Ella Rose Muse: the story: Swathes of Lavender

Saturday, 28 April 2012

Swathes of Lavender

Remember this post ('Fertile Lands'), SEVEN months ago? Well it turns out that shortly afterwards, the wonderful Imagesse had sent me a whole other batch of images by email which I did not receive properly! If you are a friend of mine on facebook you will be aware of my recent horror at discovering that my smartphone has been displacing the occasional email at whim and deleting it from my inbox. I happened to come across a folder accessible only on my computer (and invisible on my phone) called 'POP', where hotmail keeps emails that have been deleted on 'a device' and which it wants me to check shouldn't be kept. Clever hotmail. No fewer than 1174 emails over the last few months ago were found there lurking, unopened. Luckily, most of them were ones I had meant to delete from my phone, or else not important, but more than a very generous handful were very important, or sweet, or offering me highly-exciting work, and a few included images I had (seemingly rudely, I imagine) never seen or acknowledged! And there was me wondering why people hadn't got back to me on one or two things!! Urgh. That was a stressful evening. Unfortunately I still need to be able to delete emails on my phone as I often make the most of spare minutes when out and about in order to keep the stream as clear as possible, but at least now I know to check my 'POP' folder (a bit like a 'junk' folder, but for non-junk that your computer doubts you meant to delete) for hidden jewels.

I'm on top of the problem now that I know about my phone's mischievery, but hey - if someone doesn't reply to your email, consider this post encouragement that a gentle nudge is sometimes necessary!! Technology, eh? Who'd have it?!

Without further to do, here are some beautiful (I think) images taken in a lavender field in Gloucestershire during summer last year. I think the colour is so eye catching and I haven't seen (m)any images in this type of location before, so extra points to Perry for finding somewhere special! The flowers were so vibrant and fragrant. Modelling in places like these is so incredibly pleasurable - I'm not sure I would ever have visited a lavender field otherwise - I certainly hadn't seen one before. Mmmm, lavender honey.... And I'm now remembering for the millionth time that I need to buy myself a new calming lavender rollerball fragrance bottle to take when travelling, since they are so relaxing (and mine ran out/leaked everywhere a few trips ago). Why is lavender so calming? I was having a similar thought recently when driving through countryside... Why do humans tend to find blue and green colours so relaxing (as opposed to, say, red or orange)? Why did God choose those colours to paint the majority of the world in? Did he want us to feel relaxed/peaceful/stop killing each other, etc..? Or do we feel relaxed because the natural world is blue-y green and we find nature relaxing? And then I thought I'm thinking an absolute load of nonsense, as really an object's colour is only a secondary (not primary/essential) quality (as said philosopher John Locke), not independently objective... i.e. the colours of a lump of matter depends on the perceiver and context, like weight (where mass is fundamentally part of an object's character) ...but then maybe if we were designed to see something a certain way then the fact that we do is all that matters... Hhmmm. I'm awesome on car journeys... If I were the sort of person to write 'dot com' after words to emphasise my feelings, I would probably write 'I miss studying at university dot com'.

Walter De La Mare, 'The Listeners'

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,

Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses

Of the forest’s ferny floor:

And a bird flew up out of the turret,

Above the Traveller’s head:

And he smote upon the door again a second time;

‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller;

No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,

Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners

That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight

To that voice from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,

That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken

By the lonely Traveller’s call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,

’Neath the starred and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote on the door, even

Louder, and lifted his head:—

‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,

That I kept my word,’ he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners,

Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house

From the one man left awake:

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,

And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,

When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Natasha Khan/Bat for Lashes, 'Horse and I'

Got woken in the night,
by a mystic golden light.
My head soaked in river water.
I had been dressed in a coat of armor. They called
a horse out of the woodland.
"Take her there, through the desert shores."
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear.
You're the chosen one, there's no turning back now."

The smell of redwood giants.
The banquet for the shadows.
Horse and I, we're dancers in the dark.
Came upon the headdress.
It was gilded, dark and golden.
The children sang.
I was so afraid I took it to my head and prayed.
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear. You're the chosen one, there's no turning back."
They sang to me, "This is yours to wear. You're the chosen one, there's no turning back."

Mark Doty, 'A Display of Mackerel'

They lie in parallel rows,

on ice, head to tail,

each a foot of luminosity

barred with black bands,

which divide the scales’

radiant sections

like seams of lead

in a Tiffany window.

Iridescent, watery

prismatics: think abalone,

the wildly rainbowed

mirror of a soapbubble sphere,

think sun on gasoline.

Splendor, and splendor,

and not a one in any way

distinguished from the other

—nothing about them

of individuality. Instead

they’re all exact expressions

of the one soul,

each a perfect fulfilment

of heaven’s template,

mackerel essence. As if,

after a lifetime arriving

at this enameling, the jeweler’s

made uncountable examples,

each as intricate

in its oily fabulation

as the one before

Suppose we could iridesce,

like these, and lose ourselves

entirely in the universe

of shimmer—would you want

to be yourself only,

unduplicatable, doomed

to be lost? They’d prefer,

plainly, to be flashing participants,

multitudinous. Even now

they seem to be bolting

forward, heedless of stasis.

They don’t care they’re dead

and nearly frozen,

just as, presumably,

they didn’t care that they were living:

all, all for all,

the rainbowed school

and its acres of brilliant classrooms,

in which no verb is singular,

or every one is. How happy they seem,

even on ice, to be together, selfless,

which is the price of gleaming.

Kate Clanchy, 'Poem for a Man with No Sense of Smell'

This is simply to inform you:

that the thickest line in the kink of my hand
smells like the feel of an old school desk,
the deep carved names worn sleek with sweat;

that beneath the spray of my expensive scent
my armpits sound a bass note strong
as the boom of a palm on a kettle drum;

that the wet flush of my fear is sharp
as the taste of an iron pipe, midwinter,
on a child's hot tongue; and that sometimes,

in a breeze, the delicate hairs on the nape
of my neck, just where you might bend
your head, might hesitate and brush your lips,

hold a scent frail and precise as a fleet
of tiny origami ships, just setting out to sea.

Pages

Saturday, 28 April 2012

Swathes of Lavender