Category: Nature

April

Let’s see what Nicholas Breton has to say for April.

He, if you are new round here, was the author of Fantasticks, a weird collection of strangely spelled observation published in 1626.

 APRILL

It is now April, and the Nightingale begins to tune her throat against May: the Sunny showers perfume the aire, and the Bees begin to goe abroad for honey: the Dewe, as in Pearles, hangs upon the tops of the grasse, while the Turtles sit billing upon the little greene boughes: the Trowt begins to play in the Brookes, and the Sammon leaves the Sea, to play in the fresh waters: The Garden bankes are full of gay flowers, and the Thorne and the Plumme send forth their faire Blossomes: the March Colt begins to play, and the Cosset Lamb is learned to butt.

The Poets now make their studies in the woods, & the Youth of the Country make ready for the Morris-dance; the little Fishes lye nibling at a bait, and the Porpas playes in the pride of the tide: the Shepheardes pipe entertaines the Princesse of Arcadia, and the healthfull Souldier hath a pleasant march. The Larke and the Lambe looke up at the Sun, and the labourer is abroad by the dawning of the day: Sheepes eyes in Lambs heads, tell kind hearts strange tales, while faith and troth make the true Lovers knot: the aged haires find a fresh life, and the youthfull cheeks are as red as a cherry: It were a world to set downe the worth of this moneth: But in summe, I thus conclude, I hold it the Heavens blessing, and the Earths comfort.

Farewell.

Turtles are Turtle Doves I would imagine.

Not much Heaven’s blessing or Earth’s comfort around this neck of the woods yet (perhaps in Washington State?) but it’s a goodly way to go ’til May.

Easter Day

Since it’s Easter I can give you a bonus installment from Fantasticks, the peculiar book by Nicholas Breton (1554-1626), a series of sketches, of hours, season and months.  Breton’s take on Easter is a little different from mine, but times do change.

EASTER DAY

It is now Easter, and Jacke of Lent is turned out of doores: the Fishermen now hang up their nets to dry, while the Calfe and the Lambe walke toward the Kitchin and the Pastry: the velvet heads of the Forrests fall at the loose of the Crosse-bow: the Sammon Trowt playes with the Fly, and the March Rabbit runnes dead into the dish: the Indian Commodities pay the Merchants adventure: and Barbary Sugar puts Honey out of countenance: the holy feast is kept for the faithfull, and a knowne Jew hath no place among Christians: the Earth now beginnes to paint her upper garment, and the trees put out their young buds, the little Kids chew their Cuds, and the Swallow feeds on the Flyes in the Ayre: the Storke clenseth the Brookes of the Frogges, and the Sparhawke prepares her wing for the Partridge: the little Fawne is stolne from the Doe, and the male Deere beginne to be hearde: the spirit of Youth is inclined to mirth, and the conscionable Scholler wil not breake a holy-day: the Minstrell cals the Maid from her dinner, and the Lovers eyes do troule like Tennis balls. There is mirth and joy, when there is health and liberty: and he that hath money, will be no meane man in his mansion: the Ayre is wholesome, and the Skye comfortable, the Flowers odiferous, and the Fruits pleasant: I conclude, it is a day of much delightfulnesse: the Sunnes dancing day, and the Earths Holy-day.

Farewell.

Wishful Thinking about Easter

I think Easter is all about women
not all that religion and stuff
It’s spring and their hormones are stirring
to me it is all clear enough

It started back in them Dark Ages
With Eostre, a Godesss, who then
blessed the ladies with something
that makes them so different from men

They don’t like the menfolk to know it
so dress it all up rather well
with eggs, and most of all bunnies
which each have their stories to tell

The eggs women keep very private
in wait for some fellow to call
they only need us for a minute
the rest, they handle it all.

The bunnies, we all know what they’re at
whenever they are given a chance
it’s all really about procreation
and nothing to do with romance

To the poor men I offer this moral
enjoy the weekend of bunny and egg.
The rest of the year could be lonely
unless you are willing to beg.

PS   I’ll find my own way out.

Three bags full, Ma’am

Remember the picture I posted?
The house in the wood wot we love?
Well the paperwork’s going quite smoothly
And we’re fixing a date for the move.

I’ve got to admire Mrs Janus –
For her architect’s eye and her skill
At turning the place into ‘our’ place,
Saying where there’s a way there’s a will.

And a bonus I’ve found in the detail
Gives a boost to a roy’list like me.
Them woods wot surround our new palace
Belong to the Queen. Te he hee.

Easter poetry competition

Yes, it’s a special Easter this year, with a new man at the Italian Head Office n’ all. Such stuff that poets’ dreams are made on indeed!

But let’s not confine our flights of fancy to an Argentinian supernaturalist or those nibbled chocolate animals – however much we feel for them.

Continue reading “Easter poetry competition”

Results of the Poetry Competition

Sorry for the delay but here are the eagerly awaited (by Janus anyway), and hastily composed results of the February/March Poetry Competition.

Thank you all for your contributions, and PapaG – although yours was too late to be included in the judging – I did enjoy reading your topical verse. Continue reading “Results of the Poetry Competition”

March Fantasticks

“Where’s the Fantasticks for March?”   I’ve been away but here it is, it’s all right.

Fantasticks is the weird collection of gnomic observation by Nicholas Breton (1554-1626). They are not in print.

Anyway, in March, Breton seems more dream-laden and careless than ever.

MARCH

It is now March, and the Northerne wind dryeth up the Southerne durt: The tender Lippes are now maskt for feare of chapping, and the faire hands must not be ungloved: now riseth the Sunne a pretty step to his faire height, and Saint Valentine calls the birds together, where Nature is pleased in the varietie of love: the Fishes and the Frogs fall to their manner of generation, and the Adder dyes to bring forth her young: the Ayre is is sharpe, but the Sunne is comfortable, and the hay beginnes to lengthen: The forward Gardens give the fine Sallets, and a Nosegay of Violets is a present for a Lady: Now beginneth Nature (as it were) to wake out of her sleepe, and sends the Traveller to survey the walkes of the World: the sucking Rabbit is good for weake stomackes, and the dyet for the Rhume doth many a great Cure: The Farrier now is the horses Physitian, and the fat Dog feeds the Faulcon in the Mew: the Tree begins to bud, and the grasse to peepe abroad, while the Thrush with the Black-bird make a charme in the young Springs: the Milke-mayd with her best beloved, walke away wearinesse to the Market, and in an honest meaning, kind words doe no hurt: the Foot-ball now tryeth the legges of strength, and merry matches continue good fellowship: It is time of much worke, and tedious to discourse of: but in all I find of it, I thus conclude in it: I hold it the Servant of Nature, and the Schole-master of Art: the hope of labour, and the Subject of Reason.

Farewell.

Moving update

 

I know that the cherished friends’ breath is suitably bated until I tell you the latest in the windmill saga. So ‘yer ’tis, as they say in Cornwall.

The C_nt has had his surveyors out with their laser-thingies, measuring access roads and tricky corners, so we know he’s going ahead and we’d better get outta here pronto, Cisco! For reasons best known to themselves (are they masochists or wha’?) the wannabe new occupants of our former idyll still want to live here, so we have identified our new abode – pictured above.  It’s in the midddle of a beech wood with a family of deer for neighbours. The barn/garage is also thatched – for architectural consistency, you know – and it is q-u-i-e-t. No traffic noise, just the birds and the occasional hunter. Ten minutes to the nearest town/shops/doctor/hospital – the main concerns of people like us.

Can’t wait to move!

Cardinal sins

I see that Cardinal O’Brien, the new ‘C’ word with a hard ‘C’, who until recently was known for being anti-gay-marriage as a ‘grotesque subversion’, has scored another own goal; and it rates with Maradonna’s hand-of-God affair some years ago.

The holy man has confessed that “my sexual conduct has fallen below the standards expected of me as a priest, archbishop and cardinal”, having earlier contested the allegations against him, which, one might observe, suggested he sympathised with homosexual activities of various kinds.

But hold on! Surely the phrase ‘my sexual conduct’ holds the key to this case. Isn’t celibacy all about not indulging in any at all? How can it have ‘fallen below’ any expectations? Clearly this old cleric never understood the nature of his vow to keep it in his cassock. Luckily for the young men of Scotland, he’ll swing his thurible no more in the name of everything that’s holy.