Rosy Cole

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Rosy Cole was born and educated in the Shires of England. Her writing career started in her teens. Four apprentice works eventually led to publication of two novels. Life intervened, but she returned to authorship in 2004. She has worked as a Press Officer and Publisher's Reader and is a member of the Society of Authors. Among widespread interests, she lists history, opera, musicals, jazz, the arts, drawing and painting, gemmology, homoeopathy and alternative therapies. Theology also is an abiding interest. As a singer, she's performed alongside many renowned musicians and has run a music agency which specialised in themed 'words-and-music' programmes, bringing her two greatest passions together. Rosy's first book of poetry, THE TWAIN, Poems of Earth and Ether, was published in April 2012, National Poetry Month, and two other collections are in preparation. As well as the First and Second Books in the Berkeley Series, she has written several other historical titles and one of literary fiction. She is currently working on the Third Book in the Berkeley Series. All her books are now published under the New Eve imprint. Rosy lives in West Sussex with her son, Chris, and her Springador, Jack, who keeps a firm paw on the work-and-walkies schedule!

Lord Nelson's Hat

Image courtesy of 123rf (modified)

 

 

Diamonds dazzle Lord Nelson’s hat,
that vintage oak wind-sculpted on the hill.
Light-pierced from a bold, all-seeing sun,
it nobly ponders summer's embers.

Bronzed acorns slip their leather cups,
reverberant upon the ground and proud
their forebears made those 'wooden walls'
on crescent tides that drove invaders back.

Sheep browse a hoof-worn treadmill,
eschewing thorn and thistle where random seed
may take no root, no quarter gained by rising
verdure in the evening blaze of history's days.

Wind burns its timeless song into the soul,
clouds flee to brood and congregate elsewhere,
earth braces for a remnant harvest home.
Another spring, another life, another year...

But Michaelmas is bright with angel mist,
the ether wired with energies of beating wings.
The blinding circle inches westward, a whirling
cursor poised to link to otherworldly scenes...

 


 The tree in winter which was the poem's inspiration

from Mysteries of Light (collection in preparation)

 

Recent Comments
Katherine Gregor
Truly beautiful and evocative.
Friday, 12 October 2018 14:25
Rosy Cole
Thanks for reading and commenting, Katia. I'm so glad you enjoyed it. For me, posting poems is essential to the refining process a... Read More
Thursday, 18 October 2018 15:48
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Perennial Pleasures

 

 

 

When I go into the garden with a spade, and dig a bed, I feel such an exhilaration and health that I discover
that I have been defrauding myself all this time in letting others do for me what I should have done with my own hands.

Ralph Waldo Emerson 

 

 

In summer, the song sings itself.

William Carlos Williams 

 

 I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days,
three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.

John Keats

 

 

Gardens are not made by singing ‘Oh, how beautiful,’ and sitting in the shade.

Rudyard Kipling

 

 

The greatest fine art of the future will be the making of a comfortable living from a small piece of land.

Abraham Lincoln

 

 


A garden is a grand teacher. It teaches patience and careful watchfulness; it teaches industry and thrift;
above all it teaches entire trust.

Gertrude Jekyll



How fair is a garden amid the trials and passions of existence.

Benjamin Disraeli 



If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.

Cicero 


 
Then followed that beautiful season... Summer....
Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


 

 The garden is the poor man's apothecary.

German Proverb

 

 

 Who loves a garden still his Eden keeps;
Perennial pleasures plants, and wholesome harvest reaps.

A. Bronson Alcott

 

 

Green was the silence, wet was the light,
the month of June trembled like a butterfly.

Pablo Neruda

 

 

 

Garden as though you will live forever.

William Kent

 

 

 

 

Recent Comments
Katherine Gregor
What a beautiful garden! A caress to the eye. And the little black-coated fellow looks like quite a character!
Wednesday, 05 September 2018 08:29
Rosy Cole
That is indeed a lovely comment, Katia. Thank you! And the 'little black-coated fellow' is Poppy, the busiest flower in the garden... Read More
Wednesday, 05 September 2018 16:00
Stephen Evans
Are these all your garden? Beautiful. You must have thumbs of many colors.
Wednesday, 05 September 2018 23:31
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Reflected Universe

The second of two passages from Next Year In Jerusalem

 

Frustratingly, my eagerness for adventure was no measure of my ability to keep pace with the high spirits of the rest. Dr. Jennings had forbidden me to dance. At Christmas, I danced solo in the pantomime we put on for our patrons and almsgivers and a lady from the audience was so taken with my performance she offered to arrange proper tuition. Nadia, her name was, a gamin creature in red fox fur up to her ears, a real ballerina, Reverend Mother had emphasised, and a member of the Rambert company. “Such an honour, Angel. You are blessed.”

It was a fairytale come true. Little had I thought to become what I most longed to be! Undaunted by the discipline, I practised my steps morning and night. Madame Minoret at the ballet school was amazed by my progress. A natural, she had confirmed to Nadia, an empathetic dancer, whatever that meant. And Nadia had twinkled. “We shall see what we shall see,” she said.

But Dr. Jennings had come along and put a cold stopper upon my ribs and squinted down his aquiline nose and warned that the dancing must cease. All strenuous activity was to be avoided.

“A slight heart murmur,” he confided to Sister Agnes, relaxing his stethoscope. “Nothing to be unduly concerned about at this stage. However, we had better play safe. Eh, young lady?”

During the night, I went down with a fever. Dr. Jennings was summoned and diagnosed a severe attack of ‘flu. Alarm grew when I failed to respond to treatment. For two days and nights my condition did not abate and even in delirium my toes formed points under the covers. On the third day, the crisis passed. I surfaced, clearer-eyed, to a new world of textures, tastes and sounds. The acuity of my perception was startling. It was as though I had been recast in another mould. The calm relationship of objects, after the storm which had imparted a sinister meaning to them, moved within me a remote happiness. I found myself in the sick bay, in a large bed high off the disinfected linoleum, with Felicity Rag-Doll ailing beside me and a painted Tau Cross on one wall and the Sacred Heart of Jesus on another, inflamed and bleeding, and the Michelangelo Pietà on a third. Down the corridor, Mildred Semple was practising her piano pieces. I sat up and flung the blankets aside. But the second the floor touched cold to my foot, I remembered. How I pined for my lost freedom! It was torture not to be able to take flight and dance, like being a bird and having your wings clipped.

Life was never the same again. All I did involved undue effort. I tried not to give in but tired quickly. What I hated most of all was being left behind like the lame boy in The Pied Piper of Hamelin, forever shut out of the enchanted kingdom inside the mountain because he couldn’t keep pace.

In the garden, I looked on dispirited, while the hole dilated at my feet and my companions alighted on the rewards of their industry. Several blue glass beads were found, an old clay pipe, its bowl still intact, a tortoiseshell comb and a bun penny. As the afternoon wore on, we lost all track of time and place until we heard Sister Agnes calling us across the snow.

Thomas hitched his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and consulted the position of the sun. “Right men! Pocket the booty! It’s a long trek back to base. Look lively, Novak, or you’ll be spending the night in an eighteen foot drift. Wolf-fodder, that’s what you’ll be!”

We followed him, our Wellington boots cutting a swathe through the smudged lawn. Already the snow on the terrace had melted. A thrush sang in the apple tree stippled with green. The conservatory threw back a pale sky splashed with flame. It was warm. The air smelled of spring and of picnics postponed, of an outing to the sea if we were lucky. Tomorrow all trace of snow would be gone.

It was as we were stamping our boots, about to file in, that a resounding thud drew our attention. A young blackbird had collided with the window and lay, a tumbled heap of feathers, on the path. I darted to his rescue, but it was too late! He fixed me meekly with his beady eye and lapsed, quivering, into stillness. I stretched out a finger and stroked his soft wings. He was as warm as my own flesh and blood, poor scrap, so deceived by the reflected universe. I couldn’t take it in. I fell on my knees and moaned and rocked to and fro and refused to be comforted. How could I bear such passive obedience to order?

That night, I had a nightmare about the hole in the garden and how it could be made good before Simms found out. I awoke, sobbing, to the recollection of yesterday and that precocious silence about which I could never speak.

 

Image courtesy of Carl Bovis

 

 

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Puzzling Reflections

 

 

 

 

 

Inside Out



Modern translations of St Paul said 'puzzling reflections'
in describing perception, with a taunting, haunting interplay
of light and shadow, never the same for two minutes together,
which made better sense to him than the King James image

To see 'through glass, darkly' was like tilting with a shroud
You couldn't tell what was on the other side of cloak and gesture,
whose storyline it was, and whose the wider plot, when to engage,
and how to abstract meaning from a colloquy already begun

He liked landscape art that shimmered through a summer haze,
nothing clearly defined, merely suggested, sketched and stippled
Precision was death, the vanity of nailing flesh to a cross,
hoping the spirit would not escape to recite its lore elsewhere

Whereas hyperrealism, all diehard hues, stirred menace by osmosis,
Magritte, Chagall, Picasso, hit the spot, dredging themes and schemes
from where it mattered most. Those artists knew a thing or two
about immanence, hypnagogic dreams and shapeshifting metaphor

Such designs granted form to feeling, which delivered its own relief
without any rationale, the need to decode, or the knife-twisting alarm
at having been jumped from behind into action that didn't fit the fable,
Hamlet and Hedda Gabler a Disney parody, the diapason trashed

Putting a foot in the wrong camp was a hazard of moving and breathing
There was seldom signage to say where you were, no cue as to what
came next in the pantomime of human exchange. You had to hang around
until the swirling atmospheres kindled a vision you knew meant business

One dusk, passing the Stage Door, he turned into the Square to confront
a revelation of community. There, in the foyer, under constellations of lamps,
theatre-goers were sipping and laughing and gesticulating behind glass,
no script, no hard and fast plot; the miracle of doors parting on proximity

Next thing he knew was a stifling warmth and billows of babbling energy
He’d thought to be among long-lost friends, in limelight, the jester at the party,
but the baffling palaver made him feel like a spectre, an outsider on the inside,
so that he fled into night’s embrace, all lacerating noise and winking alarms

 

 

 

from Mysteries of Light (collection in preparation)

 

#AutismAwarenessWeek

Recent Comments
Stephen Evans
Interesting. Looking forward to the collection.
Friday, 30 March 2018 22:04
Rosy Cole
Ooh, a reader! I'm quite giddy at the prospect :-) Have been living on crusts and ale in my attic for too long!!
Saturday, 31 March 2018 18:50
Stephen Evans
I hope at least the crusts were toasted with lots of butter.
Sunday, 01 April 2018 14:55
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4 Comments

Latest Comments

Nicholas Mackey The Butterfly of Memory
13 November 2018
Wow, Rosie, what an incredible comment to post and I marvel at the 'personal synchronicity' you desc...
Ken Hartke Why Seek Ye the Living Among the Dead?
12 November 2018
Aspens have beautiful fall colors and snow-white bark that draws attention but they seem to have ano...
Stephen Evans Painting Sunsets
12 November 2018
Thank you! Wouldn't that be nice!
Rosy Cole Painting Sunsets
12 November 2018
Good luck with your launch. You deserve to be able to live off the proceeds! :-)
Rosy Cole The Butterfly of Memory
12 November 2018
By some quirk of coincidence, I was thinking about this kind of synchronicity the day you posted thi...

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