Kyrielle

From Wikipedia,

“The Kyrielle is a poetic form that originated in 15^th century French troubadour poetry.”

The lines of a kyrielle are octosyllabic, rhyming couplets in quatrains with a refrain final line of each stanza. There is no limit to the number of stanzas, but there should be at least three. The name ‘Kyrielle’ derives from the Kyrie, which is part of some Christian liturgies, and would include the phrase ‘Lord, have mercy’, or similar.

“An English Baptist pastor, Cornelius Elven, wrote this hymn for a series of special services for his congregation in 1852. The text expresses the penitence of the Publican in the parable in Luke 18:9-14

1. With broken heart and contrite sigh
a trembling sinner, Lord, I cry:
thy pardoning grace is rich and free
O God, be merciful to me.

2. I smite upon my troubled breast,
with deep and conscience guilt oppressed;
Christ and his cross my only plea:
O God, be merciful to me.

3. Far off I stand with tearful eyes,
nor dare uplift them to the skies;
but thou dost all my anguish see:
O God, be merciful to me.

4. Nor alms, nor deeds that I have done,
can for a single sin atone;
to Calvary alone I flee:
O God, be merciful to me.

5. And when, redeemed from sin and hell,
with all the ransomed throng I dwell,
my raptured song shall ever be,
God has been merciful to me.

And mine,

Fam’ly photos in fancy frames,
Smiling faces and party games.
Treasured and happy times to hold
But her story cannot be told.

When all she had was torn apart
A fleeting moment held her heart,
Worth more than tons of solid gold
But her story cannot be told.

Joyful squeals of fun and laughter,
Yet no happy ever after
For those like her, left in the cold,
But her story cannot be told.

The tears that mingle with the rain,
A lonely sign of inward pain.
Her hopes and dreams may soon unfold
But her story cannot be told.

PMW July 2012

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Wanderlust - Travelling Eternity Road

Like everyone else I’ve been at home for months with little prospect of going anywhere. Luckily, I don’t mind. I’m happy and safe at home, or at my place of work for a couple of days a week. Over time, I’ve become so contented at home that I dread going out to anywhere busy. Social media showed pictures of Blackpool taken this Bank Holiday weekend of the crowded promenade, not a face-mask in sight. I don’t see the resort as getting back on its feet after lockdown, I just see fear, but that’s my problem to overcome. In a few weeks I will be travelling over the border into my beloved Dumfries & Galloway and our home from home – pandemic permitting. I’ll be fine, doing my own thing, keeping to my own space and allowing my wanderlust to take me into Galloway Forest and the quiet, hidden beaches along the Solway Firth. I will have plenty of face-masks.

My photo: somewhere on the west coast of South Uist

I wish we had a motor home or a camper van. In my wanderlust dreams I pack it with everything we need and set off, northbound, stopping wherever the fancy takes us, then destination, the Outer Hebrides. It is another world. We could stay as long as we like and be more relaxed about it. Up to now, our trips have been governed by annual leave and it isn’t long enough, even with a bank holiday tagged on the end. Things will change soon. Time will be our own and we’ll be able to just go for it – pandemic, lockdown and personal worries aside.

Back in the good old days when The Moody Blues did a UK tour, we’d be with them, going to places we otherwise wouldn’t go. I suppose that was a form of wanderlust, even though we booked everything in advance and knew exactly where we were going and for how long. We were ‘Travelling Eternity Road’ if you like, including Manchester Apollo, or now I think it is called O2, we would drive home from there; London would be part of a sight-seeing holiday, Birmingham, got to be in their home city, often where the last concert would be, and anywhere else we could factor in. Lots of concerts over many years. It was always worth it.

If I felt ready to mingle with the rest of society, I would have travelled to Wembley, supporting Blackpool F.C. in their successful play-off final against Lincoln City. Instead, I watched on TV at home. Feeling stressed and holding my breath for the most of ninety-odd minutes isn’t healthy. In my house there were shrieks, screams, tears and much applause. The neighbours knew we were home.

I found this, by Alfred Joyce Kilmer:

Roofs
(For Amelia Josephine Burr)

The road is wide and the stars are out
and the breath of the night is sweet,
And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet.
But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face,
And to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling place.

I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to roam
All up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home:
The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of day
Will wander only until he finds another place to stay.

A gypsy-man will sleep in his cart with canvas overhead;
Or else he'll go into his tent when it is time for bed.
He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high,
But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away the sky.

If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do him wrong,
For he never goes a-travelling but he takes his home along.
And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows,
Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes.

They say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years,
And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears.
It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far,
But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.

                                                                     Alfred Joyce Kilmer (1886 - 1918)

Thanks for reading, take care if you're out there, Pam x

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My Fantasy Dinner Party Guests - A Good Time To Be Had By All

It would be wonderful to have friends and family round. A gathering in the garden on a warm afternoon, children running riot, adults laughing, sharing jokes, happy and relaxed with drinks flowing, buffet table groaning under the weight and ice-lollies in the freezer. I wonder if we’ll ever have times like that again. When my spirits dip and I’m feeling low I’m inclined to think that’s it, we’ve had it, life will never be the same. Scotland is a border we’ll never cross again. When my spirits lift and thoughts are positive, I imagine a garden party close to my husband’s birthday in June. Covid will be contained enough for us to enjoy freedom. I feel privileged to have had my first vaccination, a joy of being a frontline keyworker. I’m thankful for each day seeing us healthy.

In the absence of any social gatherings, tea dances or drinks on the lawn, let’s have some fun and pretend.

The setting for my dinner party is important. It would not be here at my house, I think we’d need more space, and I am not cooking. Forty years ago I was a lunch guest at the Waldorf Astoria in New York. The dining room was breathtakingly splendid. Shell pink table linen with a fresh, single rose the exact same colour on every perfectly set table and attentive staff seeing to every need, well nearly. I lost my way looking for the Ladies room and ended up in the hotel hair salon, where they allowed me to use theirs then someone kindly took me back to the dining room. Background music, if it is fine to call it that, came from Michel Legrand playing the piano more softly than he normally would. I think he was running through his score in preparation for the evening, not there for us, but it was very welcome. I was very impressed with the Waldorf Astoria. Being there was the highlight of my stay in New York and I nearly chose to host my fantasy dinner party in the same dining room, but it missed out to The Selkirk Arms in Kirkcudbright.

Well, you know me and Scotland, so how could I not choose such a place? The dining room is the right size for my gathering, I love it and I believe it was frequented by my guest, Robert Burns. Perhaps he’ll tell me if he wrote The Selkirk Grace here, and, if he’s in good humour, he might entertain us after dinner with songs and poems.

I couldn’t have a dinner party without inviting Robert Peston. If you know me, no explanation is necessary. Anyway, he’ll be sitting next to me, where I can pick his brains. My husband will be on my other side and next to him will be Becky Barr. He’ll be delighted.

Girl power from strong minded, northern women, Barbara Castle, Emmeline Pankhurst and my great-grandmother Mary who died when I was four, but I really want to talk to her and find out how she coped.

I have to invite Alan Bennett, how I love his work, what a wordsmith. I have a hardback copy of Untold Stories, a birthday gift years ago. When it comes to wordsmiths, John Cooper Clarke is up there with the best. I’ve just finished reading I Wanna Be Yours. The genius Victoria Wood, a hardworking perfectionist who gave us so much and had more to give, I’m sure, but her life was cut short.

Someone else who’s life was cut short, my mum. Please come to my dinner party, we need to catch up, but do not tell me off in front of my friends.

We’ll need some music, besides Rabbie giving us a song, so I invite John Lodge, his wife and the other Moody Blues band members. It couldn’t possibly be anyone else. Have dinner first, of course. And everybody, mingle.

I was really looking forward to this dinner party. What a shame it’s pure fantasy, but imagine the mix of characters and what a memorable night it would be. When I was looking for a poem, I wanted something light-hearted and amusing and found it with Pam Ayres, and she's using a couple of words not normally associated with her. Go girl!  This is exactly what would happen if I tried to organise a dinner party at home.

The Dinner Party

It seemed like such a good idea, a flash of inspiration,
To hold a dinner party! Yes, out went the invitations,
A proper dinner party too, traditional and smart,
With all my oldest, dearest friends, the darlings of my heart.

We’d clear the dining table of each dog-eared magazine,
We’d dust around the skirting board, the place would be pristine,
We’d pick up all the clutter, drive the hoover round the floor,
And see again our carpet after eighteen months or more.

I’d plan a lovely menu, seven courses at the least,
An absolute abundance, an ambrosia, a feast!
With table linen matching and the candles burning bright,
What a celebration! What a banquet! What a night!

Yeah. Well.

That was then and this now, and one thing’s very clear,
I can’t imagine why I thought this was a good idea,
Today’s the day, tonight’s the night, they’ll be here in an hour,
I’m absolutely shattered and I haven’t had a shower.

I haven’t chilled the wine or put the nibbles in a bowl,
I found my silver cutlery, it’s all as black as coal,
I haven’t found the candles, we are making do with these,
One’s a stump and one is bent at forty-five degrees.

I haven’t folded napkins in sophisticated shapes,
Or beautified a plate of cheese with celery and grapes,
I haven’t spent the morning on a floral centrepiece,
And I’m skidding round the kitchen floor on half an inch of grease.

My husband’s disappeared, I don’t know where he’s hiding now,
He hasn’t helped at all, we’ve had a monumental row,
I don’t know where the day is gone, and I am filled with dread,
Forget the conversation, I just want to go to bed.

The guests I thought were witty, their attractiveness has palled,
The men, once so enticing, now they’re boring and they’re bald,
The women are all shadows of their former vibrant selves,
They’re all in sizes twenty-four, they used to be in twelves.

I stupidly asked George, I used to think him quite a card,
Not meaning to be spiteful, now he’s just a tub of lard,
He’ll bring his lovely wife, she’ll tell you all about her back,
One’s morbidly obese and one’s a hypochondriac.

I haven’t found the coffee cups, we’ll have to have the mugs,
The crumble’s looking soggy and the kale was full of slugs,
The meat is a disaster, undercooked and full of blood,
The dog’s pooed on the carpet and I haven’t done the spuds.

I thought I’d like to do this, but I don’t know where to start,
I thought I’d like to see them, but I’ve had a change of heart,
Their old recycled stories and voracious appetites,
Forget the darlings of my heart, they’re all a bunch of shites.

I meant to be the glam hostess but kiss goodbye to that,
I haven’t changed my frock, I smell attractively of fat,
I’ve done my best, it’s all gone west, I’ve ruined all the grub,
Too late. Here come the bastards now. Let’s all go down the pub.

                                                                                 Pam Ayres

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well, Pam x

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