disease and misfortune, as long as the tree was left there all year.
Hawthorn
In Somerset, it is unlucky to cut down a hawthorn tree unless a prayer is said first. In Ireland, permission from the fairies must be asked beforehand.
It is unlucky to bring may flower, the flower of a hawthorn, inside the house.
Take Me Home, Country Roads
Almost heaven, West Virginia,
Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River,
Life is old there, older than the trees,
Younger than the mountains, growin’ like a breeze.
Country roads, take me home,
To the place I belong,
West Virginia, mountain mama,
Take me home, country roads.
All my memories gather ’round her,
Miner’s lady, stranger to blue water,
Dark and dusty, painted on the sky,
Misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye.
Country roads, take me home,
To the place I belong,
West Virginia, mountain mama,
Take me home, country roads.
I hear her voice in the mornin’ hour, she calls me,
The radio reminds me of my home far away,
Drivin’ down the road, I get a feelin,’
That I should’ve been home yesterday, yesterday.
Country roads, take me home,
To the place I belong,
West Virginia, mountain mama.
Take me home, country roads,
Country roads, take me home,
To the place I belong,
West Virginia, mountain mama
Take me home, country roads,
Take me home, down country roads,
Take me home, down country roads.
October
Friends
Hello Powsowdie folk! I hope you are all doing okay in lockdown, it is lasting a long time isn’t it but we have a lovely box full of goodies and a soundtrack on the theme of friendship for you. So please do pop the kettle on, grab a cup of tea and enjoy! The track is below and the text and lyrics are also there if you want to read and sing along.
Here are the letters sent in from the group on last months theme of journeys. I have also added 3 stories to the soundtrack below.
These pictures relate to the themes in the poems and songs.
Here is a link to a downloadable PDF of the poems and songs.
It is even called “Friendship”
By Elizabeth Jennings
Such love I cannot analyse;
It does not rest in lips or eyes,
Neither in kisses nor caress.
Partly, I know, it’s gentleness
An understanding in one word
Or in brief letters. It’s preserved
By trust and by respect and awe.
These are the words I’m feeling for.
Two people, yes, two lasting friends.
The giving comes. The taking ends.
There is no measure for such things.
For this all Nature slows and sings.
You’ve Got a Friend
By Carole King
When you’re down and troubled
And you need some love and care
And nothing, nothing is going right
Close your eyes and think of me
And soon I will be there
To brighten up even your darkest night.
You just call out my name
And you know wherever I am
I’ll come running, to see you again
Winter, spring, summer or fall
All you have to do is call
And I’ll be there
You’ve got a friend.
If the sky above you
Grows dark and full of clouds
And that old north wind begins to blow
Keep your head together
And call my name out loud
Soon you’ll hear me knocking at your door.
You just call out my name
And you know wherever I am
I’ll come running, running, yeah, yeah, to see you again
Winter, spring, summer or fall
All you have to do is call
And I’ll be there, yes, I will.
Hey, ain’t it good to know that you’ve got a friend
When people can be so cold?
They’ll hurt you, yes, and desert you
And take your soul if you let them, oh, but don’t you let them.
You just call out my name
And you know wherever I am
I’ll come running, running, yeah, yeah, to see you again
Winter, spring, summer or fall
All you have to do is call
And I’ll be there, yes, I will
You’ve got a friend
You’ve got a friend
Ain’t it good to know you’ve got a friend?
Us Two
By A. A. Milne
Wherever I am, there’s always Pooh,
There’s always Pooh and Me.
Whatever I do, he wants to do,
“Where are you going today?” says Pooh:
“Well, that’s very odd ‘cos I was too.
Let’s go together,” says Pooh, says he.
“Let’s go together,” says Pooh.
“What’s twice eleven?” I said to Pooh.
“Twice what?” said Pooh to Me.
“I think it ought to be twenty-two.”
“Just what I think myself,” said Pooh.
“It wasn’t an easy sum to do,
But that’s what it is,” said Pooh, said he.
“That’s what it is,” said Pooh.
“Let’s look for dragons,” I said to Pooh.
“Yes, let’s,” said Pooh to Me.
We crossed the river and found a few-
“Yes, those are dragons all right,” said Pooh.
“As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.
That’s what they are,” said Pooh, said he.
“That’s what they are,” said Pooh.
“Let’s frighten the dragons,” I said to Pooh.
“That’s right,” said Pooh to Me.
“I’m not afraid,” I said to Pooh,
And I held his paw and I shouted “Shoo!
Silly old dragons!”- and off they flew.
“I wasn’t afraid,” said Pooh, said he,
“I’m never afraid with you.”
So wherever I am, there’s always Pooh,
There’s always Pooh and Me.
“What would I do?” I said to Pooh,
“If it wasn’t for you,” and Pooh said: “True,
It isn’t much fun for One, but Two,
Can stick together, says Pooh, says he. “That’s how it is,” says Pooh.
Stand by Me
By Ben E. King
When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we’ll see
No I won’t be afraid
Oh, I won’t be afraid
Just as long as you stand, stand by me
So darling, darling
Stand by me, oh stand by me
Oh stand, stand by me
Stand by me
If the sky that we look upon
Should tumble and fall
Or the mountain should crumble to the sea
I won’t cry, I won’t cry
No, I won’t shed a tear
Just as long as you stand, stand by me
And darling, darling
Stand by me, oh stand by me
Oh stand now, stand by me
Stand by me
Darling, darling
Stand by me, oh stand by me
Oh stand now, stand by me, stand by me
Whenever you’re in trouble won’t you stand by me
Oh stand by me, oh won’t you stand now, stand
Stand by me…
Travelling
By William Wordsworth – 1770-1850
This is the spot:—how mildly does the sun
Shine in between the fading leaves! the air
In the habitual silence of this wood
Is more than silent: and this bed of heath,
Where shall we find so sweet a resting-place?
Come!—let me see thee sink into a dream
Of quiet thoughts,—protracted till thine eye
Be calm as water when the winds are gone
And no one can tell whither.—my sweet friend!
We two have had such happy hours together
That my heart melts in me to think of it.
The Soul unto itself
By Emily Dickinson – 1830-188
The Soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend
Or the most agonising Spy
An Enemy – could send
Secure against its own
No treason it can fear
Itself – its Sovereign – of itself
The Soul should stand in Awe.
Emily Dickinson was born on December 10, 1830, in Amherst, Massachusetts. While she was extremely prolific as a poet and regularly enclosed poems in letters to friends, she was not publicly recognized during her lifetime. She died in Amherst in 1886, and the first volume of her work was published posthumously in 1890.
Your Catfish Friend
By Richard Brautigan – 1935-1984
If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, “It’s beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,”
I’d love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, “I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them.”
With a Little Help from My Friends
The Beatles
What would you think if I sang out of tune?
Would you stand up and walk out on me?
Lend me your ears and I’ll sing you a song
And I’ll try not to sing out of key
Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends
Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends
Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends
What do I do when my love is away?
Does it worry you to be alone?
How do I feel by the end of the day?
Are you sad because you’re on your own?
No, I get by with a little help from my friends
Mm, get high with a little help from my friends
Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends
Do you need anybody?
I need somebody to love
Could it be anybody?
I want somebody to love
Would you believe in a love at first sight?
Yes, I’m certain that it happens all the time
What do you see when you turn out the light?
I can’t tell you, but I know it’s mine
Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends
Mm, get high with a little help from my friends
Oh, I’m gonna try with a little help from my friends
Do you need anybody?
I just need someone to love
Could it be anybody?
I want somebody to love
Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends
Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends
Oh, I get high with a little help from my friends
Yes, I get by with a little help from my friends
With a little help from my friends.
September
Journeys
Hello Powsowdie folk! I hope you are all well. This month our theme is Journeys. We have poems, songs, a bassoon piece and a reminiscence about birds and butterflies. We will be travelling over land, sea and to outer space! So please grab a cup of tea, pull up a chair and enjoy.
Here is a 27 minute track of the poems, songs and bassoon piece. If you like, you can click play and then scroll down to read the poems and lyrics as you go.
The Rolling English Road
Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.
I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,
Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,
The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.
His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,
But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.
God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.
My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,
But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,
And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.
Sea Fever
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
Stopping Places
by Molly Holden
The long car journeys to the sea
must have their breaks, not always
In towns where there’s no room
to park but at the pavement edge,
in villages, or by woods, or in lay-bys
vibrating to the passage of fast cars.
The seat’s pushed forward, the boot’s lifted,
the greaseproof paper
rustles encouragingly. The children
climb to the ground and posture about,
talk, clamber on gates, eat noisily.
They’re herded back, the journey
continues.
What do you think
They’ll remember most of that holiday?
the beach? the stately home?
The hot curb of the promenade?
No. It will often be those nameless places
where they stopped, perhaps for no more
than minutes. The rank grass
and the dingy robin by the overflowing
bin for waste, the gravel ridged by
numerous wheels and the briared wood
That no one else had bothered
to explore, the long inviting field
down which there wasn’t time
to go – these will stick in their memories
when beauty spots evaporate.
Was it worth the expense?
but
these are the rewards of travelling.
There must be an end in sight
for the transient stopping places
to be necessary, to be memorable.
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Westering Home
Westering home and a song in the air
Light in the eye and its good by to care
Laughter and love and a welcoming there
Isle of my heart my own one.
Tell me of lands o the Orient gay
Speak o the riches and joys of Cathay
Ah but it’s grand to be walkin a day
To find yourself nearer to Islay
Westering home and a song in the air
Light in the eye and its good by to care
Laughter of love and a welcoming there
Isle of my heart my own one
Tell me of lands of the Orient gay
Speak of the riches and joys of Cathay
Ah but it’s grand to be walkin a day
To find yourself nearer to Islay
The Wild Rover
I’ve been a wild rover for many’s the year
And I’ve spent all me money on whiskey and beer
But now I’m returning with gold in great store
and I never will play the wild rover no more.
And it’s no, nay, never
No, nay, never no more
Will I play the wild rover
No, never no more.
I went into an alehouse I used to frequent-
And I told the landlady me money was spent-
I asked her for credit, she answered me “nay”
“Such a custom as yours I can have every day”
And it’s no, nay, never
No, nay, never no more
Will I play the wild rover
No, never no more.
I then took from me pocket, ten sovereigns bright-
And the landlady’s eyes opened wide with delight-
She says “I have whiskeys and wines of the best
And the words that you tolt me were only in jest”
And it’s no, nay, never
No, nay, never no more
Will I play the wild rover
No, never no more.
I’ll go home to my parents, confess what I’d done-
And I’ll ask them to pardon their, prodigal son-
And when they’ve caressed me as ofttimes before
I never will play the wild rover no more.
And it’s no, nay, never
No, nay, never no more
Will I play the wild rover
No, never no more.
And it’s no, nay, never
No, nay, never no more
Will I play the wild rover
No, never no more.
Homeward Bound
To Liverpool docks we bid adieu
To Suke, and Sal, and Kittie too
The anchor’s weighed and the sails unfurl
We’re bound to cross the watery row
For we know we’re homeward bound
Hurrah, we’re homeward bound
The wind it blows from the east nor’east
Our ship will scud ten knots at least
The purser would our wants supply
So while with life we’ll never say die.
For we know we’re homeward bound
Hurrah, we’re homeward bound
And should we touch at Malabar
Or any other quarters far
Our purser he will tip the chink
And just like fishes we will drink.
For we know we’re homeward bound
Hurrah, we’re homeward bound
And when we’re hauled into Liverpool docks
Them bloomers all come ’round in flocks
Them pretty girls, we hear ’em say
“Here comes Jack with his twelve-month pay”
For we know we’re homeward bound
Hurrah, we’re homeward bound
And when we get the Dog and Bell
Where there’s good pies and for to sell
When in comes Archie with a smile
“Drink up me boys, it’s worth your while”
For we know we’re homeward bound
Hurrah, we’re homeward bound
And when and poor Jack’s money is gone and spent
Nor more to be had, no more to be lent
Then in comes Archie with a frown
Saying “Rise up Jack, let John sit down”
For we know we’re homeward bound
Hurrah, we’re homeward bound
And so poor Jack must understand
There’s ships in the harbour needing hands
So stows his gear like he did before
And says farewell to the Liverpool shore.
For we know we’re homeward bound
Hurrah, we’re homeward bound
Fly me to the moon
Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
And let me see what spring is like
On a-Jupiter and Mars
In other words, hold my hand
In other words, baby, kiss me.
Fill my heart with song
And let me sing forevermore
You are all I long for
All I worship and adore
In other words, please be true
In other words, I love you.
[Instrumental Bridge]
Fill my heart with song
Let me sing forevermore
You are all I long for
All I worship and adore
In other words, please be true
In other words, in other words
I love you.
The Skye Boat Song
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing.
Onward, the sailors cry!
Carry the lad that’s born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.
Loud the winds howls, loud the waves roar,
Thunderclaps rend the air.
Baffled our foes stand on the shore.
Follow they will not dare.
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing.
Onward, the sailors cry!
Carry the lad that’s born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.
Many’s the lad fought on that day
Well the claymore did wield,
When the night came, silently lay
Dead on Culloden’s field.
Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing.
Onward, the sailors cry!
Carry the lad that’s born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.
Reminisces: Birds and Butterflies
As a child growing up in a rural village in the Leeds area during the 1950’s, I have several recollections concerning birds and butterflies.These include:Visiting Leeds City Museum to gaze at the stuffed exotic birds in glass bell cases or in tableaux reflecting their natural habitat.The butterflies were located in all their myriad glory within the polished mahogany cabinets containing numerous drawers, each drawer when opened a wonder to behold.I still have to this day, a Victorian bell shaped glass vase containing circa a dozen exotic stuffed birds, which was given to me by a friend of the family when I was eight years old!Vivid memories of nature walks with my mother( born in Ambleside and well versed in country matters).She would point out the flora and fauna and identify the various birds and butterflies we might see on our walks down country lanes. The sun always shone or it seemed to.Strong memories of the sky filling up with flocks of starlings and crows, plus rooks perched in their precarious nests at the top of tall trees.Occasional sighting of kingfishers, which had added significance in that the family engineering business founded by my great grandfather in the 1860’s in Leeds was called KingfishersIt is still a family business to this day and I have same first name as my great grandad, namely Greevz.As children in the house that we grew up in, we were surrounded by several carvings and illustrations of kingfishers.I hope these reminisces may have a resonance for others as well.To have had a rural upbringing in the 1950’s was now with the benefit of hindsight, a very special and privileged opportunity and one I reflect on with a great deal of happiness. Greevz Fisher
Ps Photo of the glass bell case of birds and a silver ashtray with the kingfisher emblem.
August
Birds and Butterflies
Hello Powsowdie folk! This month we are inspired by birds and butterflies. We have poems, songs, bassoon pieces, a meditation and a story from last months reminiscences. So pop the kettle on, grab a cup of tea, put your CD on and enjoy exploring your box.
Here is a 30 minute soundtrack of the poems, songs, bassoon pieces, meditation and a reminiscence story from last month.
Happiness is like a butterfly, the more you chase it , the more it will evade you, but if you notice the other things around you, it will gently come and sit on your shoulder.
Here are some of our reminiscence letters on last months theme of pastimes and hobbies.
Here are the poems and lyrics.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
To a Butterfly
‘To a Butterfly’ is a lyric poem that William Wordsworth wrote in 1802. In the poem, he recalls how he and his sister Dorothy would chase butterflies as children when they were living together in Cockermouth, before they were separated following their mother’s death in 1778 when he was barely eight years old.
William Wordsworth wrote two versions of the poem “To A Butterfly,” one in March, the other in April. Both versions of the poem are about the memory that the sight of a butterfly brings back, not so much a memory but a feeling the poet gets upon seeing this butterfly.
By William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
I’ve watched you now a full half-hour;
Self-poised upon that yellow flower
And, little Butterfly! Indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed
How motionless! – not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister’s flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We’ll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days, when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
STAY near me–do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring’st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father’s family!
Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey:–with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her, feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.
Morning Has Broken
Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing
Praise for the morning
Praise for them springing
fresh from the Word
Sweet the rain’s new fall, sun kissed from heaven
Like the first dew fall on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass
Mine is the sunlight
Mine is the morning
Born of the One Light Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God’s recreation of the new day.
Ode to a Nightingale
John Keats – 1795-1821
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toil me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
Love is like a Butterfly
By Dolly Parton
Love is like a butterfly
As soft and gentle as a sigh
The multicolored moods of love are like its satin wings –
Love makes your heart feel strange inside
It flutters like soft wings in flight
Love is like a butterfly, a rare and gentle thing-
I feel it when you’re with me
It happens when you kiss me
That rare and gentle feeling that I feel inside –
Your touch is soft and gentle
Your kiss is warm and tender
Whenever I am with you I think of butterflies-
Love is like a butterfly
As soft and gentle as a sigh
The multicolored moods of love are like its satin wings –
Love makes your heart feel strange inside
It flutters like soft wings in flight
Love is like a butterfly, a rare and gentle thing-
Your laughter brings me sunshine
Everyday is spring time
And I am only happy when you are by my side –
How precious is this love we share
How very precious, sweet and rare
Together we belong like daffodils and butterflies-
Love is like a butterfly
As soft and gentle as a sigh
The multicolored moods of love are like its satin wings –
Love makes your heart feel strange inside
It flutters like soft wings in flight
Love is like a butterfly, a rare and gentle thing-
Love is like a butterfly, a rare and gentle thing
The Cuckoo
Song by Ramblin’ Jack Elliott
Oh the cuckoo she’s a pretty bird
She sings as she flies
She bringeth good tiding, she telleth no lies
She sucketh white flowers
For to keep her voice clear
And never she sings ‘cuckoo’ til summer draweth near
As i was a-walking and talking one day
I met my own true love as he came that way
Though to meet him was a pleasure
Though the courting was a-woe
For I’ve found him false hearted, he’d kiss me
And then he’d go
I wish I was a scholar and could handle the pen
I’d write to my lover and to all roving men
I would tell them of the grief and woe that attend on their lies
I would wish them have pity on the flower, when it dies
Oh the cuckoo she’s a pretty bird
She sings as she flies
She bringeth good tiding, she telleth no lies
She sucketh white flowers
For to keep her voice clear
And never she sings ‘cuckoo’ til summer draweth near
And never she sings ‘cuckoo’ til summer draweth near
Blackbird
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life-
You were only waiting for this moment to be free
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of a dark black night
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of a dark black night
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Bassoon pieces
Morning has Broken and Feed the Birds.
Meditation
Our meditation is to the dawn chorus.
Stories
This months stories are a selection of extracts from last months letters in response to the theme of pastimes and hobbies.
July
Pastimes and hobbies
Hello Powsowdie folk! This month we are exploring pastimes and hobbies. We have all sorts of things for you: poems, songs, bassoon pieces, a mediation and a reminiscence letter from last month. That’s just the CD and soundtrack, your box is also full of things!
Here is a 30 minute track of me presenting each bit in a very relaxed way, so get the kettle on, relax in a chair and explore your box.
Here are the poems and songs if you want to read or join in as you listen.
Leisure
by William Henry Davies
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
The Call of the Stream
by Charles H. Crandall
I am sitting to-day at the desk alone,
And the figures are hard to tame;
I’d like to shift to a mossy stone
Nor bother with pelf and fame.
I know a pool where the waters cool
Rest under the brawling falls,
And the song and gleam of that mountain stream —
Oh, it calls, and calls, and calls!
There are hooks and lines in a wayside store
Where the grangers buy their plug,
And the loggers swap their river-lore
For a jag they can hardly lug.
I wonder how long that tackle will lie
As useless as any dumb fool
Unless I happen along to buy,
And sneak for that mountain pool.
Oh, bother the flies, I guess I’ve enough,
I know where the worms are thick
By Billy’s old barn — Oh, they are the stuff —
You can dig a quart with a stick.
The reel is all right and the line is tight,
And if they should happen to fail
There’s little birch rods that are fit for gods
When they follow the trout-brook trail.
I jing! the demon has rung me up —
The “central” up in the woods —
Waders, and creel, and a pocket-cup!
I’m after the only goods.
Wire for Hank and the old buckboard —
The secret, I guess, is out —
Don’t bother me now — you’ll get in a row —
I’m catching the train for trout.
Fishing
by William Henry Dawson
I just take a bamboo pole,
Linen line and Limerick hook,
Make a sneak for some deep hole
In the creek, in shady nook.
Seat myself upon a stone,
Bait my hook and throw it in,
Sit there, quietly, alone,
And wait to see the fun begin.
First a nibble, then a take,
Then my float goes out of sight,
Then a sudden swing I make—
Got him? Well, you’re mighty right.
Bass, by jingo! Weighs four pounds;
Won’t I have a toothsome fry?
String him on this rope, by zounds!
Make him safe or I’ll know why.
Once again my hook I bait,
Once again I cast my line,
Seat myself and watch and wait.
Catching bass. Oh, gee! it’s fine.
Soon the float begins to sail,
Then it makes a sudden dive;
Holy smoke! I’ve hooked a whale,
Just as sure as I’m alive.
Pull, you sucker! Bet I’ll make—
Stop! You’ll surely break the pole.
Splash! and suddenly I wake,
Up to neck in swimming hole.
The Garden
by Rudyard Kipling
OUR England is a garden that is full of stately views,
Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.
For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall,
You’ll find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all
The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dung-pits and the tanks,
The rollers, carts, and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.
And there you’ll see the gardeners, the men and ‘prentice boys
Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise ;
For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.
And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows ;
But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.
Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing:-” Oh, how beautiful,” and sitting in the shade
While better men than we go out and start their working lives
At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives.
There’s not a pair of legs so thin, there’s not a head so thick,
There’s not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick
But it can find some needful job that’s crying to be done,
For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.
Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
If it’s only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,
You will find yourself a partner In the Glory of the Garden.
Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
That half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees,
So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away!
And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away !
Tchaikovsky Swan Lake the oboe solo played on the bassoon.
For messin’ about on the river
For messin’ about on the river
If you take my advice there’s nothing so nice
As messin’ about on the river
There’s big boats and wee boats ands all kinds of craft
Puffers and keel boats and some with no raft
With the wind in your face there’s no finer place
Than messin’ about on the river
For messin’ about on the river
And you might want to scull in a glass fibred hull
Go messin’ about on the river
Anchors and tillers and rudders and cleets
Ropes that are sometimes referred to as sheets
With the wind in your face there’s no finer place
Than messin’ about on the river
All messin’ about on the river
Capstans and quays where you tie up with ease
All messin’ about on the river
Inboards and outboards and dinghies you sail
The first thing you learn is the right way to bale
In a one man canoe you’re both skipper and crew
Messin’ about on the river
All messin’ about on the river
Whirlpools and weirs that you must not go near
Messin’ about on the river
Backwater places all hidden from view
Mysterious wee islands just waiting for you
So I’ll leave you right now, go cast off your bow
Go messing about on the river.
English Country Garden
How many kinds of sweet flowers grow
In an English country garden?
I’ll tell you now of some that we know
Those we miss you’ll surely pardon
Daffodil, heart’s ease and flox
Meadowsweet and lady smocks
Gen teen, lupine and tall hollihocks
Roses, foxgloves, snowdrops, blue forget-me-nots
In an English country garden
How many insects come here and go
Though our English country garden?
i’ll tell you now of some that we know
Those I miss you’ll surely pardon
Fireflies, moths, and bees
Spiders climbing in the trees
Butterflies that sway on the cool gentle breeze
There are snakes, ants that sting
And other creeping things
In an English country garden
How many songbirds fly to and fro
Though our English country garden?
I’ll tell you now of some that we know
And Those I’ll miss you’ll surely pardon
Bobolink, cuckoo and quail
Tanager and cardinal
Bluebird, lark, thrush and nightingale
There is joy in the spring
When the birds begin to sing
In an English country garden.
The Happy Wanderer
Florenz Friedrich Sigismund (1791–1877).[1][2]
I love to go a-wandering,
Along the mountain track,
And as I go, I love to sing,
My knapsack on my back.
I love to wander by the stream
That dances in the sun,
So joyously it calls to me,
“Come! Join my happy song!”
Val-deri,Val-dera,
Val-deri,
Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
Val-deri,Val-dera.
“Come! Join my happy song!”
I wave my hat to all I meet,
And they wave back to me,
And blackbirds call so loud and sweet
From ev’ry green wood tree.
Val-deri,Val-dera,
Val-deri,
Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
Val-deri,Val-dera.
From ev’ry green wood tree.
High overhead, the skylarks wing,
They never rest at home
But just like me, they love to sing,
As o’er the world we roam.
Oh, may I go a-wandering
Until the day I die!
Oh, may I always laugh and sing,
Beneath the clear blue sky!
Val-deri,Val-dera,
Val-deri,
Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
Val-deri,Val-dera.
Beneath the clear blue sky!
I love to go a-wandering,
Along the mountain track,
And as I go, I love to sing,
My knapsack on my back.
Val-deri,Val-dera,
Val-deri,
Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
Val-deri,Val-dera.
With My knapsack on my back.
Val-deri,Val-dera,
Val-deri,
Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
Val-deri,Val-dera.
With My knapsack on my back.
Greevz’s childhood story
Thanks again for the Powsodie box and the goodies enclosed.
I have been thinking about the theme of childhood and my memories of a rural upbringing in a village in the West Riding of Yorkshire in the mid to late 1950’s.
I used to help with my older brother on a local farm, which still used horses for ploughing, but also had a gunmetal grey coloured Ferguson tractor without a roll over cage.
We used to help with the harvest following the combine harvester as it churned out bales of hay.
We would help to load the bales onto the tractor trailor, hitching a ride back to the barn, where we would as best we could, help to stack the bales to provide feed for later in the year.
The hay was also made into hayricks or haystacks, which were often ten to fifteen foot high.
A much more pleasing view, than those obnoxious plastic coated bales which are so sadly common today in the rural landscape.
There were also sheaves of hay stacked at times in the fields too. These were much smaller in size than the more common hayricks or haystacks.
We used to have food and drink carried in wicker picnic hampers, to give us sorely needed sustenance and the weather always seemed better too.
A world away from today, one could say.
Thanks for giving me the opportunity to reminisce about my childhood and to give thanks on how fortunate I was, to have had a rural upbringing before the nature of farming became increasingly mechanised and on a larger scale.
I like to think that Constable could have painted the same picture of “The Hay Wain” in the fields around my village on the outskirts of Leeds in the mid to late 1950’s, so long as it wasn’t the field within the solitary tractor in it!
Constable’s famous painting of a rural idyil was of course painted in the early C19th, but it does indicate how the pace of change in the rural landscape was much, much slower than the pace of the Industrial Revolution radically transforming the urban environment.
June
Childhood
This month we are hand delivering boxes to the group. Each box contains a variety of things relating to childhood. I have also created a CD that the group may listen to whilst exploring their box.
Here are the contents of the box.
As I sat and thought about the theme of childhood, I noticed the shadow from a dangling-chime in my back garden. I thought the shadow looked like a child skipping down the road in a carefree way. 
Here are the 6 tracks.
Introduction
Poems
Songs
Bassoon
Meditation
Goodbye
A meditation film of the garden
Poems
I Remember, I Remember
Here are some pics of the boxes being made up. We’ll add more pics in the next week.
My Heart Leaps Up
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
The Bumble Bee
(and a little film of a bumble bee in my back garden)
By Luke Crookes
Bumblebee, bumblebee,
Where did you go?
I lost my house,
I lost my shoe,
I simply do not know.
Bumblebee, bumblebee
When will you come back?
I looked in red
I looked in blue
I looked in gold and black.
Bumblebee bumblebee might you be dead?
I wonder if my bumblebee was living in my head?
Some photos of Cumbria that may bring back happy memories.
May
The Blossom Tree
I’d like to share this photo of the blossom tree in my neighbours garden. Each year I wait for the blossom and love the moment it blooms. It always surprises me how quickly it loses its bloom and so I wrote a little song to capture that feeling. I also found a poem by Robert Burns called O Were My Love Yon Lilac Fair about a man who loves a purple blossom so much that he wishes he were a bird sheltering under it and then he imagines becoming a dew drop resting on a rose petal, only to be extinguished by Phoebus’ light! (Greek god of light; god of prophecy and poetry and music and healing).
As sure, as sure as, sure can be,
The pink blooms fill the blossom tree,
Against the sky they bright the day,
and lift the heart and soul away.
As sure as sure the blossoms come,
And then a week the blossoms go,
As blossom blow from branch to ground,
Like pink confetti all around.
The blossoms gone, the blossoms gone,
Until next year you bloom again,
Thank you blossom tree my friend.
By Luke Crookes.
Here is a recording of the song
O Were My Love Yon Lilac Fair
O were my love yon Lilac fair,
Wi’ purple blossoms to the Spring,
And I, a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing!
How I wad mourn when it was torn
By Autumn wild, and Winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu’ May its bloom renew’d.
O if my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa’;
And I myself a drap o’ dew,
Into her bonie breast to fa’!
O there, beyond expression blest,
I’d feast on beauty a’ the night;
Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley’d awa by Phoebus’ light!
Robert Burns.
Here is a recording of the poem
Meditation
Here is a recording of meditational sounds that you may want to listen to with your eyes closed.
Two minute breath meditation
Since sharing this page people have got in touch with links to trees and blossom. I’ll put the links below.
Paintings of dew drops
An artist friend, Marc Woodhead, listened to the poem and gave me a link to dew drops in art.
Many, many Dutch still life paintings have drops of dew on the leaves . . . (Tip for viewing. Try the + zoom feature to see the detail of the drops on the petals) click the link below. https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/jan-van-huysum-glass-vase-with-flowers-with-a-poppy-and-a-finch-nest.
If you feel inspired by something why not write your own little ditty, I’ve certainly enjoyed connecting with the tree in my garden, a tree I always quietly notice but it’s just nice to take a longer moment. Do send any pictures, poems or songs but there’s no pressure to do so.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cQeiLNSwekw
Please take a look at our film of last years sessions.
The meaning of Powsowdie:
Powsowdie is a Scottish sheep’s-head broth or soup. Traditional preparation of the soup includes sheep’s trotters as an ingredient. Dried peas and barley can also be used as additional ingredients. Powsowdie has been described as a speciality dish in Edinburgh, Scotland.
Tuning In 