THE GOLDEN MEAN

Had a few days bleeding the NHS dry but back to usual decrepitude now. Indulging in the drug of old age
Nostalgia and remembering another class at school, not Latin this time but maths. My interest in the Golden Mean came later of course and gave me the idea for;-

THE GOLDEN MEAN

Miss Hall, Deputy Head

Looming in blue and bifocal specs

Speaking of God and mathematics.

Taught us Pythagorus and his hypotenuse

but not his theory of creation and

the formula  for

the shape of a face

the petals of flowers

the spirals of shells

our fingers and limbs,

who we will love and

who we will hate.

A formula whose ratio

was figured precisely

by Leonardo Fibonacci

who

after much thought

came up with the answer

one point six, one, eight, nought

When you think of a number remember Miss Hall

who knew that mathematics and God were the same

but didn't want to believe it.

HOLIDAYS

When we were active we enjoyed exploring Europe or at least some of it, often by car
without pre-booking accommodation and sometimes on a package holiday. When our travels were done I made a list of some of the places we'd visited and was rather surprised to find how much we'd managed to see. Hence;-

HOLIDAYS
(taken by me and mi missiz Joyce)

We've seen the Tower of Pisa
Got a glimpse of the Mona Lisa
And struggled to the summit of Vesuvius,
We've trolled the Rijksmuseum
Strolled through the Coliseum
And marvelled at the ruins of Vitruvius.

We sampled lots of vino
Got blotto in Bardolino
When we stayed on the shore of Lago Garda,
Heard the opera in Verona
Admired Gaudi’s Barcelona
And got sworn at on Italian autostrada.

We’ve seen paintings by Picasso
Even braved the Paris Metro
And visited the room where Vincent died,
Loved  the Still Lifes of Chardin
Mooched round Monet’s Jardin
And rode a vaporetto for the ride.

Hot and sweaty in Rome
We thought it time for home
And looked forward to the weary journey back,
We’d seen wonderful things
But the memory that clings is
the Black Forest isn’t really black.


So what did our travels do for us? Well we enjoyed them at the time but I sometimes wonder if the things we saw gave us any lasting  (apart from being able to brag about them of course).

BRUSH OFF

Sorry for the hiatus in blogs but we have both been taking advantage of the NHS
for a while. We should last ‘til Easter with a bit of luck. In the meantime here’s a bit
of nonsense to go with the rest--- a prose poem if you like;-

BRUSH OFF
    It was your hair that did it. I’m usually shy but seeing you under the beach shower rinsing the sea from that cascade of copper and gold made me bold and you didn’t seem to mind when I offered to dry it though you said it would dry soon enough in that heat but you let me buy you an ice cream and when I said that your hair was beautiful you said that you were thinking of having it cut as it could be a nuisance which made me sad and I quoted from Corinthians one chapter eleven verse fifteen “if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her and you said that that sounds as if it was written by a man who didn’t have to look after it and worry about finding the right conditioner and stop it getting in his food and everywhere and I just wanted to weave it through my fingers and bury my face in it and luckily we sat next to each other on the plane coming back and a strand or two brushed my cheek and I told you about Baudelaire having a thing about hair and you asked if he was some kind of pervert and you couldn’t wait to get back and go to some decent shops and your nails needed doing again before you went to the disco awards but you agreed to see me when we got back which made me so excited or over the moon as you would say but I waited over an hour tonight and when you didn’t arrive I rang your number and your mother told me that you said that you were very sorry for not turning up but you were washing your hair.
     

                Frank B



                Frank B

RECYCLING

As a youth I spent many hours with my friends in a tiny coffee shop next to the
'Man and Scythe' pub in Church gate, Bolton. We put the world to rights and
philosophised (?) on the meaning of life, and we may have mentioned girls once
or twice. We, or at least I, came to the conclusion that the meaning of life was life itself and many years later after reading several wise men's opinions on the subject ' I  came out by the same door as in I went'. The only philosopher who makes sense to me is Schopenhauer though he calls the life-force The Will'. So giving me a theme for a light-hearted poem. (For a poem on the same theme but written by a proper poet see 'The Force That Through The Green Fuse Drives The Flower'
by Dylan Thomas.)
As for ’ Immortality ' I’m with Bart Kosko who wrote in ‘Fuzzy Thinking’ ;-
‘ Molecules assemble and disassemble an atom or two at a time’

RECYCLING
by
Frank Bryce

Kosko knew with Schopenhauer
That we’re all one with the cauliflower,
the crocodile, the mountain goat
and trees and grass and things that float
and things that sink and things that stink
(Unpleasant though the thought may be)
we’re supposed to live in harmony

And when our atoms start to disperse
to be assembled by that half-wit child
they say is in charge of the Universe
(unsupervised by a responsible nurse)
The free floating atoms drive him berserk
and as he’s fond of metalwork
he could turn our molecules and individual quarks
into Memorial busts in Royal Parks
Or maybe into an old fashioned pub
(The Duck and Trumpet to name the worst)
Just beware when you slake your thirst
you could be drinking Charles the First.

The world’s gone mad I think you’ll agree
When philosophers who seem at first sight rational
Re-formed could win next year’s Grand National.

And if you think this is all a joke
Just refer to this Kosko bloke
who gives examples by the score
that everything he says is true
and not so very long ago
You were him and he was you.

PROMISE OF IMMORTALITY

Some time ago on a visit to a Pharmacy (what I still from old habit call the Chemists) I noticed a shelf filled with 'natural remedies' which, on reading the bumf promised relief from all known ailments from baldness via impotence to in-growing toenails.
They had wonderful names which I noted and later arranged in a sort of poem which
is ideal for reading aloud. I usually put the main accent on the first syllable of each line which produces a nice rhythm and a sort of music. I called it;-

PROMISE OF IMMORTALITY (by Frank Bryce)

Borage and liquorice
couch grass and cornsilk
butcher's broom and
devil's claw

Chitosan complex
calendula
agnus castus and
star flower oil

Iron and calcium
zinc and magnesium
chromium, selenium and
golden seal

Elderflower and garlic
buckwheat and ginger
astrogalus and
chamomile

Dandelion and burdock
motherwort and garlick
cod liver oil and
white willow bark

Hyssop, jojoba
eucalyptus, yucca
chasteberry, lemon grass and
juniper oil

Milk thistle, mandarin
vetivert and sesame
black cohosh and
oil of bergamot

Nettle cleavers
uva ursi
royal jelly and
OMEGA 3

NOW YOU TELL ME

now you tell me

Being brought up in the thirties and forties the music of our leisure
was 'swing' and the big bands ( five sax, five brass, piano
bass drums rhythm section, and vocalist) our delight. Although we
enjoyed the songs we perhaps didn't value the quality of the
lyrics of Hart, Gershwin, Cole Porter et al. It is only now that I can
appreciate the skill of these writers, poets of their time. I was attracted
by one phrase enough to use it as the basis of a poem although in fact
it is in common use. 'It was just one of those things' a song which says
more than the plain phrase. I used it to attempt my own version in ;-

NOW YOU TELL ME
by
Frank Bryce

It was just one of those things,
Hiding the lie behind the song
Do you expect me to sing along?
To smile and say,
Well that's OK,
Hoping our friends will join in the chorus
and be happy for us.

Don't you remember?

We were Beethoven's fifth, Torvill and Dean
Satchmo and Ella, chocolate ice-cream,
Walks in wet woodlands, kicking leaves,
Rembrandt's self portraits, toasted cheese.
Lying on warm grass, staying in bed,
Watching rain, the smell of new bread,

Once I thought that we were a pair
Like Frankie and Johnny, Rogers, Astaire.
Now, from behind the words of the song
You tell me it's over, good-bye, so long.

When did our music lose that swing
And just become, one of those things

this is just to say W.C.WILLIAMS

Having been brought up in the thirties I find the Lancashire dialect
natural although I don't often use it. but of course I still have
the accent in spite of my travels. I thought it would be interesting
to 'translate' a poem into dialect and one easy target was a short poem
by William Carlos Williams, a renowned American poet as well as
being a practicing doctor. Here is the original;

THIS IS JUST TO SAY
by
William Carlos Williams

 I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

And as it may have been articulated by a Boltonian joiner (like mi dad) in 1936

Note that the word ‘the’ is often written as t’ and is pronounced as
such by those unfamiliar to the dialect which grates on my ear.
In practice it is hardly articulated at all and is more of an unpronounced hesitation.


FORBIDDEN FRUIT
by
Frank Bryce

Ah’d better tell thi
ah’ve etten them plums
that were in‘ fridge

You sed they were
fer temorrer

But ah’ve et um
They were aw reet
a bit sweet







Having been brought up in the thirties I find the Lancashire dialect
natural although I don't often use it. but of course I still have
the accent in spite of my travels. I thought it would be interesting
to 'translate' a poem into dialect and one easy target was a short poem
by William Carlos Williams, a renowned American poet as well as
being a practicing doctor. Here is the original;

THIS IS JUST TO SAY
by
William Carlos Williams

 I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

And as it may have been articulated by a Boltonian joiner (like mi dad) in 1936

Note that the word ‘the’ is often written as t’ and is pronounced as
such by those unfamiliar to the dialect which grates on my ear.
In practice it is hardly articulated at all and is more of an unpronounced hesitation.


FORBIDDEN FRUIT
by
Frank Bryce

Ah’d better tell thi
ah’ve etten them plums
that were in‘ fridge

You sed they were
fer temorrer

But ah’ve et um
They were aw reet
a bit sweet