White Rose, Pink Rose

I don't want to brag
but...

Boule de Neige

all month long
the roses in my garden
have rambled

Dr. W. van Fleet

and scrambled
and climbed

Zephirine Drouhin

and bloomed
with fragrant perfection.

Iceberg

I just wish I had spent
more time in the garden
enjoying them.

Constance Spry

Must try harder
next year.

A Moth at Midnight

The Moth

Isled in the midnight air,
Musked with the dark's faint bloom,
Out into glooming and secret haunts
The flame cries,
'Come!'

Lovely in dye and fan,
Atremble in shimmering grace,
A moth from her winter swoon
Uplifts her face:

Stares from her glam'rous eyes;
Wafts her on plumes like mist;
In ecstasy swirls and sways
To her strange tryst.

(Walter de la Mare 1873 - 1956)

*****

MrsM is painfully reminded of the time
when she attempted to persuade MasterM
to learn poetry.
She felt it would be beneficial
for his inner landscape.
MrsM offered to pay by the line
and suggested that 'The Moth'
would be a good one
to start with.

MasterM politely explained
that learning poetry
was not a lifestyle choice
that he was comfortable with.

MissM, Protector of the Downtrodden

MissM is anxious about Guy of Gisbourne:

"He hasn't had a good series, you know...

first he is Sheriff
and then he is not...

he is cruelly betrayed by
Mad King John...

he ends up with an evil sister
who keeps trying to kill him...

and the arch-enemy
whom he has been trying to kill
for the past two series
is actually his brother...

and a step-father with leprosy
turns up unexpectedly and drugs him...

and he has to rescue another brother
that he didn't even know existed...

and the only person who has loved him
gets stabbed and dies in his arms...

and he has been thrown in jail
twice...

No wonder his hair is getting greasier every week."


MrM doesn't care.

He sits on the sofa
and murmurs
"Good Arrers*"
every time Robin Hood saves the day.


* a regrettable clue
that MrM has spent
unrecoverable hours watching
The World Darts Championship on TV.

On the far bank...

The Bathers - José de Almada Negreiros (1925)

I have scrambled out onto the far bank
beyond the detailed auditing of marking
and the careful choreography
of examination board meetings;
the Finalists' barbeque,
dinner with visiting examiners
and meetings with students who have failed.

My mind has been quite empty of anything
other than the day to day requirements of my job.
I reached maximum capacity
and pebbles were tumbling out of the jar.
Yesterday I wondered if I would ever write again.

I tried to remember how I had done it before.
It was difficult to believe that
day after day
the words for posts
had obediently organised themselves
in neat rows
with very little effort.

Today I walked across campus to deliver the agreed marks
clutching the memory stick that represented
months of hard work by so many people.
When I arrived at the building
I could not find my way in.
I walked around the building twice
looking for the entrance
and eventually found a small door.
Then I got lost inside and had to ask
a socked and sandalled Mathematician
to show me the way.
It was a ridiculous end
and I thought...

I should write about this...

Gillyflowers

Old fashioned frilly Pinks
fill the room with the scent of cloves.

They are Shakespeare's flowers
that Perdita spoke of in
'The Winters Tale'

"...the fairest flowers o' the season
Are our carnations, and streak'd gilly-flowers..."

The name 'gillyflowers' comes from
the Old English word for clove : 'gilofre'
It is now more commonly used for summer stocks
but it was originally used for scented pinks.

The variety names are delightfully old fashioned:
Doris
Ada
Mrs Sinkins

The sight of these flowers reminded me of a bouquet
gathered for Mary, Queen of Scots, by Penelope
in 'A Traveller in Time' by Alison Uttley.

Adam, the ancient gardener, describes it:
"Here's a bed of sops-in-wine
I've raised myself from cuttings from the Duke's place,
and here's heart's-ease,
although the young mistress calls 'em
by a new fanciful name ...'Pauncies'...
Here's holy-hocks, and these is pinks,
but what I likes is sweet williams
and sweet johns and sweet nancies..."

It is not surprising
this book from my childhood
remains within easy reach.

*****

This week is a succession of meetings
to check,consider, discuss and agree
the examination results for the Department.
I will be swimming in a sea of careful words.
Looking forward to crawling out the other side.

Keeping It Real

Let's not kid ourselves...

Friday night is takeaway night.

MrM says:

"Please send a menu for three
and, by the way,
what are we getting?"

MrsM says:

"I have barely got the strength
to take the lids off."

MissM says:

"No...
I absolutely won't smile for the camera...
I'm STARVING"

Harry Hotspur and the Professor Emeritus

Harry Hotspur was a giant of a man who was born in 1364 and died at the Battle of Shrewsbury in 1403. He was the eldest son of Henry Percy, 1st Earl of Northumberland, and his upbringing prepared him for defending the great land holdings of the Percy family against Scottish raids. He was captured and ransomed at the Battle of Otterburn and subsequently appointed as the Governor of Bordeaux. Dissatisfaction with the rule of Henry IV led an ill fated alliance with the Welsh resulting in his death on the battlefield from an arrow through the visor.

These are dry facts and seemingly irrelevant to the 21st Century but here is a thing..

There is a theory, impossible to prove but referred to in Shakespeare, that Harry Hotspur had a speech impediment. He was admired greatly in the North of England because of his status and his reputation as a warrior and it is possible that it became fashionable to copy his style of speech. This might explain the characteristic Northumbrian burr which is still apparent in the local dialect today.

When the Professor Emeritus sits in my office to discuss his expense claim I am distracted by the thought that his speech - so typically Northumbrian - is perhaps what Harry Hotspur, the great medieval warrior, sounded like 600 years ago.

And my mind begins to drift...

A photo for Jane

The first comment that I ever made on a blog
was on Snapdragon's Garden.

I can clearly remember the moment.

I filled in the comment box
and then paused.

It seemed such a leap in the dark
to press the publish button.

When I did publish the comment
I felt completely panicked.

I am not sure what I was worried about
but I knew that I had stepped
into a new world.

Jane has a business selling flowers
and handmade goods
and recently offered to send
a handmade button
in return for a photograph
for her new brochure.

Here is my offering:

Jane's badge
on my plate
with viola from my windowbox.

There is a postscript to this story:

The first envelope was emptied en route
and so I phoned Jane to let her know.
It seemed such a natural thing to do
because we have 'known' each other
for over two years now.

Thank you for your friendship, Jane,
and good luck with the brochure!

Just for the Record

1.
Red pen for result.
Blue pen for explanation.
Black pen for comment.

2.
The Educational Support Officer
is wearing bright green Converse
and dark grey boardies.

3.
'We need...
more chocolate biscuits...
urgently'
says the Deputy Exams Officer.

4.
Mark entry.
Long columns of numbers.
Checked.
Printed.
Double checked.

5.
Two students in summer dresses
are strolling across campus
eating ice creams.
Carefree.

6.
After analysis
a mark is adjusted
to compensate for
rounding error.
It might make all the difference.

7.
A queue of party goers
waiting for a bus
in bright cocktail dresses and high heels
are off clubbing.

8.
Mark entry is completed early.
The Exams Officer
and the Deputy Exams Officer
are all smiles.

9.
The StudentSoc are planning a boat party.
I must have looked slightly alarmed
because she says soothingly
'Don't worry - I won't be drinking -
I will make sure nobody falls over the side'.

10.
The very fierce lady
in the Exams Office says
'Well Done'.

11.
Offices on the Quad
will be disturbed by soundchecks
for the Summer Ball.

12.
There are more meetings to come.
Some will need lots of Kleenex
but the end is in sight.

the path through the meadow

We have not been to the meadow
since the last days of winter.

On a warm summer evening
we walk on familiar paths
and discover that the buttercups
still turn their face to the sun
even when we are not there to see it.

as MrM says
'Life must go on...'