FIRKYTOODLING

When I was young and foolish, she was winsome, sweet and cute,
I was given to firkytoodling, a pleasurable pursuit,
Practised by young lovers with a semblance of finesse,
Yet fraught with muffed advances and frustration I confess.

The way matters proceeded was with hesitations fed,
With never a suggestion of retiring to a bed.
No, circumspection ruled and held us all within its thrall,
For fear of finding that we didn’t have the wherewithal.

Not quite understanding as to where it all might lead,
And a minimal perception of what it meant to breed.
Plus a fear of breaking all those long instilled taboos,
Which governed all the protocol on cuddling, smooch and schmooze.

I tried to reason with myself, to tell myself to try,
Just let my wandering hands explore and not to be so shy
For she had let me get this far, an arm around her neck,
So surely now she’d let me have more than just a peck.

So I attempted in the dark, a first-time “Do I dare? “
A fumble here, a fiddle there, the lightest touch in hope elsewhere,
Investigating bra straps and those buttons on her blouse,
Fumbling fingers trying hard her passion to arouse.

Then fatally, I hesitated, faltered, flinched and dithered,
I’d lost my will, my heart stood still, all resolution withered.
I’d been turned on, fluffed chance now gone, and fate got in the way;
The moment passed, and soon I knew, today was not my day.

 

Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com

[  Firkytoodling: a Victorian term for canoodling, or being amorous.  ]

 

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Scotland – The Fife Coast: 2

[ Photo Gallery # 97 ]

The Fife Coast: 2

Elie, Anstruther, Crail, & Fife Ness

 

Continuing my journey along the Scottish East Coast, my Photo Gallery today displays more views of some of the delightful coastal villages along this  seaboard. . .

Elie is a small coastal town and former royal burgh in Fife, on the north coast of the Firth of Forth.

The shoreline and jetty at Elie

Anstruther is a small town in Fife, Scotland, nine miles south-southeast of St. Andrews. The two halves of the town are divided by a stream, known as the Dreel Burn.

The harbour at Anstruther

View seawards to the harbour entrance at Anstruther

 The stout harbour wall at Crail, a former royal burgh in the East Neuk of Fife.

A gull’s nest viewed from the cliffs at Crail

The harbour at Crail

Two views from Fife Ness, a headland forming the most eastern point in Fife

 

The Detritus Of Time

 [ Wednesday Replay # 5 ] 

Previously Posted on September 6, 2016

 

TIME’S  DETRITUS

Once upon a time,
In a pool and mired in grime,
I found a body, floating high.
A desolate place to die.

A basin for a tomb;
Blue plastic for a shroud.
A watery necropolis
For beauty now anonymous.

Abandoned, left to rot,
That was to be her lot.
Discarded and bereft,
Beauty the sands of time had left.

She’s found a resting place
Without sacrament or grace.
Long ago loved but now
The victim of a broken vow.

This unseemly end
My heart did rend.
‘The detritus of time’
Will end my rhyme.

 

The photograph was taken by me in 2004 on a farm in East Devon, England.

What’s In a NAME?

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

 

A Girl’s Lament in her Search for a Suitable Partner

 

Ladies, I’m thinking,
of marrying soon,
But very few men
Would cause me to swoon.
I’d be very choosy,
I’d go for the name
I’m no boozy floozy,
They’re not all the same.

For I’d soon kill a Bill
Get sick of a Dick;
Disgorge a George,
And enslave any Dave.

I’d get fed up with Fred,
And I’d smack out at Jack;
I might prosper with Oscar;
Test my libido with Leo,
And treat Tom with aplomb.

I’d give Max the axe,
And both Lucus and Brutus –
No better than Judas!

A Ted I would dread;
As for Teddy –  not ready;
And Desperate Dan,
From far Kasakhstan,
Was never the man,
To be in my plan.

Yes, I went into spasm
When I first met Adam.
I’d give Joe the elbow,
He’s so gung-ho with gusto.

The pond I did dredge
To find only poor Reg;
Then a minnow ‘mongst men
I met poor little Ben.

Dylan’s a villain,
And Toby’s a phony.
Carter’s a martyr,
A long-suffering non-starter.
Jude was a pseud,
Lewd, crude and screwed.
As for Ollie, Good Golly,
Much too melancholy.

Frank drew a blank,
So rank … and he stank,
And no medal of honour
Goes out to Connor.

But I’d say after all –
Though I bawl and I stall,
I’d rather a Paul
Than just nothing at all.

Of course, if the chance
came my way,
Being so scrumptious,
To be a new duchess,
At the end of the day
No longer I’d tarry,
I’d marry a Harry.

 

W.B.Yeats – ‘Leda and the Swan’

[  # 91 of My Favourite Short Poems  ]

Detail from ‘The Swanmaster’ by Diana Thomson FRBS … sculpture at Staines-on-Thames, England. Photo WHB. ©

‘Leda and the Swan’ by W.B.Yeats

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

The Irish poet, W.B.Yeats,  wrote ‘Leda and the Swan’ in 1923, the year in which he was awarded the Nobel prize for Literature.   Yeats, who had a great love of both folklore and mythology, chose to write his version of the story of Leda and the Swan as a Petrarchan sonnet.  It tells the story of Zeus, the Father of the Greek Gods, and his seduction in the form of a swan, of Leda, daughter of King Thestius.  One interpretation of the story as presented by Yeats, is to see its theme as a metaphor for British involvement in Ireland.  Alternatively, it can be read as a generalised representation of the way western civilisation has developed. His choice to write the poem as a sonnet can also be viewed as an ironic comment, contrasting what is a rape with a poetic form normally associated with love and romance.

 

Words as Birds

Photo by Subham Dash on Pexels.com

 

as do birds
words fly

fluttering
hovering
singing
warbling

dull or exotic
cumbersome or succinct
tender or abrupt
yet so high
their sky

carrying
with their wings aflame
both sonority and meaning
their tone surging
from plangent to plaintive
from joyous to rhapsodic

gliding in grace
with forethought and intention
swooping with wit
dipping their wingtips
in pools of light
or in puddles of mud

careless words
trailing doubt
words with a conscience
trilling
swooping
in the summer sun
skimming the surface of reason
dipping to their trees
to rest
to roost
when evening is done

nesting with the need for growth
mating when the time is ripe
breeding as the notion is defined
fledging offspring true to type
nurturing meaning under their wing

always bearing
cushioned within their feathered breasts
for those who care to discover
their true strength
wings beating to pronounce
their significance
the revelation of their truth
the essence of their existence

 

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

SCOTLAND: The Fife Coast 1 – Pittenweem

 [ Photo Gallery # 96 ]

Far from the exotic and highly publicised regions of the Western Mediterranean which I have featured in my recent blogs, my Gallery today consists of photographs taken by me in 2007 in the small coastal fishing village of PITTENWEEM.  An unusual name, derived, according to Wikipedia, from the Pictish and Scottish Gaelic languages.  [ “Pit-” represents Pictish ‘pett ‘place, portion of land’, and “-enweem” is Gaelic ‘na h-Uaimh’, ‘of the Caves’, so “The Place of the Caves”. ] 

Pittenweem is a fishing village in Fife, on the east coast of  Scotland. At the 2001 census, it had a population of 1,747.

The cave in question is almost certainly St.Fillan’s cave, (see the photograph below), although there are many indentations along the rocky shores that could have influenced the name.

Map of the Fife coastline, north of the Firth of Forth

Various views of Pittenweem follow  . . .

Pittenweem Harbour

Colourful fishing nets on the quay

Entrance to St.Fillan’s Cave

View towards Bass Rock from Pittenweem

My Fantasy

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

 

I’ve lived outside my fantasy
But now I’m moving in
Reality removes itself 
No chance I’ll let it win

The safe distance I have kept
Recedes, becomes the past, 
And dreams become the truth for me
My day has dawned at last

Life and love are now as one
Merging desire and hope 
Becoming all that promise meant
Ensuring I will cope.

 

 

A touch will be enough

Photo by Min An on Pexels.com

A touch will be enough

I think of my first love
who escaped south
and who now faces old age
with a brightness
far better than death’s impending despair.

My last love,
All passion spent,
Was of a quiet deep fulfilment
of silent bliss
engaging me
while the blackbird
for both of us now
sings in the highest tree
and, with a distant touch of the hands,
a slower walk with the waves
on that distant shore,
bird and sea,
my soul is fed,
listening to their songs
keeping at bay life’s end.

For now
I dream converse,
I listen to my memories,
resisting that clouding of the vision
which elapsed time brings.

I allow perception of days to come
in which appreciative eye
and halcyon heart
will enable a new closeness,
one of being together
in harmony with both past and present,
and the future becomes again
brighter.

A touch will be enough.

 

‘Bee! I’m Expecting you!’ – Emily Dickinson

[  # 90 of My Favourite Short Poems  ]

My recent photograph of a yellow plaque posted outside this Wildlife Trust in South Devon, England – see below . . .