desert flowers

Keith Douglas was wounded by a mine in north Africa in World War II. You can read more about him here if you want to. This poem, says the article, was most likely written while he was recovering in El Ballah General Hospital, Palestine, in 1943.

Desert Flowers
Keith Douglas
 
Living in a wide landscape are the flowers –
Rosenberg I only repeat what you were saying –
the shell and the hawk every hour
are slaying men and jerboas, slaying

the mind: but the body can fill
the hungry flowers and the dogs who cry words
at nights, the most hostile things of all.
But that is not news. Each time the night discards

draperies on the eyes and leaves the mind awake
I look each side of the door of sleep
for the little coin it will take
to buy the secret I shall not keep.

I see men as trees suffering
or confound the detail and the horizon.
Lay the coin on my tongue and I will sing
of what the others never set eyes on.

I haven't been out to Red's grave yet this year. Things got complicated with half term and trips and chickenpox and sad little cone cats. I'd like to go soon though. I had meant to tell you a story about him, but it's late and I'm somehow still awake, but only in body. My brain isn't up to much right now. You know those nights when there is no logical reason you should still be awake, but you are? Yeah.

Instead, here is the picture of our blueberry bush that I couldn't find before. No flowers, as you see. It's probably too late to flower now, isn't it? Next year.

We've got kale planted as well and coming up with tiny, oddly shaped leaves. That's a first for us this year and for me specifically. My mum never grew it.

Maf keeps headbutting me with the edge of her cone. Trust her to come up with a way to weaponise it. I think she wants me back in bed with my head in the appropriate spot for her to curl up around it. I'll go and give it another try. Wish me luck.

nothing but the night

We had a good day today (despite the subject line). Went to the off road place. Sherlock and Mycroft are doing really well and came out on the trail with us for a while. It's hard to believe Mycroft will be able to get his own bike soon if he wants to. I suppose it makes sense than time seems to go faster when you're older, since any given amount of time is proportionally less of your life, but even so, the pace at which this year has gone by seems a bit ridiculous. 

This weekend, in particular, was a blur, and Mycroft is back at school already. He and Anthea seem to be engaged in some sort of war in which he tries to work out her birthday and she smiles serenely like he hasn't got a prayer. Since I assume he'd need her real name to find out her birthday, and since I assume that information only exists on some top secret computer somewhere, I'm...slightly concerned. But he assured me he wouldn't do anything illegal because 'that would be cheating'. 

I've been thinking, as I know L has, about the boy who died on Friday and inevitably about people I haven't been able to save. About how many people will go their whole lives without watching someone die. About how Sherlock and Mycroft have already seen that and the ways I know it's affected them. No real conclusions. Just a lot of think about. 

in the electric dusk

Here, have a small frog. The pond at Sherlock's school is full of them, in varying sizes from about half the size of this one to two or three times his size. Or her size. I have no idea how to tell male frogs from female frogs.

so far

L is working again tonight. Sherlock is overflowing with the desire to join him. I told him to wait in his room and I'd make him an obstacle course, which I have done and will probably regret. And if I don't, Mrs Hudson will when he comes charging through here like a herd of oversized squirrels. I might go down and apologise preemptively before I tell him it's ready. 

I have work tomorrow night, which will hopefully give L enough time to recover and nap after work before I have to leave him with our small ball of energy. I have some diseased lung pictures in reserve for them to look at together. (Sentences I never thought I'd write, No. 847.) Still, hopefully, everyone will be in bed by the time I get a call - it does usually seem to work that way. 

Here, have a poem. I just read this for the first time the other day and really liked it.

A Small Number

Olena Kalytiak Davis

So far, have managed, Not
Much. So far, a few fractures, a few factions, a Few
Friends. So far, a husband, a husbandry, Nothing
Too complex, so far, followed the Simple
Instructions. Read them twice. So far, memorized three Moments,
Buried a couple deaths, those turning faces. So far, two or Three
Sonnets. So far, some berrigan and Some
Keats. So far, a scanty list. So far, a dark wood. So far, Anti-
Thesis and then, maybe, a little thesis. So far, a small Number
Of emily’s letters. So far, tim not dead. So far, Matt
Not dead. So far, jim. So far, Love
And love, not so far. Not so love. So far, no-Hope.
So far, all face. So far, scrapped and scraped, but Not
With grace. So far, not Very.

one year later

The anniversary of Red's death is coming up. We'll be in Italy for it, actually. I'm hoping to steal some time before we go to visit his grave with Murray and Spence. And hopefully L if he doesn't mind. 

I went back and read the entry I wrote after it happened. Honestly, it still doesn't seem real, even after the funeral, even after a year has passed. Sometimes I still expect to get some stupid text or email from him. I miss him. 

He would've hated this poem, which isn't saying much, since he hated most poetry, but it's... I don't know. It seems right today. 

catfish

I had another interview yesterday, the last one. I can't remember which letter doctor I'm on... I think it might be E, and I've already got a Dr E, so this one will have to be Dr F. He's probably a bit older than Lestrade, used to be a medical officer aboard a submarine (not the Army, but you can't have everything...). He's been doing this about ten years. 

He talked a bit about the differences between this and treating people in the military - a lot more drugs, for one thing, which I'd expected, although possibly not to the extent he implied. More of people attempting to hide weapons in various orifices, which I don't think I ever saw anyone in the Army try to do unless you count one young man and the barrel of his rifle, but he wasn't trying to hide it. 

Anyway, I think we'll do pretty well together. I asked him if he'd take me on, and he said yes, so there we are. Of course, I still need an actual job, but one thing at a time...

Here are some glasses that make 3D movies 2D again.

And here's a poem I just read for the first time and really like.

Your Catfish Friend
Richard Brautigan

If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond?It seems like
a perfect place for them."

be grateful this title is not a thyme pun

Allotment pictures. Here is a slightly sad stone frog guarding Reg's old thyme patch, which is on our side, so he says we can have it. He wants to try some new sort of thyme. So we need to pull the leaves out I expect and maybe cut it back? Need to ask him. Or get a book. Or ask you lot. Any of you gardeners? 

And here are some onions that aren't ours, for variety. Except for the thyme, our patch is pretty much just bare earth at the moment, if well dug over earth. Hopefully the pictures will improve as things start to grow. 

We're going to Longleat safari park tomorrow, which should be a lot of fun if we don't lose Sherlock in a maze or let him get devoured by a bird of prey. L's home for the whole weekend, starting today, which is lovely, especially since this is Mycroft's last weekend at home - he and Sherlock are both back to school next week and of course L's at work, and I have another interview...back to what can loosely be called normal around here. 

Also, here's this: 

 O sweet spontaneous

 O sweet spontaneous
 earth how often have
 the
 doting

           fingers of
 prurient philosophers pinched
 and
 poked

 thee
 ,has the naughty thumb
 of science prodded
 thy

       beauty      .how
 oftn have religions taken
 thee upon their scraggy knees
 squeezing and

 buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
 gods
         (but
 true

 to the incomparable
 couch of death thy
 rhythmic
 lover

           thou answerest


 them only with


                         spring)

-- e e cummings

back to the future

Delorean taxi

The linked article says it's not real, sadly - I mean that it doesn't exist as a taxi, not just that it doesn't really take you back in time.

Sherlock's class had auditions for the Christmas show today. Sherlock wants to be an angel with a light up halo. A dancing angel. Possibly breakdancing. Probably not on the head of a pin, but nothing would surprise me. He's also got a violin piece to play at the start of the show, along with two of his classmates, who I believe are playing cello and harp.

On the way home, he said he wants to invite Molly and Sally to come to the show  as well - but only if he gets the part. Heh. I need to ask Mrs N how many guests we're allowed to bring. There are quite a few of us already.

And I need to start Christmas shopping in a very serious way. What are you all getting your mums this year? Any ideas I can steal?

-

I'm not going to continue the poetry indefinitely, but I realised I didn't do any haiku at all. So here's this, by Issa.


In this world
we walk on the roof of hell
gazing at flowers. 

la belle dame sans merci

Mycroft rang this evening and told me off for never admitting I was ill and trying to carry on regardless even though I won't let anyone else do that. Probably tells you all you need to know about my day. I honestly don't feel that bad, just tired, scratchy throat, etc. I plan to be better tomorrow, but meanwhile Drs Holmes and Lestrade have made me promise to rest. 

And this still isn't Greg the Florist because I can't find the last bit of it on L's blog and search box won't load. I don't suppose anyone has a link to it? 

-

No laughing at 'her elfin grot', I know you people. 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci
John Keats

in a disused graveyard

View from the top of the monument. It was tall. There were a lot of stairs. I need to run more. I know I've said that already, but mostly likely doing it would be more beneficial than talking about it. I'll look into that. 

 The church, complete with real live blue sky, in as much as the sky is live:

DW asked me: "Doc, in all the time you had soldiers telling you things, did you ever once believe them when they started with "See, it was like this..."? Because if you did, I have a very nice bridge for sale..."

So, once upon a time, in the freezing remains of an abandoned and possibly haunted mental hospital, a soldier sidled up to me. We'll call him M.

M: See, it was like this [emphasis mine], we were just trying to have a little fun [also a phrase to be treated with deep suspicion], like a water slide, only with ice, and now Jameson's got his arse froze to it, so can you come and unfreeze him? I hear vodka's good for that.

The vodka should've been my tip off. In my defense, the rest of his story, given the people involved, was completely believable. Why he thought I had vodka, that's a mystery for the ages, but when I got back from talking to Jameson (unfrozen), I found M eyeing up a bottle of alcohol like he was wondering how it would taste. He'd also pocketed a number of tongue depressors.

We had a talk. Evidently it did't stick, because two weeks later...

M: See it was like this, Doc. I got bit by a bat and now I think I'm turning into a vampire and I don't have any garlic. Do you have some garlic?

The next week...

M, face covered in god knows what: Doc, I'll be honest, sometimes a man just needs to exfoliate.

I still don't know what it was, but the resulting rash was surprisingly difficult to get rid of.

-

In a Disused Graveyard
Robert Frost

see it was like this

The weather's miserable. Sherlock said someone should find a way to make it colder out and then the rain would be snow and snow isn't as cold. Which...is not true, but I do see what he meant. You're not as cold when you're out in it. Although I can tell you that if you're standing in the snow and some bastard throws a bucket of cold water over you, you will be colder than if you were standing in the rain.

L made curry last night, and I had the leftovers for breakfast and lunch. He wouldn't kiss me for ages, even after I brushed my teeth. He told me to go and gargle with milk at one point, which led to some interesting discussion.

I like this sort of weather, really. It makes the inside seem warmer. Even the colours are warmer, all yellows and oranges, while everything outside is grey and blue.

-

You get a picture for this one, because I'm not going to try to reproduce the line breaks and indents. Blogger always does funny things to my formatting.

See it was like this
Lawrence Ferlinghetti

the lady of shalott

I'm tired, and extremely full of pie - still - so this will be short, apart from the poem, which is long. 

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, we had to pick something to memorise and recite in class, and I did Resume, by Dorothy Parker, which you can look up  or find in the comments of the previous post. It was...not well received. It deals with methods of suicide in a more lighthearted manner than my teacher felt was appropriate. My parents were called, I had to see the headmaster, etc etc... Despite the fact that Parker was, as I insisted repeatedly, a 'real, famous poet'. 

I'd got it out of one of my mother's books, and my parents were, for once, on my side, and the only punishment I got in the end was to pick a different poem. I picked this one, primarily because it was the longest one in our book. I recited it as slowly as humanly possible. It took up nearly half the class. I also completely alienated that teacher completely, which made the rest of the year rather unpleasant. Still, no regrets. And I do like the poem. It's very peaceful. 

-

The Lady of Shalott 
Tennyson

bee-scuits

Sherlock and Lestrade's creation of the day, bee biscuits. Or, as Lestrade insists, bee-scuits:

With chocolate wings, legs, and stinger, of course. Unlike actual bees, they are delicious. 

The off road place was good. I definitely still have mud in unexpected places, but if that and a few bruises are the worst price we pay for getting to act like complete lunatics for a few hours, I'd say it's more than worth it. 

Sherlock had a ride on the back of L's bike again...he's almost there. Just a touch unstable still. Not quite enough length in his legs, but since he's growing like kudzu, I don't think it'll be too much longer. 

I watched Mycroft go around the track by himself and thought about my father's reaction when I asked him to teach me how to drive: an aghast look, accompanied by a demand to know how old I thought I was. He knew, of course, so I can only assume it was the shock talking. I can sort of understand it now, when I realise that Mycroft will be old enough to have his own bike in a very few years. 

I'm getting into an odd place with the poetry, where the only ones that leap to mind are ones that I suspect will seem vaguely depressing to everyone else and inappropriate for happy posts involving bee-scuits, but that I personally find amusing or hopeful. I'm also trying hard not to make this Millay Month, but nevertheless... 

Spring

Edna St Vincent Millay

departure

Today Sherlock and I worked on his bee innards and looked at a lot of pictures of bee wings, close up. I also answered the question 'When is Mycroft coming home?' roughly 5000 times. He is home, at last. He and Sherlock spent a little time on the bees before Sherlock decided to make off with L's Murder Investigation Manual, and he also showed us all this:

More about it here: http://calebcharland.com/energy-from-a-single-orange/

Which is pretty amazing, I think you'll agree. The orange is powering the LED that's lighting it up from inside. Sherlock wants to make one. 

-

Departure

Edna St Vincent Millay

hope is the thing with feathers

I went to see Lestrade play his guitar at a very small pub tonight. Last night, technically. I was under strict instructions to not do anything whatsoever - applaud wildly? Fling various items of clothing at the stage? Not sure what he had in mind. I behaved with perfect decorum but was still accused of looking 'soppy'... Well, he might've had a point. Couldn't help it. I really do think he's amazing and was so pleased and proud to be there with him. 

Sometimes I wonder how things would've gone if we'd met years and years ago, when I was in med school and he was still in his band. Really poorly, probably, when I think back on most of my relationships. And that's assuming I got up the nerve to talk to him at all; also unlikely back then. 

On nights like this, it's possible to believe that sometimes things really do turn out for the best. 

-

Hope is the thing with feathers

Emily Dickinson

purple bougainvillea vine

Our day was, as L said, lovely. We were awakened at a semi-godly hour, and I got to stay in bed a bit longer while L and Sherlock did ill advised things with cheese on toast and calculated the speed of light, all before breakfast. Took Sherlock to school. He likes L going with us because he'll let Sherlock ride on his shoulders. It gives Sherlock a chance to see over garden walls and mimic L's hand gestures while L can't see. It's a good show. 

Got home, had a semi-healthy breakfast, by which I mean that although it contained bacon, it didn't contain pancakes, and lay about on the couch for about an hour saying we should do something. Nice to have the time for that, for once. 

Then a slightly chilly bike ride with random pub lunch - just pulled over and took a chance, as people did before the days of the internet. The food was good, but there were some people talking about Arsenal...in ways that L did not approve of. Thought we might have to leave early for a few minutes there... 

-

Purple Bougainvillea Vine

Don Blanding

the listeners

Despite Federer losing last night, I had an absolutely amazing time at the tennis with L. Being there makes all the difference. The seats were closer than I've ever been to the court at a tennis match; I was afraid to ask what he spent on them. It was incredibly kind and thoughtful of him, not just to arrange it, but to go and sit through two and a half hours of a sport I know he doesn't really care for! Must be love. 

And whatever he tells you, I did not get Federer to sign any part of my body. 

The poem today doesn't fit with the post at all, I realise, but I was thinking about it on the way home last night with us out later than usual and the streets relatively quiet (for London). 

-

The Listeners

Water de la Mare

driftwood

Tonight is the World Tour Final...final. It's Federer and Djokovic, here in London, which means I've gone another year without managing to see him at this one or Wimbledon. With Wimbledon, I have some excuse, but it's fairly easy to get tickets to the WTF, at least for the earlier rounds. I suppose I don't need to worry since he's now saying he might play at the next Olympics as well... I assume he's not serious, but with Federer, who knows? He is, as Nadal once said, from another planet.

And apparently I wasn't the only one thinking of Red yesterday. I got a call from Spence this morning...as well as a series of drunken texts from Murray around 3am his time, asking me if I remembered the time Red decided he was going to save the bottle cap off of every water bottle he drank while he was over there, and did I know what had happened to them. (I do know - he was ordered to get rid of them, because within a week there were so many he was having to hide them in other people's packs without their knowledge, so that when they stopped to get something out, a waterfall of white plastic caps would flow out...)

Today's poem...Don Blanding isn't someone you'll find taught in any school, I'm pretty sure, but I like him. He lived in Hawaii, wrote mostly in the 1920s and 30s, and a lot of his poems are about that, or about his travels.


Driftwood
Don Blanding

miniver cheevy

I almost did Richard Cory instead of this one. It's better known and I suspect better thought of. But I like Miniver Cheevy. It makes me think of Harry. She wanted to be a knight when we were kids. I always had to be the dragon. 

And I feel like this should be longer, but it's been a long day and I've got a headache, so...the end.

Miniver Cheevy
E.A. Robinson

the guest house

On Tuesday, I went to see Dr E. It was mainly getting reacquainted, or perhaps I should acquainted for the first time, given how resistant I was to actually telling her anything before. I'm not terribly keen on it now, but I've realised that there are worse things. 

She asked what I wanted to get out of it. I said a lot of things, but what I came to in the end was that it would be good to be able to initiate difficult talks with L without making him feel like it's solely for his benefit, which I think I do. Maybe not intentionally, or at least not with conscious intention, but it's still not good. So. There's that to start with. 

From here: "This tractography image was made to help the neurosurgeon to choose the right approach for his neurosurgical planning. The surgery was at risk of damaging the visual field, as well as damaging complex sensory and visuospatial functions such as orientation in space, perception and motor functions."

The Guest House 

Rumi

translated by Coleman Barks