Wednesday, 10 June '09: Something to enjoy while I am away

Piano by DH Lawrence

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

Hope you enjoyed this little post while I was away. Thank you to all recent visiting friends. If I have not yet returned the call, I shall do so on my return from Europe.

Thursday, 4 September 2008: A fig for Mary

Mary at Across the Pond is making some delicious fig jam and preserves. Take a look! To celebrate her culinary endeavours, I have posted an extract from DH Lawrence's very sensuous poem about figs. It is a long poem so this is just an extract to whet your appetite.

Figs by DH Lawrence

The proper way to eat a fig, in society
Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump,
And open it so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist,
honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower.
Then you throw away the skin
Which is just like a four-sepalled calyx,
After you have taken off the blossom with your lips.

But the vulgar way
Is just to put your mouth to the crack, and take out the flesh in one bite.

Every fruit has its secret.

The fig is a very secretive fruit
As you see it standing growing, you feel at once it is symbolic:
ant it seems male.
But when you come to know it better , you agree with the Romans, it is female....

It was always a secret.
That's how it should be, the female should always be secret.


There is a wonderful reading of this poem in the movie Women in love (1969) by Alan Bates. Willow, take a look!