I am standing high above the mere edge,
pausing on my homeward path
to watch as the falling sun strikes with fire wisped fringes of cloud.
Dark banks of pines stand in unresponsive silence, with no breeze to move them.
There will be a frost tonight, and
I can feel already the ice forming in the air around me.
I have no prayer to add to this quiet evensong.
But as I wait to watch a mob of crows cross the black water
to assemble in their winter roost,
homeward bound like me,
I can hear in my heart the prophet's words:
The Lord your God is with you, and
he will take great delight in you.
Look to his protecting arm:
he will quiet you this night with his love.
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
Monday, 30 January 2012
Spilt
Yesterday morning I managed to knock over my bedside glass of water as, half asleep still, I flailed wildly in the direction of my alarm clock in a vain attempt to switch it off. There was only a small amount of water in the glass, and I didn't spill it all, but I still somehow managed to soak half the bedroom - or so it seemed. Why is it that, when you spill something, there's always ten times more over the table or the floor than there ever was in the container?
But there's a lesson there, over and above the obvious one, about positioning my glass of water more carefully so that this DOESN'T HAPPEN AGAIN! Often quite small decisions, mistakes, over-hasty remarks can have consequences far beyond what one might expect. A small fib or a manufactured excuse, once let loose in the world, can end up costing you half the earth as you strive to maintain the fiction. A little thought, a modicum of honest caution, a little more readiness to take the blame there and then rather than try and weasel out of things, and the world could be a far better and more peaceful place than it is.
I can't remember who it was who first said it - "When anger rises within you, take a moment to think of the consequences" - but whoever it was, those are wise words we could all do with heeding at some time or another.
But there's a lesson there, over and above the obvious one, about positioning my glass of water more carefully so that this DOESN'T HAPPEN AGAIN! Often quite small decisions, mistakes, over-hasty remarks can have consequences far beyond what one might expect. A small fib or a manufactured excuse, once let loose in the world, can end up costing you half the earth as you strive to maintain the fiction. A little thought, a modicum of honest caution, a little more readiness to take the blame there and then rather than try and weasel out of things, and the world could be a far better and more peaceful place than it is.
I can't remember who it was who first said it - "When anger rises within you, take a moment to think of the consequences" - but whoever it was, those are wise words we could all do with heeding at some time or another.
Thought For The Week
A man can make up his mind quickly, if he has only a little to make up.
(Aristotle)
(Aristotle)
Tuesday, 24 January 2012
Words inspired by Psalm 63
I drag my wearied feet
in a parched and arid land,
and my body is wasted with longing, and
my eyes ache, and yearn to see -
to see your glory,
and to know you in power and might,
that I might dwell in the blessed places
where your praise is ever sung.
I am eager for you,
with a heart athirst for you,
and for a love that is better than life. My heart
is filled with desire for blessing, and I lift
my hands, lift them again in prayer.
And this I know, and for this my heart shall praise you:
I am safe in the shadow of your wings.
All the world about me is in turmoil,
and the voices of hate and rage grow ever louder;
I see that they grow fat and mighty
who have chosen the way of the sword
(let them die by that sword),
yet I am safe, and shall be safe
in the shadow of your wings.
in a parched and arid land,
and my body is wasted with longing, and
my eyes ache, and yearn to see -
to see your glory,
and to know you in power and might,
that I might dwell in the blessed places
where your praise is ever sung.
I am eager for you,
with a heart athirst for you,
and for a love that is better than life. My heart
is filled with desire for blessing, and I lift
my hands, lift them again in prayer.
And this I know, and for this my heart shall praise you:
I am safe in the shadow of your wings.
All the world about me is in turmoil,
and the voices of hate and rage grow ever louder;
I see that they grow fat and mighty
who have chosen the way of the sword
(let them die by that sword),
yet I am safe, and shall be safe
in the shadow of your wings.
Sunday, 22 January 2012
Music
I've enjoyed my singing today, in church and at the weekly practice of Halfway House Male Voice Choir. I'm proud and grateful to belong to this choir - I guess I've sung with them for something in the teens of years now - because it's fun, because we've helped raise a lot of money for many good causes, and because these guys have done a lot, probably more than most of them might guess, to keep me sane over the past couple or three years. And because music, the gift of song, is such an amazing and precious thing.
Plygain is a Welsh tradition of Christmas song that still resonates in these parts. I don't have the language, but happily one local chapel (Arddleen Tabernacle) has an English plygain each year, and I went along there last Friday. Parties from different places simply get up and sing, always unaccompanied, and usually without any introduction - though I broke with tradition to say a few words of introduction to one of my pieces. As always, it was wonderful to be there. For me, faith is better expressed through music than in any other way: music conveys feelings, emotions, lifts spirits, speaks the truth long after you've run out of words. And it was good to see so many different people, old and young, singing in different styles the same amazing subject - the God who does not leave us to languish but comes to us to share our lot, born a helpless child, offering us the gift of love.
Theologians can spend forever debating these things, and liturgists may compete to find the right words to express it all - and however long they take, however in-depth their analysis, there'll always (for me) be a point where they fall short and music has to take over. So, just one simple thought to close today, heartfelt and prayerful: thank you, Lord, for the precious gift of song, and for those with whom I share it. Amen.
Plygain is a Welsh tradition of Christmas song that still resonates in these parts. I don't have the language, but happily one local chapel (Arddleen Tabernacle) has an English plygain each year, and I went along there last Friday. Parties from different places simply get up and sing, always unaccompanied, and usually without any introduction - though I broke with tradition to say a few words of introduction to one of my pieces. As always, it was wonderful to be there. For me, faith is better expressed through music than in any other way: music conveys feelings, emotions, lifts spirits, speaks the truth long after you've run out of words. And it was good to see so many different people, old and young, singing in different styles the same amazing subject - the God who does not leave us to languish but comes to us to share our lot, born a helpless child, offering us the gift of love.
Theologians can spend forever debating these things, and liturgists may compete to find the right words to express it all - and however long they take, however in-depth their analysis, there'll always (for me) be a point where they fall short and music has to take over. So, just one simple thought to close today, heartfelt and prayerful: thank you, Lord, for the precious gift of song, and for those with whom I share it. Amen.
Saturday, 21 January 2012
Windy
Windy again today. With our network of outbuildings and roofing, we always know about windy days! Everything creaks and rattles, and we sometimes get quite apprehensive, though so far things seem to have held together.
On a windy day we're reminded just how little power and control we really have over the forces that govern our planet, and that's no bad thing. In scripture, the wind is generally a sign of God's presence in disturbing - though perhaps also enabling - power, and of course as every Bible scholar knows, the word for 'wind' and 'spirit' is the same in both Hebrew and Greek. On the first Christian Day of Pentecost, it is a 'rushing mighty wind' that fills all the room where the disciples of Jesus are meeting.
I don't know about you, but I like to keep rushing mighty winds safely outside the room I'm in. I'm worried enough by all the creaks and groans from the roofs outside, without wanting the wind in here where I am! There'd be papers all over the place, stuff falling over, I should lose control of my carefully ordered work plans for the day. Stuff might be lost or ruined.
But God's plans for us are not always neat and orderly - not in the way we'd like them to be, anyway. The history of the Church can be summarized, perhaps, in terms of the orderly building of structures, hierarchies, power bases, bureaucracies . . . then every so often the wind gets into the room, the papers blow about a bit, and we're reminded of who is really in charge, and what we're really supposed to be about. We may call it revival, and be glad of it (though usually, so far as the Church, capital 'C' is concerned, some little way after the event, when things are safe and ordered again). It's always an untidy and challenging thing, it can't be otherwise. The Holy Spirit is God NOT in a box, or in a book, but HERE. And if the Holy Spirit comforts what is disturbed, he also disturbs what gets too comfy!
So, thinking about it, it is with my own personal life and journey of faith. At times, sometimes it's just at the point where I'm congratulating myself at how well I'm doing, how in control I am, things start to get a bit windy. My first reaction may very well be to run for cover, to find a place to hide. Adam and Eve found out a long time ago that you don't hide from God, so the book of Genesis tells us. I'm finding it, too - that I can try for just so long to run away from the wind, or to battle against it: better just to say yes to it, and go with the flow.
On a windy day we're reminded just how little power and control we really have over the forces that govern our planet, and that's no bad thing. In scripture, the wind is generally a sign of God's presence in disturbing - though perhaps also enabling - power, and of course as every Bible scholar knows, the word for 'wind' and 'spirit' is the same in both Hebrew and Greek. On the first Christian Day of Pentecost, it is a 'rushing mighty wind' that fills all the room where the disciples of Jesus are meeting.
I don't know about you, but I like to keep rushing mighty winds safely outside the room I'm in. I'm worried enough by all the creaks and groans from the roofs outside, without wanting the wind in here where I am! There'd be papers all over the place, stuff falling over, I should lose control of my carefully ordered work plans for the day. Stuff might be lost or ruined.
But God's plans for us are not always neat and orderly - not in the way we'd like them to be, anyway. The history of the Church can be summarized, perhaps, in terms of the orderly building of structures, hierarchies, power bases, bureaucracies . . . then every so often the wind gets into the room, the papers blow about a bit, and we're reminded of who is really in charge, and what we're really supposed to be about. We may call it revival, and be glad of it (though usually, so far as the Church, capital 'C' is concerned, some little way after the event, when things are safe and ordered again). It's always an untidy and challenging thing, it can't be otherwise. The Holy Spirit is God NOT in a box, or in a book, but HERE. And if the Holy Spirit comforts what is disturbed, he also disturbs what gets too comfy!
So, thinking about it, it is with my own personal life and journey of faith. At times, sometimes it's just at the point where I'm congratulating myself at how well I'm doing, how in control I am, things start to get a bit windy. My first reaction may very well be to run for cover, to find a place to hide. Adam and Eve found out a long time ago that you don't hide from God, so the book of Genesis tells us. I'm finding it, too - that I can try for just so long to run away from the wind, or to battle against it: better just to say yes to it, and go with the flow.
Thursday, 19 January 2012
Poetry
I'm just back from a successful outing to read my poetry. I was well received, and sold quite a few books (some I even autographed!). There was some good conversation about poetry, too. What makes a poem a poem, I find myself wondering.
I write a lot of blank verse, but I'm clear that it is verse, and not just broken up bits of prose. I don't quite know what the difference is, but I know it when I see it (or, indeed, when I write it). I can identify elements that clearly contribute, but it's still a mystery. It's perhaps clearer to spot the distinction between good rhyming verse and mere doggerel, but even that can be tough, and not everyone will draw the line in the same place.
Of course, in both cases, it has to do with what every word is doing, and what words are doing together, and how they relate, in sound, in shape, in meaning. Certainly it's about a lot more than just what's happening at the beginning or the end of a line. And it is the poem as a whole that counts - I don't think poems can or should be open to dismemberment or dissection. Not without killing them first, anyway.
I think that some at least of my own verse is, after all these years, quite good. But in reality, what constitutes good and not good, where poetry is concerned? Some of the poems submitted to a journal I looked at a while back were technically poor, with rhymes that failed to work, metres that broke down, trite observations and hackneyed similes - BUT, they were someone trying to say something that had to be said, something that was bursting out of their heart. You could see that, even if the finished work wasn't of the best. I have no right to say that those words aren't poetry, even if the style doesn't work for me.
I write a lot of blank verse, but I'm clear that it is verse, and not just broken up bits of prose. I don't quite know what the difference is, but I know it when I see it (or, indeed, when I write it). I can identify elements that clearly contribute, but it's still a mystery. It's perhaps clearer to spot the distinction between good rhyming verse and mere doggerel, but even that can be tough, and not everyone will draw the line in the same place.
Of course, in both cases, it has to do with what every word is doing, and what words are doing together, and how they relate, in sound, in shape, in meaning. Certainly it's about a lot more than just what's happening at the beginning or the end of a line. And it is the poem as a whole that counts - I don't think poems can or should be open to dismemberment or dissection. Not without killing them first, anyway.
I think that some at least of my own verse is, after all these years, quite good. But in reality, what constitutes good and not good, where poetry is concerned? Some of the poems submitted to a journal I looked at a while back were technically poor, with rhymes that failed to work, metres that broke down, trite observations and hackneyed similes - BUT, they were someone trying to say something that had to be said, something that was bursting out of their heart. You could see that, even if the finished work wasn't of the best. I have no right to say that those words aren't poetry, even if the style doesn't work for me.
About the Snow
Sad to say that, although the haiku below is newly-written, all we have here today is rain. Quite a lot of it, in fact. The snow picture was taken at Christmas 2010, when the world around here was a very different place (in all sorts of ways).
The death of two people yesterday in an air crash just on the other side of the valley from here is a telling reminder of how fragile human life is, with all the networks of friendships and activities and accomplishments that life contains. A moment, and it's gone. One of those who died is Bob Jones, local farmer, aviator and founder of the Mid-Wales Airport, which was built on his land: a man who has given so much to the area, and contributed greatly to its economic viability via the airport. He will be greatly missed and mourned.
The death of two people yesterday in an air crash just on the other side of the valley from here is a telling reminder of how fragile human life is, with all the networks of friendships and activities and accomplishments that life contains. A moment, and it's gone. One of those who died is Bob Jones, local farmer, aviator and founder of the Mid-Wales Airport, which was built on his land: a man who has given so much to the area, and contributed greatly to its economic viability via the airport. He will be greatly missed and mourned.
Wednesday, 18 January 2012
Starlings (again)
I'm sitting at my desk, early morning on a grey and gently breezy day, just enjoying the sounds of starlings somewhere nearby. I rather think they're perching on my roof, in fact, and the variety of sounds they make is quite entertaining. Starlings are great mimics, and incorporate all kinds of stuff into their repertoire . . . and when gathered together in a group they're very vocal, you do really get a sense of there being a conversation going on.
One of things that fascinates me, as I puzzle over what being human is all about, is that we are born, or so it seems, with an innate capacity to be excited, delighted and bemused by the sights and sounds and colours of the world about us. It's this that motivates artists and musicians, travellers, scientists; and for me it lies at the heart of what it means to have a faith to live by. Birdsong is there for its own reasons, and not to entertain us, but we love to hear it, and some hardy people will get up at 3 or 4 am once May and June come by, just to hear the dawn chorus; sometimes Ann and I have joined them.
Flowers are the colours and scents they are to attract pollinators, not us, but we enjoy them too, and we'll be visiting famous gardens in our droves through the summer to see them on display. The point I'm trying to make, I suppose, is that what attracts me into faith is not that the world contains birdsong and flowers, but that I contain the capacity to delight in them. I don't need it (I think); I'm sure I could get by without it - stay safe, feed myself, procreate, pass on my genes. But it's there, it's part of me, it's what makes me what I am - and as I see it, there lodged in my soul is a little sliver of the Creator's capacity to delight in his creation.
Well, while I've been writing, the starlings have headed off to the nearby ash trees where they love to perch, and I can't hear them any more, though there are still some sparrows chattering nearby. I'm glad, though, that they've been part of the beginning of my day.
Monday, 16 January 2012
'Development' revisited
It's nice to report, reflecting on my article 'Development', posted last Tuesday, that our local paper made an excellent job of reporting my comments, distilled down into a few sentences, but still accurately expressing my point of view. Mind you, I wouldn't have minded at all if they'd decided NOT to use the picture of me in which I look slightly deranged, with mad staring eyes . . . No, I'm not going to post a copy here!
Thought For The Week
"A vision without a task is a dream; a task without a vision is drudgery. A vision and a task is the hope of the world."
(Donald Reeves)
(Donald Reeves)
Either / Or
I had an enjoyable and very useful meeting this afternoon as part of my quest to re-start Welshpool Fair Trade this year. At one point we found ourselves talking about the reasons people give for not supporting Fair Trade - one of which (I remember this one being presented at a diocesan meeting once) is, "Why should we be so concerned about supporting farmers and growers on the other side of the world, when our own farmers are getting such a raw deal?"
This is, of course, the old 'either/or' argument, that says "If you're supporting this, then you must be not supporting that". There is a blame argument that is similar, which goes, "It must be the fault of this lot, and therefore it isn't the fault of that lot." In reality, though, things are rarely the fault just of one party and not of the other; though to unthinkingly take sides in a simplistic way saves having to think about it - or, for that matter, saves having to admit that some of the blame may rest with you.
And this is an equally specious argument as regards Fair Trade. In reality, it is perfectly possible to support Fair Trade while also supporting (and perhaps very actively campaigning for the rights of) local farmers. The one does not cancel out the other, and indeed, there are some very good 'buy fairly, buy locally' ventures which seek to support both. As a rule of thumb, I should say, buy local produce where you can, thus cutting down on transport and storage costs and supporting local business . . . but where you can't buy local, then buy Fair Trade. Simple!
And even though things in reality rarely are as simple as we'd like them to be, living simply is certainly a worthy aim. "Live simply, that others may simply live" is the slogan I remember. Or perhaps our high call is to live locally focused lives as aware global citizens. In any case, for Welshpool to have a Fair Trade identity (to be, I'd like to hope, a Fair Trade Town) will not run counter to, and in fact should I believe enhance, its ability to provide good support and a lively market place for local growers and producers. Those who are truly seek justice will be working for justice for all, while those who make use of either/or arguments are just looking for an excuse not to bother.
This is, of course, the old 'either/or' argument, that says "If you're supporting this, then you must be not supporting that". There is a blame argument that is similar, which goes, "It must be the fault of this lot, and therefore it isn't the fault of that lot." In reality, though, things are rarely the fault just of one party and not of the other; though to unthinkingly take sides in a simplistic way saves having to think about it - or, for that matter, saves having to admit that some of the blame may rest with you.
And this is an equally specious argument as regards Fair Trade. In reality, it is perfectly possible to support Fair Trade while also supporting (and perhaps very actively campaigning for the rights of) local farmers. The one does not cancel out the other, and indeed, there are some very good 'buy fairly, buy locally' ventures which seek to support both. As a rule of thumb, I should say, buy local produce where you can, thus cutting down on transport and storage costs and supporting local business . . . but where you can't buy local, then buy Fair Trade. Simple!
And even though things in reality rarely are as simple as we'd like them to be, living simply is certainly a worthy aim. "Live simply, that others may simply live" is the slogan I remember. Or perhaps our high call is to live locally focused lives as aware global citizens. In any case, for Welshpool to have a Fair Trade identity (to be, I'd like to hope, a Fair Trade Town) will not run counter to, and in fact should I believe enhance, its ability to provide good support and a lively market place for local growers and producers. Those who are truly seek justice will be working for justice for all, while those who make use of either/or arguments are just looking for an excuse not to bother.
Friday, 13 January 2012
I don't post many pictures . . .
. . . but I'd like to share this picture of my wife and our grand-daughter, an evocation of trust!
Thank You
We don't say enough thank-you's, I feel. It's so easy to take for granted the ways in which other people put themselves out for you, are there for you at crucial times, give good service, offer useful advice. A couple of weeks back I made my way into a crowded shop in Oswestry; I was carrying my rucksack at the time, and to be honest I'm a bit of a hazard to other shoppers when I have that on - it's best to give me a wide berth! As I made my way through to the back of the shop, I heard a voice say, quietly but firmly, "You're welcome" - and I realised someone had made way for me, stood back so I could get through, and I hadn't even noticed, let alone said 'thanks'. I turned round, but couldn't see who had spoken. Well, I'm sorry - and I was grateful, really.
So - thank you to all the people I walk past, forget about, take for granted. Thank you to the people who are paid to serve me in shops and pubs and cafes, but nonetheless still deserve to be thanked, especially if they put a bit of effort in, like the lady yesterday in another shop in Oswestry who called me across to her counter so I could be served more quickly, and was full of happy chat. Today I'd like especially to thank the people who hold back from criticising me at the times when I can't handle it and just need to be supported, and I'd like to thank the people who don't hold back when, to be honest, I really do need to be told. Thank you as well to those special souls who, when I'm in a mess, quietly get on with things, and finish off the stuff I've left unfinished, or smooth the feathers I've managed to ruffle.
Oh, and thank you as well, to the people who remember or take the time to thank me . . . sometimes when I don't need or deserve it. And I must mention the young girl yesterday who stepped back to let me past along a narrow passageway with my bag full of shopping, and said 'thank you' to me at the same time as I said it to her! Just that little episode cheered up two people quite a lot, I think!
So - thank you to all the people I walk past, forget about, take for granted. Thank you to the people who are paid to serve me in shops and pubs and cafes, but nonetheless still deserve to be thanked, especially if they put a bit of effort in, like the lady yesterday in another shop in Oswestry who called me across to her counter so I could be served more quickly, and was full of happy chat. Today I'd like especially to thank the people who hold back from criticising me at the times when I can't handle it and just need to be supported, and I'd like to thank the people who don't hold back when, to be honest, I really do need to be told. Thank you as well to those special souls who, when I'm in a mess, quietly get on with things, and finish off the stuff I've left unfinished, or smooth the feathers I've managed to ruffle.
Oh, and thank you as well, to the people who remember or take the time to thank me . . . sometimes when I don't need or deserve it. And I must mention the young girl yesterday who stepped back to let me past along a narrow passageway with my bag full of shopping, and said 'thank you' to me at the same time as I said it to her! Just that little episode cheered up two people quite a lot, I think!
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
Response
I wrote a letter to a senior clergyman at the beginning of November last year, in which I shared some very personal thoughts about my own situation and also asked a couple of very pertinent questions. So far I have not had the favour of even an acknowledgement, let alone a reply, from someone I should have thought would be bound to feel some pastoral responsibility for me.
So this something of a painful place from which to write; as I visit those feelings, however, I am also aware of the times when I myself have not responded as I could or should have done to the pastoral calls others have made on me. The reason why was not that I couldn't be bothered or that I lacked interest in the wellbeing of the person asking for my help - more to do with feeling overloaded, or mismanaging priorities, or simply overlooking or misunderstanding what was being asked of me.
So, being able to see the situation from both sides, I do understand how it is that things don't get done that perhaps should get done. I can see that for the hard-pressed recipient of lots of requests for help, advice, direction and pastoral support, each individual delay or failure to respond to a first request is (a) explicable and even allowable, and (b) doesn't necessarily feel all that important in the cosmic scheme of things. I've been on that side of the equation and I know about the pressure of demands on one's time and effort, and how many different people want a part of one (though I also know just how bad I've ended up feeling when I've realised - sometimes too late - that I've not responded as I should have to someone's need or distress!).
For the supplicant, their need for help and support may be of such importance that they feel hardly able to survive without it; and they'll have little awareness of, or concern about, the fact that their letter is only one of a thousand requests and pressures and responsibilities. My letter when I wrote it was the single most important thing going on in my life: it took a week to write, and a degree of courage to send. It's hard to accept, but I have to, that it simply has to take its place, and it may not be a very high place, in the pile of stuff on the desk, the priorities in the diary, of the person to whom I wrote.
Having said that, to begin with an acknowledgement of receipt would at least have been mildly encouraging - something that just requires an element of thoughtful organisation. Gosh, though - maybe the fact that I didn't get one means my letter didn't even reach its destination in the first place! And after all that effort, too . . . still, it's given me something to reflect on this morning!
So this something of a painful place from which to write; as I visit those feelings, however, I am also aware of the times when I myself have not responded as I could or should have done to the pastoral calls others have made on me. The reason why was not that I couldn't be bothered or that I lacked interest in the wellbeing of the person asking for my help - more to do with feeling overloaded, or mismanaging priorities, or simply overlooking or misunderstanding what was being asked of me.
So, being able to see the situation from both sides, I do understand how it is that things don't get done that perhaps should get done. I can see that for the hard-pressed recipient of lots of requests for help, advice, direction and pastoral support, each individual delay or failure to respond to a first request is (a) explicable and even allowable, and (b) doesn't necessarily feel all that important in the cosmic scheme of things. I've been on that side of the equation and I know about the pressure of demands on one's time and effort, and how many different people want a part of one (though I also know just how bad I've ended up feeling when I've realised - sometimes too late - that I've not responded as I should have to someone's need or distress!).
For the supplicant, their need for help and support may be of such importance that they feel hardly able to survive without it; and they'll have little awareness of, or concern about, the fact that their letter is only one of a thousand requests and pressures and responsibilities. My letter when I wrote it was the single most important thing going on in my life: it took a week to write, and a degree of courage to send. It's hard to accept, but I have to, that it simply has to take its place, and it may not be a very high place, in the pile of stuff on the desk, the priorities in the diary, of the person to whom I wrote.
Having said that, to begin with an acknowledgement of receipt would at least have been mildly encouraging - something that just requires an element of thoughtful organisation. Gosh, though - maybe the fact that I didn't get one means my letter didn't even reach its destination in the first place! And after all that effort, too . . . still, it's given me something to reflect on this morning!
Tuesday, 10 January 2012
Development
Ann and I have spent an instructive couple of hours this afternoon pondering over plans for new commercial development in our town. Many of the people I spoke to were simply against it, pretty much on principle. I couldn't find it in me to agree with them, although I was not able to be in favour of the project as presented to us. There were points in favour, points against, I felt; by and large I felt unhappy about allowing in large retail companies that would take business out of the traditional town centre shops, but I'm bound to recognize too that in a changing world and an economic downturn some of those shops don't have a very secure future anyway. There isn't an option that says - "Do nothing, and everything will stay the same as its always used to be."
I was interviewed for the local paper, and I doubt very much whether they will make coherent sense of my comments. Certainly my argument that some change is good and needed but perhaps not precisely this change is unlikely to distil into the couple of brief sentences they require. Anyway, to be anything other than solidly opposed is probably regarded as dangerously subversive round here, so probably I should just wait here for the local lynch mob to arrive . . .
I was interviewed for the local paper, and I doubt very much whether they will make coherent sense of my comments. Certainly my argument that some change is good and needed but perhaps not precisely this change is unlikely to distil into the couple of brief sentences they require. Anyway, to be anything other than solidly opposed is probably regarded as dangerously subversive round here, so probably I should just wait here for the local lynch mob to arrive . . .
Limerick
Not all my poems are serious . . .
The Reverend Archibald Bont
once dropped quiet a small child in the font:
he cried, "Don't faint or swoon,
he'll come up again soon,
and I'll dive in meself if he don't!"
The Reverend Archibald Bont
once dropped quiet a small child in the font:
he cried, "Don't faint or swoon,
he'll come up again soon,
and I'll dive in meself if he don't!"
More on Hens
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qKSmh8Q0zBc for one take (BBC Look East) on this fascinating subject . . .
Monday, 9 January 2012
Hens In Tank Tops
I've just called to see my friend Glad Jones . . . always a good visit, and there's always something strange and unusual to delight in in the course of conversation. She revealed she's busy knitting little woolly jumpers for hens - honestly, this is true! These are ex-battery hens, and they are often missing areas of feather cover on the breast and back. She showed me a photo of a hen dressed in the new gear, and it really does look like a tank top! Very early eighties in style. I should have stolen the picture so that I could reproduce it here, but you'll just have to imagine it instead.
For anyone reading this who doesn't know Glad and would like to, her article each month in 'The Bridge', the Llandrinio (Powys) community magazine, is always a source of interest and amusement. Find it at www.llandrinio.org.uk!
For anyone reading this who doesn't know Glad and would like to, her article each month in 'The Bridge', the Llandrinio (Powys) community magazine, is always a source of interest and amusement. Find it at www.llandrinio.org.uk!
Thought For The Week
The average human body is likely to contain some 10 to the power of 14 bacterial cells; this is ten times more than the 10 to the power of 13 human cells that make up our bodies.
Saturday, 7 January 2012
Sunshine
On a bright and sunny morning, I'd love to be out there enjoying the garden or taking a decent walk down the fields - but I've stuff to get on with at my desk, and it all has to be done and dusted by Monday, so no way can it be put off. Or at least, I suppose it could - but only at the expense either of a decent night's rest tonight or the family day out we've got planned for tomorrow.
There are times in life when you need to seize the moment and go with the flow, and when the plans you've made can and should be set aside. Equally, there are other times when discipline has to be imposed, schedules maintained, tasks completed. The trick is to know which time is which: when to be flexible, when to be rigid in the decision you make.
Rarely is either one of those a completely right option or satisfactory course to set, but then again, an element of compromise is usually possible - so with luck I should be able to snatch a stroll by the canal en route to doing a bit of essential shopping around lunchtime! So my thought for this morning is: make the most of the chances and opportunities that come your way, for what you don't grasp is gone forever - but don't be irresponsible, idle or uncaring in your choosing; in a balanced approach to communal and family living, you can't always live for the moment, however tempting the sunshine may be.
There are times in life when you need to seize the moment and go with the flow, and when the plans you've made can and should be set aside. Equally, there are other times when discipline has to be imposed, schedules maintained, tasks completed. The trick is to know which time is which: when to be flexible, when to be rigid in the decision you make.
Rarely is either one of those a completely right option or satisfactory course to set, but then again, an element of compromise is usually possible - so with luck I should be able to snatch a stroll by the canal en route to doing a bit of essential shopping around lunchtime! So my thought for this morning is: make the most of the chances and opportunities that come your way, for what you don't grasp is gone forever - but don't be irresponsible, idle or uncaring in your choosing; in a balanced approach to communal and family living, you can't always live for the moment, however tempting the sunshine may be.
Thursday, 5 January 2012
Nature Notes
My latest essay for a couple of local publications . . .
One of my New Year resolutions was to do at least one decent walk each week, and the beginning of the New Year therefore saw me striding out across Cannock Chase. I grew up on the edge of the Chase, and always enjoy walking there on my return visits to mid-Staffordshire. This was a cold but crisp and shiny January day, and it seemed to me that half the population of Staffordshire shared my desire for a decent walk.
Cannock Chase represents an important resource for that rather crowded part of England, and is therefore greatly in demand as a local ‘wild space’. Conserving such open spaces is a demanding task, involving balancing the different human usages (I as a walker was annoyed at the many mountain bikers around, for example), but also ensuring that human use does not harm wild creatures or their habitats. Some compromises have to be made, and it is important that all users respect this fact; for one thing, perhaps we have to put up with some parts being busy, like most of the paths I walked that day, so that other areas can be quieter and provide a refuge for shy wild creatures.
Notices here and there warned of the danger of human users of the Chase bringing in or spreading disease. Some of Cannock Chase’s significant plants, for example the bilberry, have suffered from diseases that are easily spread to new areas by unwary hikers, particularly those who do not stick to the paths as they should.
Even in places with a lighter human footprint, conservation requires more than just ‘leaving things be’. Research is constantly continuing to discover what the precise ecologies are that benefit particular species. Perhaps a particular meadow needs to be grazed to stop taller and ranker species crowding out low growing specialities. A shallow pond with a good growth of reeds will benefit species that would not be attracted to a deeper and more open stretch of water, though there are others it would suit. It all needs planning. Nature reserves have to be developed and maintained, and that requires a lot of work, on a continuing basis.
I did find a quieter area to walk in, on the return leg of my circular walk. In one sense it was far from being a quiet place, woodland that in a few weeks will be filled with bluebells, between the busy A513 and the main London railway line, on the edge of the Shugborough estate - but there were few walkers, and in gaps between the ‘noises off’ I could hear chaffinches, parties of tits in the high trees, and the scream of a jay. I was also delighted to find large numbers of red campion flowers along the path I walked - not an early spring bloom for 2012 so much as the remains of 2011 lingering on, and a sign of what, till that point anyway, had been (for all the storms) a remarkably mild winter. I would not have found them on the same walk in January 2011!
Wednesday, 4 January 2012
Flood
A very wet close to a rather rainy day - high winds, too, forcing the water through cracks it might not otherwise have penetrated, and exposing the weaknesses in walls and roofs. The creaks and groans coming from some of our outbuildings are quite alarming. It's dark by now (19.00 GMT), but down below the river was already out halfway across the valley before sunset, and the floods will be worse by tomorrow.
It occurs to me that the fields near where we lived in my childhood days used to be flooded every winter, as I recall; a lake would form, stretching halfway round the town, complete with ducks and swans and winter flocks of seagulls, and most years the waters would be out more or less through till Easter. But this was not a disaster - rarely did the flood rise high enough to threaten any homes or other buildings - just an anticipated natural event that was in part at least a blessing, for it helped keep the fields fertile and improve the summer grazing.
I suppose the same was probably true round in these parts as well, but today's winter floods have changed from friend to foe, from ally to threat. I am told that river water nowadays moves downstream much more quickly than before, and not only do floods appear where they used not to, we have also constructed houses and factories in places where our ancestors would never have dreamed of building. It is also true I'm sure that our modern much more mobile communities suffer much greater inconvenience and disruption than did our ancestors, when roads are closed and bridges awash. And that goes for modern farming too, as we seek to use the land more intensively and productively.
We no longer live to the same degree in rhythm with the seasons. Of course, there always were some destructive storms, and serious flooding. In one of my previous parishes a flash flood in the mid 19th century carried off half the vicarage, and cost the lives of several parishioners (though not, one is pleased to record, the vicar or any of his household). But flooding today seems to happen more often than before. Perhaps the climate has got worse - global warming, anyone? But we also live complex lives, with all that that entails.
This is not to criticise our modern way of life, not really, nor am I pining for some rosy but quite fictitious image of the days of yore. I just find myself reflecting on how things change, that's all - and maybe the irony that, for all our comparative sophistication, our modern power and wealth, there are still times when all we can do is seek shelter!
It occurs to me that the fields near where we lived in my childhood days used to be flooded every winter, as I recall; a lake would form, stretching halfway round the town, complete with ducks and swans and winter flocks of seagulls, and most years the waters would be out more or less through till Easter. But this was not a disaster - rarely did the flood rise high enough to threaten any homes or other buildings - just an anticipated natural event that was in part at least a blessing, for it helped keep the fields fertile and improve the summer grazing.
I suppose the same was probably true round in these parts as well, but today's winter floods have changed from friend to foe, from ally to threat. I am told that river water nowadays moves downstream much more quickly than before, and not only do floods appear where they used not to, we have also constructed houses and factories in places where our ancestors would never have dreamed of building. It is also true I'm sure that our modern much more mobile communities suffer much greater inconvenience and disruption than did our ancestors, when roads are closed and bridges awash. And that goes for modern farming too, as we seek to use the land more intensively and productively.
We no longer live to the same degree in rhythm with the seasons. Of course, there always were some destructive storms, and serious flooding. In one of my previous parishes a flash flood in the mid 19th century carried off half the vicarage, and cost the lives of several parishioners (though not, one is pleased to record, the vicar or any of his household). But flooding today seems to happen more often than before. Perhaps the climate has got worse - global warming, anyone? But we also live complex lives, with all that that entails.
This is not to criticise our modern way of life, not really, nor am I pining for some rosy but quite fictitious image of the days of yore. I just find myself reflecting on how things change, that's all - and maybe the irony that, for all our comparative sophistication, our modern power and wealth, there are still times when all we can do is seek shelter!
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
Crash
He had been travelling far too fast
and on an unfenced road, ignoring all the signs;
something like this had been always bound to happen.
Crumpled up like an empty beer can
scrunched in the fist on a night on the town
ready to be tossed aside,
all his old certainties and known directions
had been terminally skewed and screwed - while
against all the odds
somehow he was still alive inside it all.
And he had hoped and perhaps even expected
to have been pulled from the wreckage;
but they only turned and walked away,
finding in their holy books
good reason to leave him be.
and on an unfenced road, ignoring all the signs;
something like this had been always bound to happen.
Crumpled up like an empty beer can
scrunched in the fist on a night on the town
ready to be tossed aside,
all his old certainties and known directions
had been terminally skewed and screwed - while
against all the odds
somehow he was still alive inside it all.
And he had hoped and perhaps even expected
to have been pulled from the wreckage;
but they only turned and walked away,
finding in their holy books
good reason to leave him be.
Hooray!
This morning I sold four copies of my latest collection of poems. It won't exactly keep the wolf from the door, but every little helps. What I need, I guess, is a few invitations to do recitals - if you, dear reader of this blog, want to invite me to your group or meeting, I'm waiting!
But for the time being I am happy to continue writing - indeed, I probably have to do this in order to remain sane. Listening in the car the other night to a poetry masterclass on the radio, I was struck by what one of the participants said about why she wrote. I can't now recall her exact words, but they were along the lines of 'her poems make sense of the thoughts in her mind that otherwise would remain a jumble'. I think I can relate to that as personal therapy and as an act of self-analysis, but there's more. Good poetry (not necessarily a title I'm claiming for my own verse) does more than give shape and direction to the contents of the poet's mind, it will also do something similar for the reader. I think all good and creative writing can do that as a sort of co-operative venture between writer and reader, but it is particularly a function of poetry, because of its comparative brevity and the gaps and spaces a poem leaves within itself; the pictures formed by the words require the engagement and involvement of the reader for this to happen, and the poem as the reader first encounters it is as yet unfinished business.
Anyway, I'm glad therefore to have sold a few books, not really because I could use the money, but because my poems can have no real life unless and until they are read; each poem is a project shared between the writer and the receiver, and nothing I have written can remain in my sole ownership without simply dying there.
But for the time being I am happy to continue writing - indeed, I probably have to do this in order to remain sane. Listening in the car the other night to a poetry masterclass on the radio, I was struck by what one of the participants said about why she wrote. I can't now recall her exact words, but they were along the lines of 'her poems make sense of the thoughts in her mind that otherwise would remain a jumble'. I think I can relate to that as personal therapy and as an act of self-analysis, but there's more. Good poetry (not necessarily a title I'm claiming for my own verse) does more than give shape and direction to the contents of the poet's mind, it will also do something similar for the reader. I think all good and creative writing can do that as a sort of co-operative venture between writer and reader, but it is particularly a function of poetry, because of its comparative brevity and the gaps and spaces a poem leaves within itself; the pictures formed by the words require the engagement and involvement of the reader for this to happen, and the poem as the reader first encounters it is as yet unfinished business.
Anyway, I'm glad therefore to have sold a few books, not really because I could use the money, but because my poems can have no real life unless and until they are read; each poem is a project shared between the writer and the receiver, and nothing I have written can remain in my sole ownership without simply dying there.
Monday, 2 January 2012
Did You Know?
. . . that 2012 is the International Year of Chocolate? No, I haven't seen that anywhere, either - but I can't see any good reason for it not to be!
Thought For The Week
An overwhelming majority may just mean that all the idiots are on the same side . . .
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