With Our Great Pleasure

Another poem from my commonplace book, dated 4th April 2004.  I suppose the central theme that appeals to me is how, in the final section, the poet compares such a simple and straightforward and easily understood set of ideas - quantum physics - with the infinitely more complicated facts of awareness, recognition and reflection: consciousness.  In these curious times where contemporary science posits the bizarre and risible idea that 'consciousness' is a by-product (epiphenomenon) of the most advanced bit of kit in the universe: the human brain.  The poet leads us gently away from the madness of an anthropomorphised cosmos? Or have I got it wrong? Here is Pat's  website. Waving As a child I waved to people I didn't know. I waved from passing cars, school buses, second floor windows, or from the street to secretaries trapped in offices above. When policemen motioned my father on past the scene of a crime or an army checkpoint, I waved from the ba...

Yesterday I went to the final day of the 'Britain in Focus' exhibition at the Science and Media Museum (formerly the National Photographic Museum) in Bradford. The items were curated and presented by Eamon McCabe, a reflection of his own favourites and influences: a spin off from the BBC Four series.   Fay Godwin's work with the camera and as an environmental campaigner was highlighted. From Godwin's beautiful collaboration with Ted Hughes, 'Elmet', I have had difficulty selecting just this one poem and its corresponding photo. Incidentally, in Mytholmroyd, where Hughes came from, the only public memorial I have come across (apart from the 'blue plaque' in Aspinall Street) are the title and first two lines of this poem inscribed around the sculpture in the small car park near the church. Moors Are a stage For the performance of heaven. Any audience is incidental. A chess-world of topheavy Kings and Queens Circling in stilted majesty Tremble...

My Dad was a treasury of truisms (or maxims?) the majority of which he would be very proud  to acknowledge would be banned as being totally unsuitable material for the internet. Mephistopheles by choice but Faust by fate in Goethe's account of the reconciliation of man's divided nature. The one he lived by though was 'profess only evil, but do only good'.  Too easy to get that the wrong way round for me.  Lofty thoughts, noble purpose, universal benevolence, marvellous aspirations, pious hopes, the best of intentions and the grandest of plans are all to be applauded, but what counts, what makes the difference, what makes a man is what he actually does.  The rules are strict on this, there is no court of appeal. Sorry it took me so long to work that one out Dad, but thanks for the tip. Make a mental note of the last line because I have a poem to come shortly from Hermann Hesse that will have relevance. THE TRUISMS His father gave him a box...

I am surprised that Professor Sir John Tooke, former President of the Academy of Medical Science ( on this morning's edition  of  Radio 4 'Today' programme) was himself surprised how the majority of patients trusted the opinion of relatives or friends more than their doctors. Don't get me wrong: tablets are keeping me alive (and very grateful I am to you all for paying for them) but the public is very wise to have in mind the various relations and frank conflicts of interest between doctors, big pharma and the man (or woman) in the waiting room. The act of giving a medicine was, until recently, most powerful in its symbolic function than any inherent active ingredients.  I was given a very important lesson in this fact in my first house physician appointment.  My boss, Dr Davidson, was the archetypal, elegant, grey haired and white coated 'Doctor in the House' physician coming to the end of his career - an extremely astute and kindly man, adored by staff a...

I've started to wear some posh Italian sandals recently. Very comfortable and they have helped to sort out my Athlete's Foot a treat. Athlete's Foot as well as advanced cancer - well you can't say that God doesn't have a sense of humour? Actually another reason was a trip to Hadrian's Wall with Sam and Elias at Easter. In the Roman Army Museum there were some lovely well preserved sandals including the most delightful and delicate pair that would fit a two year old. The ones for adults made me realize that this perhaps above any other technology of the day allowed the Roman Army extend their empire from Rome to Asia Minor and to Carlisle via North Africa. I imagine the soldier in this poem contemplating the vagaries of fortune: his pleasure in new durable and fashionable footwear while at the same time reading his posting order: 'Oh fucking hell...... Wallsend on Tyne, for fuck's sake...  Again...' I've told Teresa I will be wearing sandals...

Many thanks to Johann for sending me this cartoon which brings together both my earlier posts 'Adelstrop'  and  'The Whitsun Weddings' . Very funny and very spooky at the same time.... And for completeness... Thanks Johann!!

Two for the price of one this week for the excuse to promote this favourite Larkin poem - and end the week on another hopeful note for younger people!! Congratulations to Judith and John plus Berni and Neil on the advent of their new grand-daughters. May they both learn a lot about the  'catching of happiness'. Born Yesterday Tightly folded bud, I have wished you something None of the others would: Not the usual stuff About being beautiful, Or running off a spring Of innocence and love - They will all wish you that, And should it prove possible,  Well, you're a lucky girl. But if it shouldn't, then May you be ordinary; Have, like other women, An average of talents: Not ugly, not good looking, Nothing uncustomary To pull you off your balance, That, unworkable itself, Stops all the rest from working. In fact, may you be dull - If that is what a skilled, Vigilant, flexible, Unemphasized, enthralled  Catching of of happiness is called ...

What on earth to say about atrocity? It seems an affront to even try to use words but I think Wendy Cope gets something right in this poem. The entry in my commonplace book says I copied it out of the 'Observer' on 14th October, 2001 SPARED 'That love is all there is, Is all we need to know of Love' - Emily Dickinson It wasn't you, it wasn't me, Up there, two thousand feet above The New York street. We're safe, and free, A little while, to live and love, Imagining what might have been- The phone call from the blazing tower, A last farewell on the machine, While someone sleeps another hour, Or worse, perhaps, to say goodbye And listen to each others pain, Send helpless love across the sky Knowing we'll never meet again, Or jump together, hand in hand, To certain death. Spared all of this For now, how well I understand That love is all, is all there is

I find it enormously inspiring and encouraging that Helen Dunmore was able to write  this poem a few days before her death  a couple of weeks ago. Her Guardian obituary is  here. Hold out your arms Death, hold out your arms for me Embrace me Give me your motherly caress, Through all this suffering You have not forgotten me. You are the bearded iris that bakes its rhizomes Beside the wall, Your scent flushes with loveliness, Sherbet, pure iris Lovely and intricate. I am the child who stands by the wall Not much taller than the iris. The sun covers me The day waits for me In my funny dress. Death, you heap into my arms A basket of unripe damsons Red crisscross straps that button behind me. I don’t know about school, My knowledge is for papery bud covers Tall stems and brown Bees touching here and there, delicately Before a swerve to the sun. Death stoops over me Her long skirts slide, She knows I am shy. Even the puffed sleeves on my whi...

Some friend you turned out to be, Derek. Loyal, generous, tender hearted man,  after thirty eight years of being best mates you just piss off - just like that.  What kind of bloody trick is that leaving us all stood there like lemons around your emptying bed, gutted and speechless, while you just sail off without a word or a wave or a bloody care in the world? Well it's just not fucking good enough.  We came to expect a lot more from you. I have seen death too often to believe in death. It is not an ending, but a withdrawal. As one who finishes a long journey, Stills the motor, turns off the lights, Steps from his car, And walks up the path to the home that awaits him. (Author unknown) Derek Elsworth 3/9/49 - 3/6/17

Completely new to me, Allan tells me that the poem was published in veiled support for Oscar Wilde after his removal to Reading Gaol and his sentence of two years hard labour. By coincidence, the reference to Portland is interesting. Last evening I learned that the borstal at Portland was the most feared establishment for young offenders in  Simon Day's astonishing autobiography.   I got the book because of his appearances on 'The Fast Show' and other comedy programs. It is very, very funny as you would expect but the story (I'm only a third of the way through) is extremely harrowing in many respects and the confessions of his disabilities, family break-up, criminality and addictions is told with brutal honesty, self awareness and total credibility.  I am looking forward to things getting better for him in the next few chapters. A young sinner indeed. Oh Who Is That Young Sinner Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists? And what...

Last night I listened to a brilliant radio programme  'The Stationery Cupboard'  written and presented by Lucy Mangan based around a visit to her old primary school to explore the attitudes of today's children to pens, pencils, paper, crayons, paints - all things locked away in that cupboard.  One of my favourite tasks at school was being ink monitor - being entrusted with a tiny funnel and the pint bottle to fill the porcelain inkwell at the top right hand corner of the school desk. I've always been randy for all the other paraphernalia too: I can't walk past a stationers without going in to cast a critical eye on what they have to offer. Of course it has always been something to do with the archetypal need simply to make ones mark and the satisfaction - never complete- that accrues from that. By association I think of this favourite poem by William Scammell who has a grasp of the situation and puts it very well.... BLEEDING HEART YARD Is where you go to...

Thanks to Allan for this lovely poem. Neither of us have been able to track down the author, so we wondered if anyone else knew?  He is also kind enough to allow a special dedication to Marge, the first Mrs P and mother of Alix and Neil. Knowing time's short in the rush hour of breakfasts with children to crush into coats and partings to brush I tucked your second best bra in over the radiator so that hurrying to dress you might almost feel me press a warm hand against each breast. Allan and Christine Potter

Re-copied from my commonplace book where the poem found it's way there thirty years or so ago. Finding an image of 'heartsease' on Google I realize that I have been mistaken as to its identity for all of these years - if not for the inspiration for its importance to me. An Upland Field By a windrowed field she made me stop. 'I love it finding you one of these,' She said; and I watched her tenderly stoop Towards a sprig of shy heartsease Among the ruined crop' 'Oh but look, it is everywhere!' Stubble and flint and sodden tresses Of hay were a prospect of despair: But a myriad of infant heartsease faces Pensively eyed us there. Long enough had I found that flower Little more common than what it is named for -  A chance - some solace amid earth's sour Failures, a minute joy that bloomed for It's brief precious hour. No marvel that she, who gives me peace Wherein my shortening days redouble Their yield, could magically produ...