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. 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 Labrador cross, Poppy, who keeps a firm paw on the work-and-walkies schedule!

Tricks and Treats
















El Springador rufflects on his roll as Canine-in-Much-Waiting to an author


I was thinking only the other day, that Beagle's not too bright, reclining on the apex of his roof when he could be cushty on the sofa. I have one of my own in her study, so I put my paws up while she's writing. She gets a lot of help from me, though. I'm the ninety-nine per cent perspiration they're always telling you authors about. She's on the third book in a series with characters out of history, some time back when Dog was a lad, who have trouble getting into Crufts or something because their pedigree's not KC. Well, I never knew my father either, but I'm a bony fido sort of customer who knows wotz wot.  My Dad was a Lab, but I'm one of your dark Spanish types. Act first, think later, that's my mutto. “Come down off the ceiling, Jack!” she used to chivvy. “That curtain's not a trapeze!” Colefax and Fowler?  Never heard of 'em.

Sometimes I can catch the corner of her eye with a gentle swishing of the tail (Just like Maria Callas used to do with her fan to gain attention when she was still in the chorus.) It works a treat. Really breaks the concentration. Then we can have a cup of tea and bickies and a bit of a romp! And she'll probably do a few jobs while the kettle's boiling, like emptying the washing machine. This means I can nick her scanties and make off round the neighbourhood with them. She's so embarrassed, her arm appears out of the door with a Bonio bribe at the end of it. It's a terrific ruse, that one.

I'm very good at repelling invaders and do get a bit shirty with the mail and delivery folks. My best idea so far is my secret stash of brushes, hairbrushes, nailbrushes, washing-up brushes, shoe brushes, you name it. Those lovely stiff hackles  are great for giving trespussers the brush off. There's a grey moggy from Ghengis Khan's neck of the woods who lives close by and she loves to taunt me by sitting on the front lawn the other side of my full length bow window while I'm confined. I do a fair impression of Garfield, I can tell you. And don't get me started on Cesar Millan with all his dogmatic ideas. You never want to let your person watch that. I switch the telly off, paw right on the button. Can't have them thinking they rule the roost. Wowsers, no! It's bad enough having a Big Bruv knocking around, competing for her attention. I've made  no bones about it, I'm definitely the boss of him! Well, you have to keep your tail-end up, don't you? I reckon he's the one who should have the collar and lead. He keeps buying new batches of Nike socks – hell's teeth, you really have to shake the beggars to kill 'em! – they're my sock-in-trade, so to speak. Works on a trick-or-treat basis. Though, to be honest, they're much too well hung. Gorgonzola's not even close. I've actually had to get the hang of opening his drawer and filching clean ones.

Anyway, I get the walkies. She doesn't play fetch with him. Yippee! To the woods! Jump in hatch-back, fly like the wind. (Bit of off-roading while Herself reaches for a mint.) Whiff of moss, damp ferns, wild garlic. Musky fox, sweaty rabbit whooshing up the sinuses. Jump down, log in, kick up a dust to spread the message. Jack's back, folks, and he's brooking no nonsense. Re-do molehills. Not a clue about excavation, moles. Underground Movement from the wrong side of the tracks. Vault over thistles and briars, dive into thickets, put the fear of Dog into the pheasant population. Feathers! I'm so starved of feathers I've had to resort to plucking the fingers off gloves. They go into hiding and make like they belong on terrier firma. No wonder their wings are faulty. Not exactly an aerodynamic design. I've seen clay pigeons with better style! I remind them what happened to the Dodo and promise it's a favour, giving them free lift-off. I'm an impawtent cog in the wheel of evolution. Nose lined up, sprinting down the runway, whiskers curved against the wind, ahead a squawking squadron of birds rising up to the branches.  This is the best job on the planet!

And you know wot...I'll to be crackered for at least five minutes!

Jack, the dog who keeps track of the plot.


















© Copyright Rosy Cole, 2009, 2012, 2013, 2015

Recent Comments
Stephen Evans
I can't quite make out the accent there. ... Read More
Sunday, 01 November 2015 02:12
Rosy Cole
Canine linguists among us may detect this as Springlish, albeit with a smattering of Woofspeak. However, the Springador tongue in ... Read More
Sunday, 01 November 2015 13:11
Virginia M Macasaet
I've been contemplating on getting a dog... I don't know if I'm ready to take in a new baby. I have many quirks inside the home ... Read More
Sunday, 01 November 2015 06:39
2810 Hits














Happiness is not only a hope, but also in some strange manner a memory...we are all kings in exile. G K Chesterton


With the rhythms and cadences of National Poetry Day still ringing in the ether, I'm moved to share some of my favourite poems, while reflecting that it is too tall an order to compile an all-time hierarchy. Among the top twenty are one from Rupert Brooke, one from Robert Browning and this from T S Eliot.

Brooke excels at pace and poignant reflection. The poem referenced above says as much about homo sapiens as it does about the amusingly picturesque life of aquatic creatures. Browning's main strength is the dramatic monologue. It has a virility borrowed from Shakespeare and a refinement all his own. The chosen poem here, though, is magnetically wistful. The reader is permitted a glimpse of another life shimmering through the heat haze of an Italian summer day. Eliot's dense imagism needs to be constantly mined so that new treasure can be uncovered at each revisiting. All of them – along with hundreds of others – write great memorable poetry which snags mind, spirit and emotion.

But as a popular song can capture an essential truth, or mood, in the collective psyche, in her poem, Exile, Evangeline Paterson offers us a snapshot of the human condition through which we can find consolation in times of loss. I think it sums up everything about our journey, no matter how varied the roads we travel.


Yes, it is beautiful country,

the streams in the winding valley,

the knowes and the birches,

and beautiful the mountain's bare shoulder

and the calm brows of the hills,

but it is not my country,

and in my heart there is a hollow place always.


And there is no way to go back -

maybe the miles indeed, but the years never.


Winding are the roads that we choose

and inexorable is life,

driving us, it seems, like cattle

farther and farther away from what we remember.


But when we shall come at last

to God, who is our Home and Country,

there will be no more road stretching before us

and no more need to go back.


Evangeline Paterson (1928 – 2000) founder of Other Poetry


In his Rogue Strands blog, Matthew Stewart says:

Despite never having met her, I’ll always remember Evangeline Paterson with gratitude – she gave me my first decent magazine credits as editor of Other Poetry several years ago, backing my work every time I sent her off a batch. That encouragement was crucial to me at the time.

I chased down a copy of her New and Selected, titled Lucifer, with Angels and published by Dedalus (1994), enjoyed her poetry and desperately hoped she saw something of herself in my own incipient voice.

Perhaps the dispiriting part of this story is that news of her death reached me as I was immersed in her book, wondering how such talent had been sidelined by the contemporary poetry scene. Evangeline wrote clearly, imparting music and life to specific examples of universal issues. She was an excellent storyteller, squeezing her tales into concise verse, an undervalued attribute. Her self-effacing wit stood out, as in the ending to “A Wish For My Children”:

“and may you grow strong

to break

all webs of my weaving.”

Any educated reader not used to poetry could engage with her work immediately, which is an acid test that I ask any poet to pass. Evangeline Paterson deserves a wider readership now, just as she did during her lifetime. If you can get hold of her poetry, I thoroughly recommend it.


© Copyright Rosy Cole 2010 - 2015

Recent Comments
“and may you grow strong to break all webs of my weaving.” What parents might best wish for their offsprings ....... Read More
Monday, 12 October 2015 21:04
Rosy Cole
...and that it may, perhaps, not be too late for us, too :-) Thanks for reading and commenting, Ashen. Lovely to see you here.... Read More
Tuesday, 13 October 2015 15:58
Leave it to Chesterton to drop a statement that could leave me pondering for hours. I will be thinking about this. I don't rememb... Read More
Monday, 12 October 2015 21:34
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from Guido Reni's painting of St Michael


On the Feast of St Michael and All Angels (Michaelmas)

Is this how it should have been?
Day's conflagration bids farewell,
secedes from night's increase,
above the shadowed downs and hills
an ash of silhouetted leaves
and purple isles adrift in sheen-still seas

Fawns sporting soft suede pelts
consort in dappled shade
and flinch at crackling sound,
leap ditch and nettle-bed,
and teazles stand their ground
where angels pass among the thistledown

The seedheads' broken spheres,
like melting moons, float forms
upon the breath of destiny,
green bloom of wheat on purl-ribbed fields,
a silent, living testimony
of grace through winter's whining threnody

Unsheathe your sword, Crusader!
Halt rampaging gods of mammon
that rape the earth and starve the poor,
cohorts of a deviant Demon
whose scorched earth feeds no widened maw,
whose glamorous light beguiles Hell's door!



Botticelli - Annunciation


William Morris tiled reredos, Clapham Church, West Sussex

poem from The Twain, Poems of Earth and Ether


© copyright Rosy Cole 2010,2012,2013

Recent Comments
Just out of bed from a long nap (my most recent pastime) I found this fine work, a fitting commemoration of the day. I'm still men... Read More
Wednesday, 30 September 2015 00:54
Rosy Cole
Thanks kindly, Charlie, for the endorsement. It's especially rewarding when readers enjoy a poem because it's personal in a way th... Read More
Saturday, 03 October 2015 13:00
I have a short list of people who I feel said the best things ever said. These would be Mark Twain, H.L. Mencken, Dorothy Parker a... Read More
Saturday, 03 October 2015 17:22
2015 Hits

Venice Terminal

















In Memory of G, a fellow pilgrim for such a short distance...


We were on a train from Padua,
racing towards the Venice lagoon,
when I spotted the child,
two years old, or thereabouts,
a halo of honey-kissed curls
and eyes of molten brown,
like molasses perpetually outpoured.
Expectant, trusting, vibrant with life,
his countenance so beautiful, he stole my breath.
His mother spoke: he gazed at her in rapture,
as if pearls of wisdom fell from her lips,
as if his joy depended on her gentling,
his mind searching the imprint
of a fable only it could measure,
the eyes grown sombre with inchoate loss
of heaven beyond a consuming gulf.

That child captured my heart
in one cataclysmic instant of knowing,
of being plunged into the essence of him,
while we sped from Europe's ancient
seat of learning towards deluged ways
and stones that told of mercantile pride
in affluence and influence
at this crossways of cultures,
where barques blew inshore,
freighted with silks and spices,
tea and sweetmeats, muslins,
dyes, attar of roses and
lapis lazuli blue as summer midnight,
a city where craning Gothic
confronts rich mosaics and the labyrinthine
excesses of dissembling Byzantium.
















To this day, I know not if he was an apparition
conjured from some buried pining for lost youth.
Alighting at the station, I saw no trace.
But what had been rendered in high relief,
inspiring agonies of curdled joy, was forged in truth
and wreathed in the mystery of a closer sphere.
Suddenly, that child was everywhere!
In all the frescoes of St Anthony at Padua,
who embraced the infant and Madonna lily -
token of a fragile, stainless gift -
in the bronze statue, offering earth one hand
whilst drawing down the cherub from the skies
with the other, their fingers touching; an echo
of Michelangelo's lightning moment of Creation.
I dwelt long in the courtyard of the venerable magnolia,
ravished by eternity.
There was no sharing, no way the words would form.
Travel tickets conveyed no separate journey,
our shadowed pasts divergent and our mission matchless.
As pilgrims, it was the closest we ever got.

My unshod feet still haunt those ancient streets
in the supernal multiverse of gilt and guiltless cities.
The Vision melts the stark and leaden planes of Here.
A nun, singing like an angel, banished dissonance,
floating arpeggios that linger still in purer air.
Outside, a beggar, drunk on grappa, cringed at heel-height streetscapes,
shuffled and strained to grasp the feet of passers-by.
What is there but prayer, inspired by glimpses of Transfiguration?

The last day, we returned to Venice, bound for home.
His nagging pain, dismissed by medics, was graven in fatigue.
Metal wings clove terrestrial darkness, new dawns forgotten.
We have been blessed and fortified for this, I thought.
A week later, they handed him over to palliative care.
There was nothing to be done.
The dream of far-flung shores and bold discovery, just that.
By summer, he was gone.















from THE TWAIN, Poems of Earth and Ether


© Copyright Rosy Cole, 2009, 2012, 2013, 2015

Recent Comments
Venice Terminal is one of those pieces that call to mind incidents from my own and others' lives. G was your husband? In your ment... Read More
Saturday, 26 September 2015 02:55
The fact that you remember the particulars to her passing is poinient enough. I was blessed to be one of the steel magnolias in ... Read More
Saturday, 26 September 2015 07:39
Katherine Gregor
Words fail me, but my heart reaches out to you.
Saturday, 26 September 2015 12:04
2492 Hits

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Latest Comments

19 January 2022
There's great wisdom and peace in living 'in the moment'. Not everything needs a label. GB x
15 January 2022
Changes on both sides, father and daughter. Not easy to deal with. As fearful as they make us, we ce...
Stephen Evans The Uses of Adversity
10 January 2022
Those are my favorite too.
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Many thanks for the link Rosy, much appreciated! I downloaded the app too!
Rosy Cole The Uses of Adversity
09 January 2022
That I should like to have heard :-) Am quite in tune with the sentiments here, particularly the las...