Caravaggio painting, the adoration of the Shepherds

Nativity

Caravaggio  (1609)

Our sunday in the snow.

 Our house on the edge of the snow covered field.

 Daddy had to pull three children for a long way. Good exercise though and much giggling. I followed behind because the baby decided to get off. He had cold fingers because he was holding an icicle like it was a lost treasure.

Fingers warmed by an illicit bottle of milk. Far too big for this now but as long as he still pronounces it 'bobble' he has me wrapped around his little finger : )

Silflay

Two small rabbits were in the field when I pulled in tonight, the headlights made them pause and then they scampered. I immediately though the word, silflay, when I saw them. In rabbit language it means to graze and eat the shoots of grass. Of course, you have to have read Richard Adam's book to know that. I wonder how many people think of Lord Frith when they see a dead rabbit on the road, or is it just me?

great night of poetry and music tonight at the Word and Sound

Bob would have approved even though he didn't get one of his songs covered, great version of Susanne by Leonard Cohen was played instead!

I read a few poems. Two winter themed ones which suited the frozen night outside.

Peace on Earth

 

The final Christmas Card picture.

The baby looked great in this one but the dog looked too yellow in the eye!

 

All the Christmas spirit was gone by this point!

Iglu

I dream
in shades of blue
the view down a tunnel
blocks are cut in an hour
light turns the white ice
shades of blue    I dream

of animal skins

they hold back death

in here it is hot

the brown skin on your

stomach has never been

touched by the sun    I touch

the furs beneath my back

are hot, the grey fur

is filled with lost

shades of blue

I dream

Listen to live poetry this Friday...

Starts at 7.30, book a slot on the door.
Worcester Arts Workshop, Sansome Walk
£3 for the brave
£5 for the audience 

More details here

What is the Gryphon dreaming about? I have always wondered...

The dull thump of a rejection letter on the mat.

So, two anticipated letters arrived this week with the news I did not want. No thank you. Poetry rejection letters. It is disheartening to think of my poems out there and an editor reading them and deciding they are not good enough. Poetry can appear simple, a few lines and finished. But the lines hide hours of thought, careful consideration behind each word and comma.

So my poems are spread out on the table. I can see the flaws in them. I also still see their potential, why  I love them.  I know I can write better. So I will, keep learning, keep writing, keep sending them out.

The wood is desaturated.

Each tree trunk a vertical stroke,

Twigs overlap into letters,

Like discarded whimsical fonts.

Beauty is a short-lived tyranny: Socrates

Ice frosts the landscape.

Snow Clouds

The clouds seem to be merging with the earth. Everything is white.

The new picture above our fireplace...

So lucky to have my daughter.

Been working on a poem about her today. Will post a part of it later.

Snippet of Sylvia and Ted talking about how they met.

Two minutes of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes being interviewed and they talk about how they met and wrote poems to each other. I can imagine the longing and intensity of those poems.

The courtship of poets...

The cold snap is making us all want to curl up with a blanket in front of the fire. The wood is chopped and piled up ready to burn. I have stocked up on food so we can hibernate for a few days. Just sit and watch the flakes drift down.