Off to St James Church, in Piccadilly, to see the font where the poet William Blake was christened. Had other plans but the torrential rain put a stop to that. Rain proof jacket proved not to be rain proof, so soaked through. Decided I’d better prepare for the Bank Holiday monsoon by stocking up on a few DVDs, so traipsed up to FOPP in Shaftesbury Avenue. Truffaut’s Les 400 coups, Godard’s Vivre sa vie, and Vittorio de Sica’s Bicycle Thieves. Should keep me from being too busy busy busy!
Came home dripping wet! Painted a few grape stems, had dinner and called it a day. Win some, lose some. C’est la vie!
We are unquiet souls, born
not to silence, but to rhythm,
to the steady beat of life
first heard in our mother’s womb,
the rush of her blood, the rise
and fall of her heart rate
as she agonises over her ecstasies;
we are born to sound that plays
upon the drum that travels
through bone to our very hearts;
the voice of the wind
in the chimney, or the crash
of waves on the pebbled shore,
the call of owls or the far cry
of the cockerel speak to the core
of our being since we are cousins
to the world. That birds speak
in song should be a lesson to us,
pure music to our ears, and all life
imitates life, the synchronicity
of tempers and temperaments,
and though we may dance
to the tune of silicon, it is of scant
importance, the dance is the thing,
movement, the thrust of one leg
forward, then another, the rejection
of stasis. Beauty that is movement,
the orchid that blooms unseen
in the forest, unseen by whom?
The blush of beauty that stirs the heart,
the hush of lovers’ confidences,
their thrusting tongues and limbs,
hands that respond to liquid language
poured into the lobe from lovelorn lungs.
We are born to bear fruit, to divide
and conquer, to join forces, to respond,
unquiet souls until the grave.