The Stolen Orange

The Stolen Orange

When I left I stole an orange
I kept it in my pocket
It felt like a warm planet

Everywhere I went smelt of oranges
Whenever I got into an awkward situation
I'd take out the orange and smell it

And immediately on even dead branches I saw
The lovely and fierce orange blossom
That smells so much of joy

When I went out I stole an orange
It was a safeguard against imagining
There was nothing bright or special in the world

By Brian Patten

http://brianpatten-potm.blogspot.com.au/2008/09/stolen-orange.html

Apparently this is my day for thinking about oranges...

The Orange

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all my jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.

Wendy Cope

I'm Off To See The Blossom

Today I'm working, fairly hard, tonight I'll be out in Edinburgh, and tomorrow... Tomorrow I'll go to see the cherry blossom.

When I'm not living in Glasgow (Or Edinburgh, or Slough, or, when I was there, Newcastle) I live at Number One Linnet Cottages. I share a partition wall and a cherry tree with Number Two Linnet Cottages. Every year I look forward to the blossom, and every year my heart stops a little when it comes out.

I've had my little place in the country for 14 years, now. My life has changed out of all my imaginings since then, and I've lost and gained people and places, but it's been a constant that I can jump in my car and after 2 hours, or 3, or 5 I can be sitting in my porch looking at the dark waters of the Crinan Canal and Loch Gilp, and Arran down in the distance.

The cottage is cluttered. I think, even if I threw out all of the lighthouses, all of the photographs, the books, the videos, the Cow Parade cows, the golf clubs, the boots, the paintings on the wall, the pieces of pottery gathered from Argyll and the Isles, that it would still be cluttered.

Because every room is full of memories, of ghosts, of those whose feet fell in that hall, who sat on that couch, who cleaned that bathroom floor.

I can live with that, I think. In fact, it may be that I can't live without it.

It's been an eventful year. I've lost a lot. I've gained a lot of memories. And if things haven't worked out the way I planned, they've worked out the way they were meant to. I've accepted the fact that I'm not the same person I was in 1999, or 2006, or 2012. So I'm stopping, just for a moment, to say goodbye to all that, knowing that I'll carry the memories, and I'm smiling and saying hello to tomorrow, and smiling at the thought that we ever let go, of anything, that anything ever really ends.

So tomorrow I'll drive up over the Rest And Be Thankful with my bike and my cat. This time I'll be meeting friends, and we'll cycle on Friday up through Islay, and across the fast flowing Sound of Jura, and we'll sit by an open peat fire and drink the local malt, and on Saturday I'll make my way back across the water and over the hills and along the canal, and on Saturday night I'll probably sit alone on the porch (except for the cat) and think long thoughts, and drink a wee dram.

There's a lot of attention being paid to Gatsby at the moment, and I'll end this little ramble with what I believe are the finest words to end a book on, and some of the wisest, the saddest, the most human words I know. Because I know that those last thoughts will be mine, on Saturday, when I sit looking out at the dark water.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter — tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther.... And one fine morning —
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.