A Life in Trees

A Life in Trees.

I am working on a new novel, or it may be a novella. This was a story I wrote in a dream. I don’t mean it was inspired by a dream, or derived from dream like events but fully written while asleep. Here is what happened (in the dream),

I am late for an important mathematics examination and on my frantic way I realise I have not even looked through the syllabus. I have missed every lesson and although I meant to get around to opening the textbook I never did. For a year or more it simply slipped my mind, so I wonder whether there is any point attempting what I shall certainly fail. As I get to the examination hall (remarkably like the remembered school hall) everybody is already hard at it, writing away.

Silence reigns.

The exam supervisor takes me to one side and whispers that because I am late everybody has already taken all the questions. Not just the question papers, but the questions themselves. This seems to offer a ray of hope. He says I have a choice between two remaining: They are

One. ‘The history of simultaneous quadratic equations’ or

Two  ‘Title Acer’. But I will have to remember them since he has no ‘papers’ left with them written down.

I choose the second and write a story entitled Acer. I write a detailed, fully fleshed out story; characters,plot, circumstances ( in a place I do not know and have never visited) and I complete the last line as the bell rings to stop.

‘You may now hand in your papers.’.

I hand in my story, leave the hall, and wake up.

The hero of my story
The hero(ine) of my story

I remembered every detail of the story I had written and just to show you the problems it presents I would classify it as a Fantasy- Romance, rose tinted with sci-fi dipped in tragedy, deep fried in fact, with garnish of world redemption. Its chief heroine and hero is a tree. Its anti-hero a master tailor with a hatred of the mess trees make in the Fall. It happens in Vermont.

As you can see I have not avoided the marketing nightmare or my curse of pioneering impossible books.

A while ago I came to a halt on writing this story. What seemed lucid, if not uplifting and amusing, in the dream sounded absurd in the telling. While stuck I examined what might have contributed to this driving story nobody will read? That led me to contemplate my relationships with trees.

Not one has ever been fickle, or betrayed or disappointed me. They have sustained me, guarded my back, fed my soul …( You see the hero given birth don’t you?)

So I thought I would give you the stages of my life with trees because they are individuals, personal lovers with whom I have had secret affairs. All because I was poor, and I mean starving poor for some of them.

The Loquat Tree.

Loquat Eriobotrya_japonica_(Syria)

In the baking blistering-under-a-tin-roof house on the borders of Bechuanaland  (Botswana) there was a single loquat tree, an umbrella of black, still leaves that wept against the ‘stoep’ of my grandparent’s house. A square, unadorned house that concentrated heat as though it was a bank vault securing an investment. I was three, alone for an eternity, and longed for water, a swimming pool, a reservoir, a puddle, anything to relieve the inescapable torpor of heat, heat and evermore relentless heat. Heat as punishment for a crime not yet committed; no parole.

Can we not have a swimming pool?

‘Yes dear, of course we can’ said my grandmother. She summoned the gardener and told him to dig a hole, a deep hole, under the loquat tree, tight against the house, in what could be found of shade. Through the loving arms of the loquat she threaded the hose and ran it into the hole in the ground, so deep I was invisible and there I spent all day, in knickers, making mud pies under the trickle of the hose.

For meals I climbed the tree ( too muddy to be welcome indoors) and with a tray on his head the cook was instructed to follow me, climbing the tree which was my ship, my look-out, my escape, my protector. I would not have known the names but I had my own bosun, and a galley that sent up food on order, and I never needed clothes. It was my first Eden. A single tree.

The Jackaranda

JacarandaTreeIndia

My next lover hung over the tennis courts of a school in Johannesburg. I was now seven and imprisoned in a dormitory with twelve year olds. They were in the secondary school and I was still in a primary and walked the half mile between them after breakfast. My very very best (and only) friend was a daygirl in the primary and she brought packed lunches. I was always starving and waited for her apple core, which she was generous to leave well clothed. Her family was pretty rich and apples were no great treat. I still remember the glory of an apple core. Somehow it was better than a whole apple.

After school closed at three I walked back to the senior school where everybody else was still at lessons, and climbed my second friend with its smooth welcoming arms and ate the core in the last and highest triple fork, two to sit upon and one to lean against. It was ‘my’ place and nobody knew about it. In summer I was hidden in a cloud of blue, and nobody was brave enough to follow because the drop below was probably thirty or forty feet. I left the seeds for the birds in a small hollow and that was my secret too. Everyday.

The Copper Beech

This was probably the love of my life, where the others were my playmates and flirtations. In a deciduous wood on a slope above a river, near a village I was beckoned by a deep shadow bowl. Below the smooth grey trunk a hollowed cave enfolded by roots, offered me a home where a dried-blood coloured rug was protected from the rain, and welcomed me at all hours, and often all night. The sky scarcely penetrated and no human ever trod near.

At that point my life was over and my tree embraced me: It rocked grief, incubated recovery, and turned its cheek if inwardly I railed. It doubted nothing, and offered no suggestions, just waited, and put its root arms round me and shared the philosophy of existence without asking anything in return; just was. Just understood. Just stayed silent and certain. Just.

No hero was ever more heroic, no lover more dependable, constant, enduring. My first book was called ‘Copper Sings the Beech’ and it was about losing everything, and finding freedom in nothing left to lose. Not even hope.

My hidden wood
My hidden wood

My Collection. Current Friends

When a man in a cloth cap gave us the hope of a home, and the possibility of a garden I read a marvellous book. Robin Lane Fox wrote a slim book with an unprepossessing title: Better Gardening. We now had a small field surrounded by a dry stone wall, trampled by cows, devoid of anything but nettles. I knew nothing of trees except why I loved them.

Every recommendation Lane-Fox offered came with a history, and every history gave the character a necessary part in the play of this garden. The romantic dinosaur tree assumed extinct and grown from seed by a Chinese botanist, the Metasequoia? Must have one of those. The fig that hid the asp that killed Cleopatra? You bet. The Liquid Amber that clung to summer longer than anyone? Absolutely.  The coral barked Acer that blazed forth in winter? Of course, but delicate, make that two. The field Maple that one day would make a violin or hang a swing? It could do both now but has to be content with a washing line.

And finally the birch, Betula jackmontii, with arms so white it throws light into every corner, is both prima ballerina and corps de ballet in a wind, and lights up every day from dawn to sunset. At dusk it is a lamp, throwing light across the lawn, and in winter its skeleton talks to the moon.Betula papyrifera

Do I have a garden? Maybe I just have trees.

That is probably why I dreamt a story and the hero is an Acer. Maybe the one on the terrace crept in at night, and entered my bed.  Actually I now realise it is just a Love Story. That’s what I will call it anyway.

Attributions.
Acer By KENPEI (KENPEI’s photo) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html), CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/) or CC BY-SA 2.1 jp (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.1/jp/deed.en)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Loquat By Bangin (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC BY 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Jackeranda By Pawan Tikku (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

“Fagus sylvatica forest Rocherath Belgium” by Frank Vassen from Brussels, Belgium
– Beech forest, Rocherath, Eastern Belgium. Licensed under CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons –

Betula https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Brzoza_paierowa_Betula_papyrifera.jpg#/media
/File:Brzoza_paierowa_Betula_papyrifera.jpg_sylvatica_forest_Rocherath_Belgium.jpg

Dog Days Eclipse

 

Milly portrait

Dog Days Eclipse. (for Milly 2001-2014)

Our guardian angel dog is dead,
Bequeathed for a long sonnet’s span…
Her absence now insinuates through
every raku cracked routine.

She opened the day, I knew you’d come
and ‘here you are, it’s good again…’
Chin settled the close; begone, begone
My sentinel ears are set. Now sleep.

The book of family was bound
by constant reading, all out loud:
Absence tracked, whim on the wind
awaited patient at the gate.

Milly intent detail

Each supper semi-sanctified
The pre-wash cycle cleaned the plate.
Leavings now no pleasures gift
to share what self-control delayed.

Her sponge absorbed all bitterness
(the vinegar of petty strife)
The wince (before the wound) perceived,
quick licked in instant empathy.

 

Milly observing
Her presence stroked all injury
of tension or a sharp remark.
Rebuke was an averted eye:
Our grief her vigil misery.

 

 

The wild is tamed by its consent
to shaman out what we forget…
They bide with us to educate
the gift of giving, in full spate.

She centred us long, yet sudden gone
The call of the wild cried, cried her home…
Three days she keened I come, I come
My heart is strong, beats on, beats on
but hear, I hear, I speak your tongue…
Just give me a span, while I prepare
my absence from this loving lair.
She returns to breathe the spreading tree
of song in wolfish symphony.

That crouching streak…whose mother’s sheep
on Brecon’s rounded shoulders, bleak…Milly grave
lies curled in clay…
The sycamore its leaves release
to trickle on a grave fresh filled
against the wall of guarded ground.

 

 

High Five! (Narrative Top Picks for the Year)

Blerrie Fockin Beautiful takes the Platteland ( circa 1950) into every Inbox that asks.

In Good Company. Maybe Prosecco?
In Good Company. Maybe Prosecco?

 

 

 

 

 

An Audio Reading by the Author will be on the site soon but for the moment you can read it here. Good friends advised me to diversify, so I did, in Stories and Reviews.

The original title was ‘Royce Rolls’ and the inversion had its reasons! Hope you will enjoy . Cheers, Prost; Salud, Skal, Gesondheid Jambo,

A Poetic Definition of Love?

An unexpected visitor to my ‘other blog’ pulled out this post I had forgotten. Like visiting the drawer I had not opened for a year or more.

It seemed worth airing again.

The Poetic Definition of Love?

I have missed Friday! Sorry. Proofing a book to a deadline somehow collapses the passing days. BUT how can anyone ignore the euphoria occasioned by this enquiry?

‘I absolutely love this sonnet. I thought it might be one of Shakespeare’s but it sounds too new. Please tell me who the author is.’

I posted it to a thread on Linked In that asked for ‘Your poetic definition of love?’

Ergo…
If you bequeath me all your dreams unspent
that had their birth beneath the sheeted sky
Once dressed in music, they went penitent
Through gold and gorse, for you walk solitary.
If I can turn a page within your past
and my slow eye peruse your slow delight…
The landscape of your heart has found a mast
to lend perspective to its breadth and height.
I mapped your longing long before you thought
to give account of thirst, or dust or wine
I laid your blooms of hope amidst the grass of doubt
I spread your pasture, I reseeded time.
What can I know but what I recognise?
You are myself and yours are my own eyes.

Photo: Imagination of an ARTIST !!!!

A Shadow in Yucatan- The Meaning (and feeling) of Birth and Loss

Today was the long planned for launch of A Shadow in Yucatan. Timed to co-ordinate with the Great Digital Book Giveaway. Instead it has been deleted from their site. Disaster for me but not for you. For it is ,however, still free (until 31st July) on Smashwords and can be downloaded here https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/454809

On all devices and in print.
On all devices and in print.

Instead of promoting I will let the reviews do that instead.

‘I was utterly awestruck by the writing skill and breadth of imaginative
evocation…..poetic, elegiac…almost unbearably intense…sensuous imagery
from both nature and modern urban living…musical, both rhythmic and
assonant…sustained dramatic tension within a simple everyday story….the
superficiality of the beauty salon is a very potent metaphor….’
Alison Jakes (Poetry Circle)

As with a highly literary novel, this ambitious story makes demands
upon its readers. As with most modern poetry it deserves to be read and
re-read…..
The story is a vehicle for some impressive poetry. It is highly emotional
and transforms the ordinary protagonist into an archetypal figure of
suffering motherhood.
‘Speech must now grow from silence and the stones that cockle the
black backs
Of women in pre-history, left alone with the consequence of men’
There is religious dimension too. Throughout there are subtle references
to the Christian Nativity, and on another level it tells of Christ’s birth
and Mary’s suffering in modern terms. It contrasts the cruelty of the
girl’s Catholic mother, with the compassion of her Jewish landlady.
There is implicit criticism of the hypocrisy of society as a whole….The
poem has a social purpose.
Katherine Knight (Real Writers)

Philippa Rees is as an immediately distinctive and striking poet
who writes with unfashionably – often brilliant – painterly verbal
play and colour, oozing with a sensuous love of language. Rees’s
almost tangible style dazzles with imagistic chiaroscuro; stark
contrasts of light and shade, subtext and texture:
This ripeness of verbiage and intrinsic musicality inevitably
bring comparisons with Dylan Thomas (particularly the densely
descriptive, rumble-tumble list- passages of Under Milk Wood): But this is not to detract from Rees’s individuality which throughout this book of poetic narrative interspersed with colourful dialogue is palpable and often beguiling…
…..A Shadow in Yucatán is disarmingly beautiful
(Alan Morrison, Editor The Recusant)

The back blurb calls ‘A Shadow in Yucatán’ a ‘distilled novel’ and it
is –a home brew, raw and omnipotent! Rees makes extraordinary the
sorrowful ordinary of an unwanted pregnancy and the resulting difficult
decisions. She celebrates the sense of community, despairs of family
and counts on the generosity of strangers. She explores problems and
finds solutions – hard through they are to take – in unexpected places
Through it we enter a world as real as we are, but as foreign to us as a
bad dream. This book is a must for any intelligent reader!
(Independent Reviews: SP Magazine)