Sunday, August 23, 2009


I am depressed.
My house of cards has blown down
from the draft of a closing door.
I walk, drink coffee, read a good novel but,
I am depressed.
Intimations of depression
often rise like waves
and pass.
Yesterday the wave crashed on the shore.
I am so cold, so depressed.
I gather wood for the stove and soon fill a creel.
A flickering flame becomes that homely fire
in a Bavarian wood, long ago,
where all my fairy tales are spent.
Прогулки, чтенье, сон глубокой,Лесная тень, журчанье струй,Порой белянки черноокойМладой и свежий поцелуй,Узде послушный конь ретивый,Обед довольно прихотливый,Бутылка светлого вина,Уединенье, тишина:Вот жизнь Онегина святая;И нечувствительно он ейПредался, красных летних днейВ беспечной неге не считая,Забыв и город, и друзей,И скуку праздничных затей.
EUGENE ONEGIN by A. C. Pushkin.
XXXVIII. XXXIX Translated by Charles Johnston
Books, riding, walks, sleep heavy laden,
the shady wood, the talking stream;
sometimes from a fair black eyed maiden
the kiss where youth and freshness gleam;
a steed responsive to the bridle,
and dinner with a touch of idle
fancy, a wine serene in mood,
tranquillity, and solitude -
Onegin’s life, you see, was holy;
unconsciously he let it mount
its grip on him, forgot to count
bright summer days that passed so slowly,
forgot to think of towns and friends
and tedious means to festive ends.

Friday, August 21, 2009

John the Barman (poem by J)

The only thing that stands between
the end of work and bed
is a man with eyes between
the back-sides of his head.
Just a dram,
a cup of tea
words that float within the sea
he swills with you
as time goes soft
productive plans that go aloft.
The horizontal barrier,
the bearded ouzo carrier
a cloven hoof, a missing tooth
the barman smiles again.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Dictatorship by Local Government on Isle of Barra, Scotland

Failure of local grassroots democracy has left half of our island without an economic internet connection. Amongst other things it means we can only send a few pictures to our friends and relatives away or only listen to the odd music track after hours on line.
To provide the service requires only a days work and a little cash but we are kept begging while local goverment offices feed us their propoganda.
We have been forced to go to the European Parliament.
Please sign our online petition as we need numbers for this issue to be taken seriously. It will be passed to the Committee on Petitions at the European Parliament.
I will then be able to send great pictures to you all of the opening of the updated telephone exchange.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Her Little Birch Tree (poem, please comment)

Yellow maple leaves are wet and brown.

earth sick, earth thick,

with rotting leaves.


A birch shines out of the decay,

brown skin uncurling to silvery white.


She planted it years ago and loves it.

Gently she peels the thin brown bark,

revealing, stroking the birch naked limbs,

surprisingly warm and breathing

through its many mouths.


She feels it sway rhythmically in the wind,

the wind in its branches through her fingers.


She listens to the whispering stories

in the sloughed off tatters of the year falling away.


There was one tree.

whose skin glowed silver and rosy dawn.


It was her serpent in her arms.

and when they kissed

she delighted in its tongue not forked.


Song of Songs in love they played,

writhing and jiving in the sun and wind.

till the glowing sunset when she eats

the last, sharp

red rowan fruits

and he wraps her, blushing, in his silver bark.


There was one tree.

A most feminine of trees.

Wednesday, August 05, 2009

Mobile Phone causes Airplane to Vanish?

Shortly after the pilot transmitted this prop blade picture via his mobile phone the aircraft vanished from radar screens. Although this incident has been kept from the press for over a year I believe it is a scientific phenomena that should be explained. It may also give a clue to the whereabouts of the passengers.

Tom (and Sam) Circumnavigation of Skye by Kayak

My son Tom celebrates start of Circumkayak of Skye

Tuesday, August 04, 2009

The Body Banquet, a poem by Carla Jetko

I am a handful of soft, red fruit. I sit heavy waiting for you. Oozing sweetness, I sweat a love sweat. Crimson satined and chambered, I wait for the touch of the match, laying my tongue on the carpet like a fuse. I am a soft, red fruit exploding in your mouth. The taste of a Picasso painting, all bulls and warm blood. I have a roundness that your hands need. When I am touched I hold back, willing you to devour me, like Eskimos lapping up the still-beating heart of a seal kill. I am whole. I am naked. I am ready.
From 'The Body Banquet Poems' by Carla Jetko