Morality Play

If I could take only one book with me to a desert island....you know the question?
People usually take the Bible or Shakespeare's Complete Works or Middlemarch, War and Peace...Harry Potter...the complete series....you get the drift.
They are anticipating a long stay.

Foolish or not, I would opt for Barry Unsworth's novella Morality Play. 
Set in the late fourteenth century it tells the tale of a wandering group of players. Actors these days are a different species; they earn the biggest bucks, are highly esteemed  and enjoy global celebrity status. We perhaps too often live our lives vicariously through them...I speak for myself...
Their medieval predecessors were social pariahs, itinerant minstrels who trailed their few possessions from village to village, performed in makeshift sets and were often chased out of town. Biblical sketches, ie scenes from the bible and pageants, made up their staple repertoire.

In Morality Play a poor young scholar, a man in Holy Orders, and "well favoured though short of stature ...with nothing but Latin to recommend" him stumbles across such a motley crew. He is in a dire situation... having been caught in flagrante delicto by a husband's ill timed return.... He escapes through the cow shed leaving his good cloak behind him.

Luckily his Latin verses buy him a loaf of bread, a pigskin and a place in the company and he thereby escapes the wrath of a cuckolded husband.

Dwindling audiences and borderline penury prompt the players to introduce and improvise contemporary topics within their theatrical performances, and, happening upon a village where a young woman is accused of the murder of a boy... the players decide to enact the murder. Reconstruction of the murder scene, I think it's called these days.

But something snags, facts don't add up and the reenactment throws up reasonable doubts. Sherlock could learn a thing or too from this crew. Their theatrics point to a different suspect, to other possible victims and to a web of heinous abuse perpetrated by a man ......in high authority.


This is nail biting stuff.

A  must read, must keep , must reread.

Penguin Lessons

Am reading The Penguin Lessons. by Tom Michell - a lovely read  for these darkening days.
It transports the reader to Argentina where the author, a school teacher, purportedly and literally picks up a penguin.
The creature is washed up, expiring on a beach after a dumping exercise by an oil tanker in the nearby ocean.
Set in 1976 it depicts a country in crisis....political mayhem, high inflation and social/economic instability... while engaging you in the perambulations of the narrator and his rescued penguin, Juan Salvadora.
The penguin is integrated into a boys' boarding school environment, unlikely as that may seem.
You learn a lot about penguins; their feeding habits , their preening and grooming habits, their physical feats and attributes, their personality.
A charmingly told tale
A distinctive and engaging author's voice
A sense of humour
Highly recommended to pick up this penguin at a bookshop/library near you.

//www.amazon.co.uk/Penguin-Lessons-Tom-Michell/dp/0718181638

Skellig Michael

Knitting rather than writing these days. But here's a lovely picture taken in Kerry from Lamb's Head

Peninsula where I go every year for at least a week..
Skellig Michael in the distance.
Caherdaniel as a holiday destination- magical...

http://www.skelligexperience.com/

http://derrynane.com/ring-of-kerry/caherdaniel/

Are we nearly there?

The Rear View Mirror

Your eyes would meet in the rear view mirror.
He, strapped in his child seat,
Wearing his teenage mutant hero turtle costume
Leonardo or Donatello or Michelangelo
You can't remember which.
And he'd ask, "How far is it?"
And you'd pretend to know;
"Just around the bend or nearly there."

And years later, still back-seated
But wearing that teenage boy long lost look
Staring out the window at his dreams
Whizzing by and no longer asking,
Knowing your bends were hairpin,
And treble at that.

Now empty grey upholstered seats
And no queries about destination
Or time or speed or direction;
Just him up the road ahead of you
Waiting for you to catch up.

Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2016

Aging

I 'm beginning to forget things.

I look at the tiles, hoof-marked

and dog-haired, and say to myself:

"I did hoover that floor today?
 Didn't I?"


I did!

Then she made a dash
for the back hedge
beyond which lay
neighbour's garden shed-
door half-open
Pet rabbit's bob-tail
in the mix.

She came back
tail swinging
hips swaying
feet stamping imprints
on vacuumed tiles.

Or did she?

Or was that yesterday?
Or the day before?
Or last week?
I'm beginning to forget things...

Orange

Orange is a colour that attracts me though I never can wear it!
Between the base chakra and the solar plexis, between red and yellow, survival issues and will. Centred on the reproductive organs it connotes creativity.
I once bought a house simply because it was terra cotta in colour.

Orange

It falls between
Sunrise and the beginning

It is transition at the heart
Of all matters changing

It is the letting come
And the letting go

The woman builds a house to contain it
But finds she cannot hold it

It is bliss and aspiration
Some call it flowing

It is that which draws us onwards
If we can let go to it

The Art of Raising Yeast

I read a beautiful poem in the Irish Times Supplement- The Art of Making Macarons  by Deirdre Daly and it triggered the following poem for me.

The Art of Raising Yeast

Crumble fresh yeast

between thumb and forefinger

Add blood warm water

and a sprinkle of sugar

Cover with bone dry cloth

And wait

Go feed the chickens

Or plant bulbs for spring

Or take the dog for a walk

And watch the tree-top fringed sky

Suffused in its waking blush

That lightens to pink and then coral

Then gathers itself into a tight ball

Intense as a fire-coal, transfiguring

Chimney pots into Disney turrets

Lighting up a sun-bricked path

Through woods where you crunch

Fallen husks underfoot

Cup and stroke cool hard chestnuts

Surprise a squabbling crow

Beneath the Scots Pine

Then emerge from the woods

And scatter grazing gulls

That let fall white feathers as they rise

Brush these across your palm

And feel their oiled nylon tickle

By now the yeast should

Have fermented

And spread like foam

Thrown up by a Spring tide

It may look like freshly whipped cream

Resist - the urge to sample 

Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2016

Belated Greetings

Birthdays have begun to straddle days rather than hours. 

This year I received a rendering of Happy Birthday the day before the actual event. 

And another one the day after. 

Cards have been delivered at various intervals.

The only well wisher certain to be punctual with their greeting is probably the phone company..... 

to which I take great personal affront!!

But...... Isn't it grand to allow the festive mood to peak earlier and linger longer

Belated

I had folded away my birthday

Face down in a small pile

When the rush

of black- tailed dog

eschewing hall carpet

howling at retreating footsteps

snouting parcel packaging

Declared –Post.

Addressed to me

My maiden name (in parenthesis)

Postmarked UK.

It was a copy of Jane Austen’s

Persuasion:

Hard-backed

Complete and unabridged

Ribbon- book- marked

Pages -gilt-edged 

Edition- illustrated

Straight from her cottage
parsonage in Chowton.

And inside it

Gold stars

from a wedding you gate-

crashed in Helsinki

and a promise

To email

Properly

Soon.