For Marlene

Sag mir, wo die Blumen sind.....

Cowslips

Sometimes a song, or a poem, just creeps into the cranium, and can't find its way back out.  And this husky version of Pete Seeger's slightly sentimental Where have all the flowers gone? has done that to me on recent walks.  I think it was the smoky drift of The Blue Angel that caught me, and now I just can't get it out of my mind, especially when trampling the blooms around here.....

Red Campion

If I were a bard, or poet laureate or some such, I would pen some fancy verses about the colourful delights of hedgerows and fields, and how the scents of pretty petals might fume through my head creating dizzy heights of natural passion. But I must leave that to the professionals.

Poppy and Phacelia

Here, for example, is a modest burst from John Clare, worth at least a C+:

The sweet spring is come'ng

In beautifull sunshine

Thorns bud and wild flowers blooming

Daisey and Celadine

Somthing so sweet there is about the spring

Silence is music ere the birds will sing

And you cannot hold him back - he will go on:

The lane the narrow lane

With daisy beds beneath

You scarce can see the light again

Untill you reach the heath.....

And then there's Poppies in their thousands, enough to induce some stupor:

Everywhere there is a changing tapestry of light and colour:

  

The  feisty sprays of May flowers - Blackthorn, whether white:

Or flushed with pink:

Sainfoin mingles with the Ox-eye Daisies across the fields:

Not every day is bright; not everywhere is acrylic. Across the marsh the reeds mute the palette in watercolour mode: 

And then the grasses by the beach wave to the waters of the Wash in gentle tones: 

While up at Thornham Staithe the drifts of Common Sea Lavender are just beginning to tinge the tidal flats by the ancient posts:

There is such a wealth of life here, sponsored by fresh air and wild openness. Sweet Briar unfurls its petals along the way:

Honeysuckle seduces with its alluring perfume:

And, in the woods, despite its unhealthy reputation, I delight in finding a Yellow Azalea standing out from the much more common Pink Rhododendron:

Then at home, I have Clematis:

And Roses adorning the front of my house:

And so, in answer to the song, the flowers haven't all gone, even though there may not be the plethora of yore.  Some find their way into the church, inviting strangers to approach the font, basking in the light through the new glass doors:

While others are plundered by bees devoted to making honey to nourish their young in a hole in my wall:

The bees build in the crevices

Of loosening masonry, and there

The mother birds bring grubs and flies,

My wall is loosening; honey-bees,

Come build in the empty house of the stare.

W B Yeats

Meditations in Time of Civil War

Yes, poetry and song inform our lives, while nature provides for life.  Without flowers, and without bees, we would be nothing at all.  So we need to be grateful that, so far at least, not every flower has gone.....

wann wird man je verstehen?

So, to give that femme fatale, Marlene, the final word from Der Blaue Engel, with her deliciously husky tones:

Sich neu verlieben,

das wollte ich nie,

Was soll ich nun tun?

Kann nicht helfen mir.

Apparently (thank you Rosey) this is a (poor) retranslation of the Doris Day version of the song (which Marlene also sang in English)....

The 'proper' German version is:

Ich bin von Kopf bis Fuß

Auf Liebe eingestellt.

Ich kann halt lieben nur

Und sonst gar nichts.

Which isn't the same....  So, take it as you wish.  What I have in my head is Marlene singing (as if she has just smoked a pack of Balkan Sobranie):

Falling in love again

Never wanted to

What am I to do?

I can't help it....

And there you go.

Let's just continue to play the game......

Springtime for Vladimir

An Old Man's Winter Night

All out of doors looked darkly in at him

Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,

That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.

What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze

Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.

What kept him from remembering what it was

That brought him to that creaking room was age.

He stood with barrels round him—at a loss.

And having scared the cellar under him

In clomping there, he scared it once again

In clomping off;—and scared the outer night,

Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar

Of trees and crack of branches, common things,

But nothing so like beating on a box.

It is almost spring. The crisp whites of snowdrops are edged with ageing ochre, while the yellows of daffodils are reaching their finest shimmering sheens. Jackdaws pirouette in pairs, while ducks waddle in couples, with just a few solitary blades eyeing up the opportunities.

It is almost spring. A short while ago three storms in a row blasted the heaths and muddied the waters, but now softer winds scatter the first blossoms and shake the marram grasses by the shore.

It is almost spring.  But winter is still here.  The darkness has lifted, as the earth tilts our northern end towards the sun, but metaphorical winter is deep. Millions now achingly strive to find shelter and some peace. The fearsome breath of deranged might threatens to rend the tissues of all our lives.  

A light he was to no one but himself

Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,

A quiet light, and then not even that.

Robert Frost

1874-1963

Winter is so hard, especially when the confection of Christmas cheer passes by the lonely, the sick, the carers for the sick. Two years now we have spent Christmas alone with the cat, none of us speaking, nothing to communicate.  Pandemic....  dementia.... cat got your tongue?

But this is nothing. There are no words to adequately describe the inhumanity of Putin's invasion of Ukraine. Nothing can compare with the violent destruction of civilian homes, the drive to sanctuary of the fearful.  

Yes, we should have seen it coming. Yes, the wars in Syria and Yemen have been similarly brutal and unintelligible, and we have done nothing.  Yes, we are to blame....

But nothing can excuse the vicious lack of care exhibited by our government towards those exhausted, frightened souls who made it as far as Calais, only to be sent on wild goose chases across France to complete endless fragile forms online and then be told to wait.

And all the while a false Prime Minister courts oligarchic lords with Italian castles and others who have funded his rise to power.

Amanda would not approve.....

Recent days have been beautifully springlike here in Norfolk. Only the deafening roar of the Lockheed-Martin F22 Raptors exercising at lower than usual altitudes overhead disturb our blossoming spring. According to my research,  this single-seat, twin-engine fighter features a combination of capabilities that are nothing less than revolutionary. It can soar 10 miles high and fly at supersonic speeds for extended periods of time thanks to an unprecedented capability known as “supercruise,” which propels the jet to speeds greater than Mach 1.5 without the use of afterburners.

It can accelerate quickly and execute razor-sharp turns—even at high speeds. It carries weapons primarily for striking airborne targets, but the Raptor pilot can also attack ground targets from standoff ranges.  And it is equipped with stealth technology that enables it to operate virtually undetected by radar.

Assigned to seven U.S. Air Force bases, the F-22 fleet is ready to be rapidly deployed anywhere in the world it is needed.

But they are just burning oil over our skies just now.....

Yes, it's Springtime for Putin, and Chequers for Johnson, and life goes on as it will, until the last cockroach finds no mate.....

I am glad it is spring here. The light brings much relief and the paths are drier, the air is milder. But what has become of us despite these lovely days?  I despair of our government - so what's new? But after Salisbury and after Alexander Litvinenko, what hope is there that absolute power does not corrupt?  The world has seen despots and tyrants and still sees them.....  

What hope is there for Alexei Anatolievich Navalny? Poisoned on August 20th 2020, imprisoned in Russia in February 2021, and tried again on 24th February 2022, when he condemned the Russian invasion of Ukraine and asked the court to include his statement to the trial's protocol.  He said that it would lead to a huge number of victims, destroyed futures, and the continuation of this line of impoverishment of the citizens of Russia. He called the war a distraction to the population to, divert their attention from problems that exist inside the country.....

Springtime for Putin and the KGB
The Soviet Union is happy and gay
We're marching to a faster pace
Look out! Here comes the master race 

I am glad that Amanda understands nothing of this. I understand little enough, and, with Robert Frost's Old Man in mind, I find myself going downstairs again wondering what I have forgotten.  

But when will we learn?

Darkness at the break of noon

Shadows even the silver spoon

The handmade blade, the child’s balloon

Eclipses both the sun and moon

To understand you know too soon

There is no sense in trying

Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn

Suicide remarks are torn

From the fool’s gold mouthpiece the hollow horn

Plays wasted words, proves to warn

That he not busy being born is busy dying

Although the masters make the rules

For the wise men and the fools

I got nothing, Ma, to live up to

It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)

Bob Dylan

1965

Spring (Again)

March 29th 2019

Cock robin he got a neat tippet at spring.....

And he whistled a ballad as loud as he could

And built him a nest of oak leaves by the wood

It's a beautiful day, despite the fact that this was supposed to be the day the UK severed its links with the EU.....  

In the untainted blue sky a fresh young kite sails loftily, spying for worms and other tiny morsels....

At the other end of the spectrum a blue tit rummages amongst the pussy willow,

And a coal tit hangs upside down while he seeks an early aphid or such.....

I take Amanda for a walk around the Ayots, deep Hertfordshire in Spring.  Everywhere life is busy renewing itself.  There is a sense of sap rising, of buds swelling.  I love the sheen that is detectable above the scribbled frame of a sturdy oak, that gleam of life just discernible at twig-tip....

Nearby a great willow almost sprays us with its joyful weeping....

Catkins fall, their freshness so good you want to eat them dusted with icing sugar and maybe just resting lightly on meringue and a drift of cream....

Buds burst, the young green leaves growing stronger by the minute, the epitome of Easter Rising....

And blossoms explode from blackthorn and cherry, spring's fusilladoes fired (as Charles Causley commemorated Keats at Teignmouth)....

The ground is bright with celandine, and I find my second bluebell, then another.....

The sweet spring now is come'ng

In beautiful sunshine

Thorns bud and wild flowers blooming

Daisey and Celadine

Something so sweet there is about the spring....

John Clare was an extraordinary man, and a brilliant poet, at his best.  

On some occasions, however, perhaps his love of nature was stronger than his literary skill....

How beautiful is spring! the sun gleams gold,

Reflecting like a mirror, burnished ever;....

- the true believer

Sees flowers in bloom and hears the woodlands ring,

With joys awake: - how beautiful is spring! -

I get the point.  But it is a bit Fotherington-Tomas (you kno he sa Hullo clouds Hullo sky he is a girlie and love the scents and sounds of nature tho the less i smell and hear them the better.)

Thank you Nigel Molesworth, who claims that Peotry is sissy stuff that rhymes.  (Weedy people say la and fie and swoon when they see a bunch of daffodils....)

As it is, I note a buzzard returning to her nest.....

And then I hear the unmistakable sound of a tiny Chiff Chaff, just crashing in to land above my head....

And then I see a Brimstone, flitting just beyond my lens.... but then a Comma tires and rests awhile on a board fence in the sun, immobile while I steal his precious time, his punctuation brief.....

All token spring and every day

Green and more green hedges and close

And every where appears

Still tis but March

But still that March is Spring

 And the robin still trills his warning song....

And the kite still haunts us overhead.....

Fields meadows woods and pastures

Theres spring in every place

From winters wild disasters

All wear her happy face

Beast on their feet and birds upon the wing

The very clouds upon the sky look spring

(But we are not out of the woods yet....)

[Peotry (sic) by John Clare, 1793 - 1864]