>>>>> forever and yet another day:
Happy Anniversary with WordPress.com!
You registered on WordPress.com 10 years ago.
Thanks for flying with us. Keep up the good blogging.
Christmas Day is like
Any other day at
The Partridge Island Lighthouse.
Ya gotta trim the wicks,
And renew the oil.
So, I went about my business
At the usual time, only noting that
Paw, the cat/kitten,
Black as soot
With one white mitten,
Had abandoned me.
‘Mice’, thought I.
For there are always mice
On Partridge Island.
But, I found out
(After my chores were done),
That wily Paw had used stealth
– and his sensitive hearing –
To scurry to my Lighthouse-keepers house.
When I returned, as darkness settled,
I saw twinkling lights
Through the windows,
And smelled the delightful warmth
Of roasted fowl, and sweetened baking,
As I walked through the door.
Sister Darling, of
The Rarified Church of the World (Reformed)
Had hired a fishing boat to
Bring her to the Island, whilst I
Was occupied in the tower.
She had put her pre-baked goods
Into the oven, and
Stoked the fire.
A bottle of red wine, and
A bottle of white,
Sat upon the kitchen table.
And
Paw, the cat/kitten
Had a red red riband tied
Around his neck,
With a key attached.
I took it.
When I turned,
Sister Darling removed a small casket.
And handed it to me.
I used the key
To open a tiny lock.
I Opened it,
And looked inside.
Oh, My!
Oh, My!!
It GLOWED.
{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
It isn’t that we had no warning.
Hell, even Paw, the cat/kitten.
Black as Death with one white mitten,
Knew it was coming.
Knew (perhaps) before the rest of us.
And fishing boats, the last couple of days,
Have left notes in the Message Box,
Down on the Lighthouse dock.
One of the notes had been relayed
From the brigantine, HMS Buzzard,
Informing of this passage into the harbour,
And the night this would be done.
So,
As Lighthouse Keeper,
I await
On the Lighthouse dock,
In my navel uniform,
Which I am sometimes
Expected to wear,
Since I represent the might
Of Majesty,
As sole subject, yet overlord,
Of the Lighthouse on Partridge Island.
Waiting for the Red Ship to pass.
I feel the still on the sea.
I understand why they have awaited
This shroud of fog.
I have,
With my vantage point atop the Lighthouse,
Seen the approaching ship,
With each of its lanterns
Glowing through red glass.
I can imagine the unfurled red sails.
So, I stand,
And I wait,
With my own red lantern,
And wish I were hunkered down
With Paw, the cat/kitten,
Who chose his hiding place
An hour ago.
I wish for Sister Darling,
Of The Rarified Church Of The World (Reformed),
To be with myself and Paw,
On this night.
And this passage.
She could offer both physical
And Spiritual comfort,
To Paw and me.
Paw likes to nestle beneath
Her wealth of long hair,
And I would like to touch it.
But she,
With both the Bishop of the Roman church,
And the Bishop of the Anglican church,
In their simple cassocks,
Unrobed of their vestments,
And also, with the Mi’kmaq Shaman,
Await on the dock,
On shore,
In the deserted port,
To move this cursed cargo
Of human decay and death.
They will sing and chant their
Religious words of hope.
While I, when the time is right,
Will curl up in my greatcoat
Beside Paw,
And wait out the night
While these folk of Faith
Do the dirty business of God.
{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
Paw the cat/kitten,
Black as dirt, with one white mitten,
Sought me out in the lighthouse.
He climbed the whole way
Up to the Lantern Room,
Which he usually avoids
Because the revolving light
Spooks him.
He doesn’t like the shadows.
But, there he was.
He meowed,
Which he doesn’t do
All that much.
But,
When I kept at my chores,
He came over and put his claws
Into my pant leg,
And pulled.
When he’s this insistent, I follow.
So, down through the tower,
Impatient at the door,
Outside and waiting,
To be sure that I follow,
Then he heads to the shore
Facing out to sea.
It’s a well trod path
(For a cat)
And I move swiftly (but carefully).
I find him waiting at the base
Of a five foot, stunted tree.
So I went over to look.
There was a small amount of snow,
Caught between the gnarled roots.
The remnants of some snow squall,
That obviously had passed in the night.
Knowing he had my full attention,
He stood over it
And pissed mightily,
Turning it yellow.
It’s going to be a long winter.
{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
~ Uncle ‘Dolf.
~ Donnie, my boy.
~ Did I done good?
~ You done really good.
~ Are you proud of me?
~ How could anyone NOT be proud?
~ You taught me well.
~ The pupil surpasses the Master.
~ And you are the Master, uncle ‘Dolf.
~ I had my day, true enough.
~ And now it’s my turn.
~ What goes around, comes around.
~ We should have a drink and celebrate.
~ But neither of us drinks.
~That’s right, Uncle ‘Dolf – we are perfect.
~ Ja – look out world!
~ I’m dancing, hah hah, dancing!
The Celts have learned every celebration has its risks.
The Druids taught them this, and the Druids are correct. Samhain is a festival of the harvest; the end of summer; the preparation for the winter to come. Samhain is a juncture.
As they all know, junctures lead to sundry places. There is both the leaving and the coming. A time of disquiet. A time of danger for those unprepared.
It holds the magic and the power of midnight. Midnight is a powerful time because it is the juncture of two days. Midnight of Samhain thus holds double the power. It can not be avoided. It must be met with all the power mortal man can muster. It must not be met alone.
On the Eve of Samhain, the border between Life and the OtherWorld is breached. A door swings invitingly open, but it is not inviting those who live. It is inviting those who have died. The Dead who still miss their lives. The long Dead who still are curious.The distant Dead who get a whiff of fresh air, and have their memories stirred.
So the Dead approach.
The Dead approach. The living must prepare to meet them, just as they prepare for the vicissitudes of winter. The same threatened cold holds sway over both. The living assemble the treats and threats that will assuage the longings of the Dead.
Because the living have a healthy fear of death, they equally wish to avoid the Dead. The Dead can prove to be envious, and attempt to relieve the living of their lives. Lanterns from the earth are hollowed out of turnips. Their light will guide the dead to safer places (safer for the living). Candles will shine through carved faces. Some faces are friendly and welcoming. Some are ugly and fierce, to give aggressive Dead a pause.
There will also be treats to entice the Dead – apples and pastries and savouries and some roasted game fresh from the bonfires. There will be ale and other spirits to keep the Spirits at bay. The living will wear costumes and masks to disguise themselves from those Dead who might wish their company to be more permanent.
They will remove the masks if the Spirits are friendly.
They will dance and sing and raise a right ruckus to entertain the Dead.
The boneyard is on the outskirts of town. Revellers approach with noise and caution. A bonfire is set. The moon hangs from the trees. The gated fence stands closed and latched. The living pause and watch. And listen.
Is it the wind, or do the hinges scrape the stone?
Robert (Bob) Gibbs has left the building:
I considered Bob Gibbs an honorary member of my very exclusive (and never acknowledged) “Grand Lake Writers Group” This august body consisted of myself, Elizabeth Brewster, and Robert Hawks (neither of them knew of its existence, either). We all three lived within the vicinity of Grand Lake (I could see it from the upper windows of my home).
We three included aspects of the Grand Lake area in our books.
Well . . . so did Bob.
In some of his writings, his characters boarded riverboats, and took a trek which got them to Grand Lake from Saint John. One such Riverboat pier was a twenty minute walk from my house. Although not certain of this, I like to think he pulled into this port upon occasion. Evangelical meetings were generally on the agenda. I have (in my way) incorporated this into one of my novels.
I remember Bob once being nonplussed by my activity.There was a party at his house (such a delightful place, next to a railway). It was either a birthday party for Elizabeth Brewster, or a celebration of a book launch by her. I showed up with the gift of a bottle of champagne. I handed it to Bob.
His look was one of surprise. I’m not sure I had ever seen him surprised. I had the suspicion he knew everything. I still have that suspicion.
He made the comment (I don’t remember if it was to anyone) “Look, he brought champagne.” My interpretation was that Bob didn’t think I had enough sophistication to do such a thing. Or, he didn’t know what to do with the bottle.
When I left, it was still unopened.
The Essential Robert Gibbs – Robert Gibbs – Google Books
Whatever three ships mean
two freighters and a tanker
standing off Partridge Island
more like scanned-for presences
than really anything out there
(I saw three ships come sailing in
come sailing in singing itself
off-season off-key)
~ Bob Gibbs [Skipping Round the Biosphere]
PART THE FIRST
It isn’t that we had no warning.
Hell, even Paw, the cat/kitten.
Black as Death with one white mitten,
Knew it was coming.
Knew (perhaps) before the rest of us.
And fishing boats, the last couple of days,
Have left notes in the Message Box,
Down on the Lighthouse dock.
One of the notes had been relayed
From the brigantine, HMS Buzzard,
Informing of this passage into the harbour,
And the night this would be done.
So,
As Lighthouse Keeper, I await
On the Lighthouse dock,
In my navel uniform,
Which I am sometimes
Expected to wear,
Since
I represent the might
Of Majesty,
As sole subject, yet overlord,
Of the Lighthouse on Partridge Island.
Waiting for the Red Ship to pass.
I feel the still on the sea.
I understand why they have awaited
This shroud of fog.
I have,
With my vantage point atop the Lighthouse,
Seen the approaching ship,
With each of its lanterns
Glowing through red glass.
I can imagine the unfurled red sails.
So, I stand,
And I wait,
With my own red lantern,
And wish I were hunkered down
With Paw, the cat/kitten,
Who chose his hiding place
An hour ago.
PART THE SECOND
I had wished for Sister Darling,
Of The Rarified Church Of The World (Reformed),
To be with myself and Paw,
On this night.
And this passage.
She could offer both physical
And Spiritual comfort,
To Paw and me.
Paw likes to nestle beneath
Her wealth of long hair,
And I would like to touch it.
But she,
With both the Bishop of the Roman church,
And the Bishop of the Anglican church,
In their simple cassocks,
Unrobed of their vestments,
And also, with the Mi’kmaq Shaman,
Await on the dock,
On shore,
In the deserted port,
To move this cursed cargo
Of human decay and death.
They will sing and chant their
Religious words of hope.
While I, when the time is right,
Will curl up in my greatcoat
Beside Paw,
And wait out the night
While these folk of Faith
Do the dirty business of God.
{I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
The Sergeant Major barks more commands. This is a full-bore Military event. There are no civilian dignitaries present, although there are plenty of civilians.
The Princess Royal is not going to inspect troops. She stands in silence, looking at a stand of trees and masses of people. Fred wonders what she is pondering. She thinks it has something to do with hearing ‘God Save The King’. The Princess Royal has helped bury two of them – and a Queen.
“Sergeant Major?”
“Ma’am.” The Sergeant Major is startled, but never too startled for words.
“Put them at ease.”
Even a Sergeant Major can not be prepared for everything, but the Sergeant Major acts immediately to the unexpected and strange request. He bellows his exact and time-worn orders, and both troops and band return to at-ease positions.
“Fred, let’s take a look at this Memorial.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
The Princess Royal gestures for both her Aide-de-Camp, and the General waiting in the wings, to accompany them. Fred knows HRH desires this event be as simple as possible, but she doubts local officials anticipated anything this simple. Even the couple thousand standing on the grass, walkways, and among the trees, sense this is a unique event. There is barely a murmur.
Winnifred Mayhew Cudgel feels that something should be said. They should be seen to be talking. Such silence is, quite frankly, weird.
“This is all for a horse?” Fred knows the answer, but doesn’t know what The Princess Royal really thinks.
“Oh, so much more.” She looks at Fred. “A horse of hope. At war’s end, a horse of triumph.”
Fred now knows what is going on. The horse, named Princess Louise after the regiment that found her, had been wounded on a battlefield in Italy. It had been found in a field standing beside its dead mother. Members of the regiment, so many of them farm boys from the country, spirited the horse away. Tended to its wounds. Fed and watered it. Put it into an enclosed truck and took it wherever they went.
Officers pretended to know nothing.
At war’s end, Princess Louise, alive and healthy, was put on a ship and ended in New York. From New York she was transported to Saint John, and from Saint John twenty miles away she ended her trip in Hampton, where she got a bale of hay, a bag of oats and was made a ‘naturalized Canadian’. She was given the “. . . God-given right to trample and eat from any and all vegetable gardens.” She died at 29 in 1973, and is buried at The Princess Royal’s feet.
“A mascot,” says Fred.
“And, I think, a friend.” The Princess Royal chuckles. “They say she liked some whiskey and beer.”
“Sounds like a good life.”
“Eventually – yes.”
The Princess Royal’s Aide de Camp approaches, accompanied by an older man.
“Your Royal Highness, this is Mr. Finton. He looked after Princess Louise the last years of her life.”
“I’d call her Lou.”
“Hello, Mr. Finton.” The Princess Royal extends her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“But always Princess Louise around other people.”
“I understand.”
“She was special.” Mr. Finton glances at Fred, glances at the Aide de Camp. “There was always respect paid.”
“That is appreciated.”
“I have something for you.”
“Oh, yes?”
Fred and the Aide de Camp look far more surprised than The Princess Royal. This was not part of any plan. Winnifred Mayhew Cudgel likes to create surprises – likes to spring them for effect – but she doesn’t enjoy them.
“I understand you like horses.”
“I do.”
“Then Princess Louise would feel good if you have this.”
Mr. Finton reaches toward an inside pocket of his jacket. Fred notices members of the Security Detail tense up and move closer. The Aide de Camp immediately puts himself between The Princess Royal and the man. Fred remembers that she is to duck and cover. Endeavour has told her often enough. And to roll. He has even made an interesting game out of it.
Mr. Finton takes out a hand-sized package, wrapped in brown paper. There is twine around it, tied into a neat bow at the top,
“I hope that you will like this, your Royal Highness. I think you can get nothing more personal.”
Unexpected gifts are not to be given, and certainly not to be received. It could be dangerous. It could be insulting. It could be embarrassing. The Princess Royal does not hesitate to take it in her hands.
But then, she gives it directly back.
“Perhaps you will undo it.”
“Yes, your Royal Highness.”
Mr. Finton retrieves the package without looking at her. He is slow to untie the knot, but pays attention to no one around him. Perhaps he has forgotten them. The hundreds of people have gone silent. The only sound is the breeze through the trees.
Holding the twine in one hand, he hands back the package.
“I apologize for any inconvenience.”
“Think nothing of it.” She looks directly into his eyes. “These gloves were not made for untying string.”
The Princess Royal takes the package and opens up the brown paper. Inside is a commercial blue jeweller’s box, with a store name and the image of a diamond imprinted on it.
“Are we to be engaged?”
Mr. Finton is momentarily at a loss, then barks out a deep laugh.
“Lord love a duck.” He shakes his head. “No, no, no.” He covers his mouth as another laugh escapes. “It’s the only decent box I could find.”
“My husband will be glad to hear that.”
The Princess Royal shifts her shoulder bag, then opens the box.
“My God.” The Princess Royal laughs. “Straight from the horses’ mouth.”
“It was one of her favourites.”
The Princess Royal takes it from the box. She shows it to Fred.
“It’s a mullen.”
“Ma’am?” Winnifred Mayhew Cudgel is at a loss for words – an unusual state for her to be in. She has seen nothing like the object in her life.
“A horse’s bit, held inside the animal’s mouth to control the reins.” “I tried a number over a co
of years.” Mr. Finton rubs the metal. He glances at Fred and then looks at The Princess Royal. “I could tell this was the most comfortable.”
“Did you ever ride Princess Louise, Mr. Finton[?’
“I wasn’t supposed to.”
“But?”
“I was to exercise her every day. She was stabled out at a farm, some miles from here. Big pasture. Just walking seemed to be a bore.”
“For you?”
“Well – yes.” Mr. Finton pauses. “But, I think, for both of us.” He speaks quickly. “And I knew some of the soldiers had ridden her in Italy, when she was healed.”
“Did she like it?” Fred is curious.
“Yes.” Mr. Finton turns to her. “Absolutely.” He looks back to The Princess Royal. “Always gave me a nudge every day after that.” He has a smile on his face. “Always a gentle ride, mind. She was no filly.”
“My mother liked to keep riding.” The Princess Royal smiles. “She was no filly, either.”
“She was a great woman.” Mr. Finton bows his head.
“Yes.” The Princess Royal puts the mullen back into the box. “She was.”
The Princess Royal steps forward a few steps to look closely at the memorial. She has complete interest in what she reads, but this is also the signal that the event is coming to a close. Her Aide de Camp and the security detail prepare to leave. Discrete orders are spoken into microphones. Some car engines start on the street.
~ Dale Estey
kafkaestblog 