Poem For The Day

W.H. Auden

Even those for whom Wystan Hugh Auden is not a name which trips off the tongue easily will know the poem read by John Hannah in the film

"Four Weddings And A Funeral", with Andie MacDowell and Hugh Grant.

W.H. Auden died September 29th, l973 in Vienna

According to James Fenton, the first two stanzas were used initially in Auden and Isherwood's play 'The Ascent of F6', as a pastiche blues satirising the love of a population for a political leader. The sky-writing planes were for a dead Franco or Mussolini, not for a lover. In 1936, however, whilst working with Benjamin Britten, Auden decided to use these two verses as the start of this love song.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message, He Is Dead,

Put the crepe bows on the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Sunday Quotation

excerpt from

Cargoes

by John Masefield

1878 - 1967

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack

Butting through the Channel in the mad March days.

With a cargo of Tyne coal,

Road-rail, pig-lead,

Firewood, iron-wear and cheap tin trays.

photo Jeremy White

A very special day right to The End.

The English Touring Theatre brought Roger McGough's fabulous adaptation of Molière's

"The Hypochondriac" to Malvern, which has our nearest theatre.

McGough has written his version in rhyming couplets throughout, intelligent and outrageously funny, with a highly irregular metre, with the rhyme either coming excruciatingly late at the end of a long sentence or immediately, in the next word.

As one would expect from the ETT, the company gave a highly accomplished performance.

We had been to the Matinée, stopping at a branch of the UK's best supermarket before leaving the town; this meant that we travelled home during the hour of sunset.

Which was absolutely spectacular, as you can see from these pictures. Since I've started to blog, I always carry a little camera in my bag, for which foresight I was truly grateful on this occasion.

the view South of West

the view to the West

the view North of West

the view East

September in the Garden

Despite the strange summer and early autumn some of the flower beds are still worth looking at.

The dahlias in the foreground and the Japanese anemonies against the background of the purple leaves of the cotinus give structure and colour.

This is one my favourite borders, it is full of tall, architectural plants and grasses. The housewall behind is smothered in creepers like the passiflora and a winter clematis. Although the window in this wall has almost disappeared under the growth, I can't bring myself to chop it down.

The only time we can look out of this window is in winter.

There is still plenty of life left in the rose border.

From a gardening column in the paper I learned today that it is now time to stop dead-heading.

What they need now is to hunker down and prepare for the worst, and producing seed will allow them to toughen up. You never know, given the chance they may even produce some beautiful, colourful hips.

The time for planting shrubs has come. The roots need winter to stretch out into the soil and become used to their new abode, before starting growth in earnest in spring.

Here is Anne Scott-James' advice

on planting.

Circles of Soil.

All the gardeners I have talked to, professionals and amateurs, have stressed the importance of leaving a generous circle of cultivated soil round shrubs, roses or fruit trees planted in grass for at least two years after planting. One nursery will not consider replacing dead plants unless a circle at least four feet in diameter has been left

for trees and at least three feet for small shrubs.

In gardens celebrated for their roses, I always observed round every rose a good circle of

cultivated soil accessible to air, rain and

supplies of food.

The four shrubs pictured here are, from the top,

Hypericum (St. John's Wort)

Berberis

Hydrangea

Fuchsia

All photos may be enlarged.

Sunday Quotation

Honoré de Balzac

French Novelist and Dramatist 1799-1850

Man is neither good nor bad; he is born with instincts and abilities.

Hatred is a tonic, it makes one live, it inspires vengeance; but pity kills, it makes our weakness weaker.

When one has no particular aptitude for anything, one takes to the pen and poses as a talented person.

Autumn Colours

Autumn colours are well on their way to a spectacular display already; I am amazed at how dominant the reds, yellows and browns already are.

This Virginia Creeper covers the white wall of a neighbour's cottage.

A plantain growing in the field by the castle.

The horse chestnut in the paddock.

Elderberries ready for picking to make elderberry wine.

The red berries of the cotoneaster growing on an ancient stone wall.

How could I resist this view of a harvested field, the blue hills of

Shropshire in the background and branches of hawthorn with their

red berries in the foreground.

all photos can be enlarged.

The Scraper's Diary, Oldenburg, Saturday, March 22nd 1947

In the Naafi Club Writing Room.

Light cigarette to try and collect thoughts.

Read Punch to regain composure.

Where has composure gone? Don't know.

This is a lovely old town, with a beautiful Gothic Church and a flourishing Black Market.

The girls by day look pure and lovely, and a credit to their country. The VD rate here is 87% of those tested. Syphilis amounts to 82% of these.

I have seen a lot of little handcarts around. When parked, the shaft, vertical, looks like a miniature cross (the girls by day), but in use, is obviously merely a handle, an implement (the girls by night).

We drove over very bad, bumpy roads today; most roads are escorted by regiments of trees, plane, poplar, birch or coniferous. Saw bullock carts for the first time today.

They gave us supper of egg and chips followed by ice cream in the Officers' Mess last night, followed by beer, tea, whisky, Brandy, gin, rum, Apricot Brandy and Benedictine. I drank the last two only and a cup of tea and felt fine.

Goodnight.

o-o-o-o-o

Eighty-seven per cent.

I've walked down Piccadilly at night while the Yanks were there, but this is worse. I walked back from the Naafi tonight. It was raining, but that doesn't seem to matter. They stand in shop doorways in dark side streets, talking, but not understanding words, only inflections, keeping one eye cocked for the police.

Many of the girls have pretty faces and good figures, but many more wear flashy clothes and are overly made-up. At night all are there on business. Eighty-seven per cent of them, and most of the rest suspect cases.

There's a poster in the cookhouse, with a picture of a girl and the words :

Don't get V.D.

For Her Sake.

OR DON'T YOU CARE?

It's a bad situation.

Culture al fresco

Last night we went to what may be the last part indoor, part open air entertainment of the year, held in the grounds and ballroom of a local manor house. It was billed as an Opera Gala, performed by a quartet of young opera singers and their accomplished pianist. Opera Gala seems to mean a selection of ‘your favourite tunes’, performed one after the other, with a short introduction to each aria, duet, etc. The singers did very well and the evening was a success. The audience was enthusiastic in their appreciation and many felt it necessary to clap with their hands above their heads and get up for a standing ovation at the end. The lady in the seat behind me hummed and sang along with one well-known aria and I turned round to admire her rendition. She stopped instantly, bless her.

During the interval everybody brought out their picnic hampers, bottles of wine, chairs and, in some cases, tables, all having been carried from the distant car park for the purpose. Napkins were unfolded, corks popped, glasses clinked and plates filled

It was a glorious evening after a sunny day, the park looked splendidly green and very English with its manicured lawns and tidy shrubberies.

A summer that has gone by without al fresco concerts, theatrical performances, fireworks, has somehow been lacking in one of its essential ingredients. A bit like going to the seaside without taking a bucket and spade. or maybe a picnic in a meadow without the wasps.

I have sat on plastic or canvas chairs, ground sheets and blankets in all weathers, in many places, attended grand concerts in Kenwood on Hampstead Health, in the park of Stately Homes and noble palaces; I have watched plays in Regent’s Park in London, and a number of castles, ruined and otherwise, Ludlow Castle included. One of the most memorable occasions and one of my first, was a performance of Heartbreak House at Shaw’s Corner in Ayot St. Lawrence, Hertfordshire; the house where Shaw lived.

It had been threatening to rain all day, so all came prepared with coats and hats and covers. On this occasion the picnic was to be eaten before the performance; about half way through the heavens opened. Gamely, the picnickers donned coats and hats, huddled under tarpaulins and large umbrellas and resumed the meal, water dripping into the wine and canapés. I was quite shocked, I had assumed everyone would run for cover and call the whole thing off. Nothing of the sort happened. The performers appeared on the roofless terrace, which was also the stage, and calmly announced that they were willing to go on if the audience was. The audience was willing, very willing. In fact, it seemed to me, that the deluge added to the entertainment value of the evening and sitting on soggy grass with rapidly forming puddles was a mere bagatelle to be taken in one’s easy stride.

Luckily, the rain eased off fairly quickly; we all enjoyed a splendid performance. Squelching to the cars afterwards, under a starbright sky, the general consensus was of an evening well spent.

A memorable occasion indeed, but not as memorable as a performance of Midsummer Night’s Dream in Ludlow Castle during the Festival. For once the weather was kind, the night was warm, the sky dark and velvety purple. A few stars twinkled in competition with the sprinkle of lights illuminating the brooding walls of the castle, forming the backdrop to the stage. Insects like tiny sparks of fire darted through the night air, miniature meteors extinguished the instant they flew into the darkness between beams of light.

A night of magic, both on and off the stage. And it didn’t end there. Leaving the castle at the end of the performance we came out into the silent market square, the ancient houses lining it bathed in the warm light of old-fashioned street lamps. We hardly spoke, preferring to hold on to the suspension of disbelief and remain wrapped in the magic of the night.

Evenings like this one and an afternoon of music and sunshine like yesterday, or a splendid display of fireworks after a concert, inevitably ending with the 1812 Overture, make me forget all the other occasions, when I’ve been huddled in the cold and damp, miserably wishing myself back home with a glass of wine and a good book.

Boris and Bhuna

Friends for Life

Shaggy dog stories are usually soppy, so if you don't do soppy, don't read this post.

When Boris first came to live in Valley's End,

Bhuna was already here. Boris was 4 years old

and Bhuna just eighteen months.

Bhuna and Boris had had very different lives.

Bhuna had always been a pet, he was untrained,

spoilt and obedience was not something he had ever come across. His name is the Ethiopian name for coffee, his coat was coffee coloured.

Boris was a foundling, picked up by a dog warden in the Essex countryside;

he was sick, starving; he had a leg injury and was totally cowed. It became apparent that he had been trained as a working dog, a gun dog, in fact.

Boris knew every command and followed it

instantly. In fact, he was pathetically pleased

to obey. He had obviously been harshly treated,

he was ever ready to cringe and cower; when we first took him on, he was so afraid of men that he peed himself every time his new master spoke to him in a loud voice.

He had congenital eye disease, which must have been the reason for his having been abandoned; no breeder could get away with a visible defect like that; nobody would buy expensive Labrador puppies who would more than likely pass the condition on.

Within a month or so, after he'd come to us, Boris was fine; he had an operation on his eye, which stopped him going blind, he had put on weight and his fur was back to normal. He became a happy dog; also a very handsome one, he was pure black Labrador.

Valley's End has a castle on a hill, a river round it and a field between the two. All the local dogs are exercised here; this is where Boris and Bhuna first met and where Boris instantly set about training the unruly Bhuna.

Bhuna's master was delighted; we met up frequently, one or the other of us taking both dogs out for long walks; they became inseparable. In fact, Bhuna frequently turned up in our garden on his own, having jumped over the garden gate; Boris was too well-behaved to leave his territory, but he was always ready to welcome Bhuna. The two dogs were more like boys than dogs.

I said that this was going to be a soppy story, it's going to get even soppier.

On one of our long walks we went up into the woods above the valley. The dogs were roaming freely, both noses in the same hole, both of them tugging at the same fallen branch or chasing the same animal scent. They disappeared, came back, disappeared again.

Until, about an hour into the walk, there was only Bhuna; at first we paid no attention, walking on, thinking Boris would turn up eventually. Bhuna started to behave strangely, walking backward in front of us, stopping, looking at us, then walking behind us, stopping again. He did this several times. ending up behind us, following very slowly, standing still in the middle of the path, looking at us, then half turning, looking back over his shoulder.

We finally got the message. Bhuna was telling us Boris was missing, he was in trouble.

The moment we turned back, Bhuna made for the steeply wooded slope ascending above the path and started to climb, all the time making sure we were following, stopping every so often to let us catch him up, finally leading us to where Boris lay, trapped by a huge spike attached to a branch which had gone deep into his paw. There was no way that Boris could have limped down the hill on three legs, every move he made drove the spike deeper into his paw, with the branch dragging on it.

As soon as we reached Boris, Bhuna stood to one side, then ran off, totally unconcerned again.

Boris took no lasting harm; we managed to remove the spike, performed some first aid with spit and a handkerchief and slowly made our way back down the hill. The Vet cleaned out the wound and very soon all was well.

Boris died of cancer when he was eleven years old; until then the dogs remained staunch allies. Within the year we adopted Benno, another black Labrador, also a rescue dog. We all thought Bhuna and Benno could pick up where Bhuna and Boris had left off but Bhuna never took to Benno. The two of them growled at each other every time they met.

Igor Stravinsky, Isaiah Berlin and the Scraper

The Observer Newspaper has for some time been showcasing the work of the acclaimed photographer Jane Bown. Last Sunday's portrait was of the famous philosopher and academic Sir Isaiah Berlin, who was on the Board of Directors at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, during the 1980s.

Seeing the photograph, the Scraper was reminded of the following story:-

Sir Isaiah Berlin

Members of the Orchestra had been invited to a reception in the Crush Bar at the Opera House, where the Scraper and a colleague were engaged in conversation by Sir Isaiah. The name Stravinsky came up and prompted the great man to recall the occasion, some twenty years earlier, when the 50th anniversary of the first performance of the Rite Of Spring, in Paris in 1913, was being celebrated at the Royal Albert Hall in London. Pierre Monteux had conducted the premiere and his services had been secured to conduct the anniversary concert.

Stravinsky, who had never admired Monteux, was invited to the celebration.

Igor Stravinsky

Stravinsky accepted. He had no intention of attending the actual performance but he was willing to take a bow afterwards.

He therefore contacted his old friend, Sir Isaiah, and asked him to obtain six tickets for that night's performance, at the Royal Opera House of 'The Marriage of Figaro', which customarily had three intervals. Stravinsky planned to leave during the third interval, jump into a waiting taxi and reach the Albert Hall just in time to take the applause.

Unfortunately, this particular production provided for no more than a quick scene change before the last act, and when Stravinsky and his party rose to leave, the usherette rushed up and whispered urgently, " Sir, there is no interval, you cannot leave your seats".

Stravinsky, undeterred, continued the exodus and, from his great height, looked down on the unfortunate usherette, and said loudly, " We all have diarrhoea, we are leaving!"

The Scraper's Diary, Oldenburg, Thursday March 20th, 1947

Arrived here after a three-hour solo session, in which I lost fourpence.

Went into the town, it's practically unbombed, and rather like any English country town, lovely; good Naafi, YMCA and black market.

We went to the flix and saw 'The Captive Heart' and cried at it's poignancy, then came out into the same German streets and bought marks with cigarettes.

Last night was a scream. We played in the Officers' Mess, and having been given Guinness, the B.M., the B.S.M., the Sergeant and the Q. went home, leaving eight gunners and one lance-jack to finish the champagne-cocktails.

Shortly after, one of the officers asked for more music. We held a council of war and agreed to play for half an hour, if they kept us supplied with drinks. I conducted!

Luckily, I was completely sober, having learned my lesson last Saturday, but the cellist and the flautist were hardly capable of playing, while the double bass was capable of anything.

We played a few selections and waltzes and finished up with the R.A. Slow March. I was then introduced to the Colonel and he thanked us most cordially and woozily for our little contribution.

And so to bed. Several other blokes in the block were drunk, and it took me ten minutes to persuade Downs that his bed was in another room.

Heigh-ho.

The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon

decoration on a Japanese temple door.

photo Jeremy White

Much of what Sei Shonagon, a lady-in-waiting at the Court of the Emperor of Japan at the end of the tenth century AD wrote in her pillow book can be adapted to remain valid more than a thousand years later. Here are some more examples of her lists.

Things That People Despise

The north side of a house.

Someone with an excessive reputation for goodness.

An old man who has lived to be too old.

A frivolous woman.

A mud wall that has started to crumble.

Things About Which One Is Liable To Be Negligent

The observance of a single fast-day.

Preparations for something that is still well in the future.

A lengthy retreat in a temple.

Rare Things

A son-in-law who is praised by his father-in-law;

A young bride who is loved by her mother-in-law.

A silver tweezer that is good at plucking out the hair

A person who is in no way eccentric or imperfect, who is superior in both mind and body , and who remains flawless all his life.

People who live together and still manage to behave with reserve towards each other. However much these people may try to hide their weaknesses, they usually fail.

When people, whether they be men or women, have promised each other eternal friendship, it is rare for them to stay on good terms until the end.

Small Children And Babies

Small children and babies ought to be plump. So ought provincial governors and others who have gone ahead in the world; for, if they are lean and desiccated, one suspects them of being ill-tempered.

Goodbye Summer

The swallows are making ready to fly,

Wheeling out on a windy sky;

Goodbye Summer, Goodbye, Goodbye

Two swallows perched on the edge of the gutter, mother bird chirping, twittering, chiding; fledgling shuffling precariously. Fledgling hurls itself into nothingness; a flurry of wings, they're gone.