I Got to Hold the BABY

We spent yesterday afternoon with Khadijah and her family. They seem to have adopted us as ready-made relatives. Feezan was showing me all the gear he'd bought to take to Spain with him on his school trip and Fiza got us into a game where she was the hyperactive school teacher and we were a class of dimwit kids.

Little girls are so damn bossy.

And I got to hold the BABY! It's been years since I last held a baby. I've always told myself (when there weren't any around) that I could take 'em or leave 'em (preferably leave 'em) but that just ain't true. Stick a baby on my knee and I'm in ga-ga, goo-goo heaven.

You out there somewhere, Anaiis?

This is for besideserato .

I've tracked you across the web for the last hour or so. Pushing through the vines. Once I stumbled into a dark place I'd visited before- but then the web is like that- to call it a labyrinth is understating things (I mean, I've been to Knossos and it's all contained within a site of two or three acres) I'm an old guy- picture me in shorts and solar topee with a butterfly net- not understanding or connecting with half of what he sees. But kinda exhilarated, kinda made to feel that this world is bigger and blacker and more fun than he was brought up to think it was.

Your generation has left my generation behind. And a good thing too. You know more and you dare more. I'd like to read your stuff (the novel I mean) and I'd be pleased if you'd read mine. Let's set up a meeting somewhere- under a virtual streetlight on some virtual, rain-swept street- so we can exchange packages.

 

The May's Out!

The hawthorn is in flower. My favourite tree. My favourite time of year. Hey nonny nonny.

But that smell- the reek of death with a aftertaste of honey. I had thought of putting one of my own poems here, but it was a very old poem and when I looked at it again I saw it was in dire need of washing and ironing. So here instead is an acknowledged classic by Walter de la Mare.

"THE HAWTHORN HATH A DEATHLY SMELL"

The flowers of the field
Have a sweet smell;
Meadowsweet, tansy, thyme,
And faint-heart pimpernel;
But sweeter even than these,
The silver of the may
Wreathed is with incense for
The Judgment Day.

An apple, a child, dust,
When falls the evening rain,
Wild brier's spicèd leaves,
Breathe memories again;
With further memory fraught,
The silver of the may
Wreathed is with incense for
The Judgment Day.

Eyes of all loveliness--
Shadow of strange delight,
Even as a flower fades
Must thou from sight;
But oh, o'er thy grave's mound,
Till come the Judgment Day,
Wreathed shall with incense he
Thy sharp-thorned may.