nostalgia

going home

Many years ago I used to regularly read the Peanuts cartoon in the Sunday colour supplement; occasionally, I would cut one out and put it with other bits and pieces in a scrapbook. I remember the last panel of one of these cartoons showing a fairly despondent Snoopy saying, “Thomas Wolfe was right: you can’t go home again.”
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of things past

flower arrangement of pink/red roses in old church

All Hallows Anniversary

A heavy storm has made the flat roof leak
and in the small hours, memories drip
from the bedroom ceiling.

Unlike the rain they cannot be absorbed
by piles of folded towels, or mopped into a bucket, so
I paddle through them, barefoot, towards dawn.

Flower stalls sprout on street corners and blossom
with chrysanthemums and wreaths
for loved ones’ graves.

I skirt the queues and wonder, should I buy
for the ghost of a relationship
long dead?

The poem is from the collection Around the Corner from Hope Street.

Read sequentially, the poems reveal a narrative thread, covering a period of 15 months in the life of the female narrator; they deal with themes of alienation and isolation, recovery and renewal, and, of course, love. The book is illustrated in black and white by graphic artist Lance Tooks and available in various digital formats from the Tantamount bookstore.

(A draft of the poem was posted on the blog a few years ago.)

memories

Spring pours sunshine
through the woods to dapple
on my polished shoes.

I hear birdsong echo
children’s laughter; green
is a scent, a taste
fresh on my tongue.

(The opening lines of an old poem.)

I took this picture a couple of weeks ago and was looking for an excuse to post it to the blog.

snake's head fritillary Fritillaria meleagris

When I was checking what the flowers are – Fritillaria meleagris, the snakes-head fritillary – I discovered that tomorrow, April 27th, St Bartholomew’s Church in Ducklington is celebrating Fritillary Sunday. There will be “Morris dancing and musical interludes”, as well as cream teas and ploughman’s lunches in the village hall.

L.P. Hartley was wrong: the past is not a foreign country; it is where I was born and I’m feeling quite homesick.

seasonal nostalgia

The tail end of summer always makes me slightly nostalgic.

Every time I see blackberries growing in the hedgerow, I remember that one of the few good things about going back to school after the long summer holidays was knowing that we would go blackberrying the next weekend.