Webcharms

Pigeon on the Roof

2007-06-11T13:18:00.000-07:00

One of the wilder shores of music is represented by this original composition, or improvisation, Pigeon on the Roof.

The bird in the picture above is a collared dove on our roof.

The Lachrimae Pavan

2007-06-09T09:33:00.000-07:00

Now I am old (69) I seem to live on a musical island. Long ago when music first started to excite me I would spend many hours talking to friends about different composers, players and genres. There was a wonderful world to be explored on expeditions of discovery.

Now I rarely encounter anyone who wants to talk about music, or indeed any of the fine arts, though I arguably meet more people than I did of yore. Friends either don't seem interested in music at all or have a taste for popular or commercial material written in the last few decades. I do not dislike their choice, but it seems to me rather limiting. The wonderful landscapes of folk, jazz, classical and so-called world music remain unexplored and unloved. And I now have no one to whom I can say "this is an interesting piece" with the slightest chance that they will listen to it all the way through without starting to talk about the blocked drains or the despicable neighbour.

The Internet has, however, revealed a wealth of unsung material often beautifully played and records of many of the things that have given me joy in the past. The people playing or uploading this must, I tell myself, want to talk and to listen, to pass on their passion and inspire others.

So I thought I would pick my way through my own musical life (since it is the only musical life I know) in the hope that I might be joined on the way with a few like-minded fellow-travellers who might talk with me as we used to talk and marvel together at the great creations of our fellow travellers.

I am starting this venture with the Lachrimae Pavan (the pavan of tears) by John Dowland, the English composer who lived in the late 16th and early 17th centuries, played on the guitar by Peo Kindgren. Dowland would not have known an instrument like this, but the lute was popular in his day and so was this composition of Dowland's.

I have two reasons for choosing it. A few years back someone was extolling the merits of the latest pop hit and I pointed out that I did not expect them to like Dowland's music (though I did like it), so why should they expect me to like the latest media-driven manifestation from the commercial music world. (Oh dear, I do sound like a grumpy old man).

My second reason is that Dowland's Lachrimae chimes with that famous line from Roman poet Virgil sunt lacrimae rerum; mentum mortalia tangunt which translates as something like "there are tears in things and our souls are touched by the fragility of life (mortalia)."

There are indeed tears in things and one sadness is the loss of the friendships I once thought music could forge. One day, maybe, I will understand why so many other people do not hear what I appear to hear.

Sussex dumplings

2006-11-22T10:11:00.000-08:00

Today I made some traditional Sussex dumplings to go with our lunchtime soup.

They are very simple and really rather dull. Make them by mixing plain white flour and some salt to a soft dough with water. Then scrape teaspoonfuls into boiling water using two spoons, or a spoon and knife. Simmer for 45 minutes, drain and add to your soup.

The snail on the crab apple

2006-10-15T01:16:00.000-07:00

This reminded me of Roberts frost's lines:

For I have had too much
Of apple-picking; I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
.
.

Sammy's mandala

2006-10-08T14:01:00.000-07:00

Something to look at rather than to speak about.

Sammy made this 'Tribute to the Moon' in the garden today. "I was just playing" she said.

It is on the site of a fire.

Chinese tea

2006-09-26T14:02:00.000-07:00

I surveyed a small back garden on a slope facing the sea. There was a bank of grass, a patch of brambles and convolvulus. A late cabbage white flew down the road and back. There were woodlice and garden snails under the stones, even a few sandhoppers far from the shore.

A Chinese woman from Beijing brought me a cup of green tea full of cornflowers, rosebuds and assorted leaves.

The Child in the Garden

2006-08-27T01:14:00.000-07:00

When to the garden of untroubled thought
I came of late, and saw the open door,
And wished again to enter, and explore
The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought,
And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught,
It seemed some purer voice must speak before
I dared to tread that garden loved of yore,
That Eden lost unknown and found unsought.
Then just within the gate I saw a child, -
A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear, -
Who held her hands to me and softly smiled
With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear;
"Come in," she said, "and play awhile with me;
I am the little child you used to be."

Henry Van Dyke [1852-1933]

The child is our granddaughter Elly, the place our garden in Sedlescombe on 26 August 2006.

Rain, rooks, viols

2006-04-15T14:15:00.000-07:00

French grey rain dimpling olive puddles
The anemones and dandelions stay shut on the hedge banks
A rook stationed itself on the wire by the top of the telegraph pole
while the car carried the slow sound of viols along the wet lane

The Third Branch

2006-04-09T12:49:00.000-07:00

The Third Branch, the chequered horse at the stream under the skylark overlayered landscape of dens and denes, gills and gullies woods, copses, shaws and spinneys.

Fire cows

2006-04-08T12:55:00.000-07:00

Brazen celandines pinned on the grass where fire cows ruminate on cud
dreaming of leaf-rimmed pools pierced by fallen timber.

While the cantilevered branch splashes the blue-brown water
the weblogs interweave, one modifying another

The dangerous prophet

2006-04-03T12:22:00.000-07:00

A prophet may come in the new Dark Ages
From the sea-green forest where the leaf waves crash in the branches
From the glaucous sea, ribbed and dangerous

Ivory sheep

2006-03-23T08:53:00.000-08:00

Ivory sheep in the morning sun crowded the summit of the cold brown wold
A man bent over a spade, digging earth from a dry bank
dumbfounded by phenomenology dreaming of sultana pudding

Cold red dye

2006-03-22T02:27:00.000-08:00

Cold dyes leaves with a red hand
shades of crimson, vermilion, oxblood and ruby
purple wrestles green incarnadine cold

Imaginary taxonomies

2006-03-18T13:05:00.000-08:00

I think I have nothing to say, so I say nothing
Lines are the names of cryptic species in imaginary taxonomies
ornus, or as the pinax more peculiarly, fraxinus bubula

Breakages

2006-03-17T13:38:00.000-08:00

Broken bricks to make a road
Broken years to make a life
Broken winter to make a spring

Rose cold

2006-03-16T04:21:00.000-08:00

Camellias flower after frost Souvenir de Bahuaud Litou who was this remembered rose tendre, tardif, imbriquée
Thorn wands haunted by rose-breasted batchelor chaffinches
But the van still hit the dove, grey feathers in a mirror

The alders

2006-03-15T10:02:00.000-08:00

The alders are cloaked in thin russet veils, catkin coats against the cold
the east wind puts knives between the sun and earth
some hold out their hands, palm up, wide ides in meetings