Blackberry-Picking - for Dylan

Blackberry-Picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not. 

Seamus Heaney

Bat for Lashes - Glass

By night my bed I sought him whom my soul
loveth; I sought him, but I found him not.
I will rise now, and go about the city in the streets, and
in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth:
I sought him, but I found him not.
The watchmen that go about the city found me: to
whom I said, Saw ye him whom my soul loveth?
It was but a little that I passed from them, but I found
him whom my soul loveth; I held him, and would not
let him go, until I had brought him into my mother's
house, and into the chamber of her that conceived me.

[Song of Solomon, Chapter 3]

Ruby

You lay as on a beach

Spindley legs entwined

Nails bloody red



Waxy flesh, draping brittle bones

Like a golden yellow stole



Courtesy, not of a Floridian tan,

But a boulder of cancer

Blocking the duct



Visions of you in your days of yore

A lusty Jewish broad

Vocals etched with

Sediment of Scotch and tobacco



And as you gasped your last

I begged my God to make it fast

Bereft of drugs to ease your pain

I thought of French's sweet refrain



As your daughter wrestled with traffic

On the Finchley Road

I climbed in bed and held you tight



And from crazy Celt to dying Jew

I did the only thing I knew

Sang

"Are you right there, Ruby, are you right?"





by Bronagh Murphy, my late lamented sister-in-law

The Orange

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave —
They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all my jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.


The Orange by Wendy Cope

Patti cake - today's Happiness Experiment entry

Having a conversation with Patti Smith about Rimbaud in London (whose birthday it is tommorow) - after her performance with Philip Glass and Lenny Kaye at St Lukes, Old Street in honour of Allen Ginsberg



Having a quick chat with Paul Morley about Joy Division and Control in said church



Lunch with Will Gompertz at the Tate Britain restaurant with a quick tour of the Millais exhibition for dessert

Yesterday's Happiness Experiment entry

Kicking a conversion over at the Garden Suburb rugby pitch with N & D

Reading Life Class by the balcony

Writing a Doors/Bible mash-up, vaguely poetic