New Year with Fred

  








...and a very happy 2010 to all OtherStuffers, sober or otherwise!

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It sounds like one

Continuing our tradition of Other Stuff musical offerings at Christmas - here are some Bulgarian ladies with a song which isn't a Christmas carol but sounds as if it should be:

Keith's Reindeer

and a very Happy Christmas to all Other Stuffers near and far!

Young Son Looks On -- by File

   

[POV: forgotten omniscient]

[fade in] fragrant, folded boy stares out from linen basket

at man, intent on mirror, shaving, at an angle

[cut to] hidden, protected contemplation from inside wardrobe

of me, as I try to write a poem

[reveal] earnest, herb-flecked eyes from warmest kitchen corner

where I stir the Bolognese

[voiceover] The surveillance

of the ordinary by the oughtn’t be there really.

[man turns to squint through blinds]

[pan to flat horizon]

  

Abercuawg: translation of a Welsh poem of the 9th or 10th century -- by Captain Ned

on a hilltop     idle
there would be comfort
but I do not stir
from this desolation

there's no grazing
bitter winds
scour the summer
of all but brightness

I am stiff     I am old
I cannot get about
no retinue aids me
but let the cuckoo sing

Cuawg's cuckoo sings
on flowery branches
I hear its mocking
but I'll not ask for respite

Cuawg's cuckoo sings
on flowery branches
what pain would come
hearing it no more

once I heard the cuckoo sing
and I forsook my shield
left it sleeping by a tree
     the cuckoo's song
     the cuckoo's song
left it sleeping by a tree

a tall and rustling oak
the home of jostling birds
there I left my shield
     and the cuckoo
     wounds me still

the moon shines
my mind is raw
I do not sleep

I look to the hill-top
white against the dark
it is cold

I do not deny
I am sick tonight

the birds are raucous
old age should bring rest
leaves fall
     from the ash tree
in youth I was loved

broad wave in the estuary
the wave is broad and bright
ebbing wave in the estuary
the wave ebbs

on Edrywy Hill
the birds are raucous
while in waste-lands
the dogs bark

now it is May
when all the land is fair
this is the young men's time
this is the soldiers' time

but I am old
my wounds sear me
I do not go to battle
I am old

rain soaks the pathway
the moon brings affliction to my heart
a far wave ebbs
sickness has chosen me

bring me my mead-bowl
bring me my ale
the cattle are sheltered
shield me from the rain

I speak now of treachery
of deceit while cups were raised
of an evil deed
  done when men were glad

but atonement has come
and now the warrior is ragged
trading a little in exchange for much
  there's no reward for the wretched

branches are high      oak and ash
cow-parsley's sweet
the wave laughs
God's not merciful in this world


my sighs betray my sickness
good is not permitted me
hated here and in heaven

the wave strikes the shingle
the sea flays the shore
I look to the hill-top
     and the cuckoo sings


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November Park Haiku -- by Zephirine

The sharp barking cries
of young men playing football
in the pouring rain

Two squirrels chase up
and down the big trees: are they
fighting or flirting?

Big bright piles of leaves
are gone now, vacuumed away:
dark brown mud remains

Seagulls on the pitch
ignore the players, safe here
from storms out at sea

More rain comes sweeping
across the open green space
a cold wet curtain.

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Another Favourite Place: the Matisse Museum, Cimiez -- by Zephirine

Difficult to find one photo which conveys why this museum is so nice - the inside has a pleasant collection of Matisse paintings, sculptures and collages, but it's the location which is lovely.  It's in the Cimiez district of Nice, up on a hill away from the centre of the city.  The Museum stands next to an olive grove:

which is popular for dog-walking and picnics, and some interesting Roman remains including an arena where the Jazz festival is held each year.   Not far away is a monastery which has beautiful gardens. It's altogether a very good tranquil place to be (well, not so tranquil during the Jazz Festival).

A couple of the Matisse paintings with characteristic use of colour:

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Captions?

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picture by Bianca Heinrichs/la robotique

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Dog

photo: John Haslam

Come on then. Write a poem about a dog.

Cats have had plenty of attention on this site, so the dog must have its day.

It can be a chihuahua-sized or a wolfhound-sized poem, abandoned in the comments thread or sent to me in a travelling crate via email, as you please.

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A Favourite Place: The Bowes Museum -- by Pinkerbell

The Bowes Museum is located near Barnard Castle in Teesside (or whatever the hell Teesside is called these days) and was built in 1869 in the style of a French chateau by the Bowes family, a famous member of which was Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, who later became better known as the Queen Mother. She was a patron of the museum and it was apparently her favourite place too, so I’m in good company. Maybe, just maybe, this is where she got her famous liking for swans?

It makes me sound terribly intellectual doesn't it? My favourite place is a place of education and austerity, but my fondness grew not just because of the exhibitions but because of the place itself and the hours I spent there as a child in the gorgeous gardens, wandering around the magnificent halls and up and down the imposing staircase, in the heart of the building. I would be that strange child who spent an hour just sitting on the staircase, gazing around in awe, or looking intently at things which other people couldn’t quite fathom could be that interesting. Also my love of the place came from the wonders I found there, things which fascinated me and terrified me at the same time, like the two-headed calf , which I often used to peer suspiciously at, expecting it to move, or I would stand staring into one or the other of its faces to try to see some indication as to how it felt being a freak of nature. Although there were always plenty of people about the place I easily felt a personal connection with the spirit of the building itself, as if it spoke to me only, and would eventually feel completely alone there and tranquil, usually getting in the way of all the other people rushing around.

Of course my trick of sitting on the staircase wasn’t totally without purpose, as I would get myself in a prime position to watch the performance of the silver swan which resided in a glass case in the centre of the lobby. It dates back to 1773 and is life-sized and solid silver, apart from the glass rods on which the swan sits, which go backwards and forwards to represent water flowing. There are also little silver fish which raise up and down when the mechanism works. This was a bewildering magical creature to me when I was young, barely tall enough to see up inside the glass casing where she lived. She sat there perfectly still for hours and then would wake up and catch a fish right in front of my eyes. Now I know the fish was in its mouth all the time, but then I imagined it catching it out of the shimmering silver pond underneath and was amazed at how she could do it every time. Not quite understanding how a contraption could do this without actually properly becoming alive I liked to imagine that she did come alive, just for a few moments whilst I watched her.

Mark Twain also saw the Silver Swan and described it in his book “The Innocents Abroad”:

‘I watched the Silver Swan, which had a living grace about his movement and a living intelligence in his eyes - watched him swimming about as comfortably and unconcernedly as if he had been born in a morass instead of a jeweller’s shop - watched him seize a silver fish from under the water and hold up his head and go through the customary and elaborate motions of swallowing it...'

You can watch it in action here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TGEOz5WUev0

For more information about the place - http://www.thebowesmuseum.org.uk/ or http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bowes_Museum

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