Translation and picspam
Translation first. I was going to be clever and show you the scan of my handwritten sheet only the scanner decided my script was illegible and refused to play the game. Until I find the manual (and I may be gone for some time... :p) you're spared my fist in favour of type. When I've screwed my nerve to the sticking point, I shall email Mess Jennings with my effort and ask how close I am.
I take my writing paper and I take my pen:
In this garden of words, the earth (ground/soil)
is white. I grow my beautiful vegetables -
the fruits of my brain and the air.
Each page - a field. My words - the Jersey cows
who sleep under the rain
of my feelings and of the trees who (shake?)
their branches like my fingers on the paper.
With a pencil and some paper,
my ideas flower, my green verses
they are Jersey lilies -
My flowers are fresh, my words are gay/jolly.
Planted here by my pencil,
spoken now by your sweet voice
in Town, in the fields, on the beach.
There are verses in Jerrias
Written in the woods, on every leaf,
On the granite, on my sheets of paper...
And I murmur*: 'Ah, (?Are you lovely today/you are lovely today?) Poetry Day.'
*Indicates my uncertainty as to tense. I'm also not sure about the construction in the last line. *sigh*
I do like the line; 'In this garden of words, the soil is white.' Worthy of being iconed.
Picspam. In link form until I work out how to make a small version of the image a link. I thought I had it this morning, but no...
The fabric I squeed over in this morning's post
Beautiful and unusually coloured freesia on the day I received them. It's a sort-of golden bronze. The outside of some buds was almost reddish-brown. I've never seen any like them before.
A close up of how they've opened in the last couple of days. I wish I could share the scent that fills my sitting room with you.
A sneaky peek at the current project, and my very first free motion quilting. It's tiring on the shoulders, free motion.
The back of TTRWNN. Somebody asked, if I remember rightly.
I take my writing paper and I take my pen:
In this garden of words, the earth (ground/soil)
is white. I grow my beautiful vegetables -
the fruits of my brain and the air.
Each page - a field. My words - the Jersey cows
who sleep under the rain
of my feelings and of the trees who (shake?)
their branches like my fingers on the paper.
With a pencil and some paper,
my ideas flower, my green verses
they are Jersey lilies -
My flowers are fresh, my words are gay/jolly.
Planted here by my pencil,
spoken now by your sweet voice
in Town, in the fields, on the beach.
There are verses in Jerrias
Written in the woods, on every leaf,
On the granite, on my sheets of paper...
And I murmur*: 'Ah, (?Are you lovely today/you are lovely today?) Poetry Day.'
*Indicates my uncertainty as to tense. I'm also not sure about the construction in the last line. *sigh*
I do like the line; 'In this garden of words, the soil is white.' Worthy of being iconed.
Picspam. In link form until I work out how to make a small version of the image a link. I thought I had it this morning, but no...
The fabric I squeed over in this morning's post
Beautiful and unusually coloured freesia on the day I received them. It's a sort-of golden bronze. The outside of some buds was almost reddish-brown. I've never seen any like them before.
A close up of how they've opened in the last couple of days. I wish I could share the scent that fills my sitting room with you.
A sneaky peek at the current project, and my very first free motion quilting. It's tiring on the shoulders, free motion.
The back of TTRWNN. Somebody asked, if I remember rightly.
