Stormy Weather

[Serial_Apologist]

Apple, pineapple, guava????....Mango!!

Mangle???

[amateur51]

Apple, pineapple, guava????....Mango!!

Kumquats!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RNZ-AWLyDoA

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

Kumquats!!

A Kumquat for amateur51
by Tony Harrison

Today I found the right fruit for my prime,
not orange, not tangelo, and not lime,
nor moon-like globes of grapefruit that now hang
outside our bedroom, nor tart lemon's tang
(though last year full of bile and self-defeat
I wanted to believe no life was sweet)
nor the tangible sunshine of the tangerine,
and no incongruous citrus ever seen
at greengrocers' in Newcastle or Leeds
mis-spelt by the spuds and mud-caked swedes,
a fruit an older poet might substitute
for the grape John Keats thought fit to be Joy's fruit,
when, two years before he died, he tried to write
how Melancholy dwelled inside Delight,
and if he'd known the citrus that I mean
that's not orange, lemon, lime, or tangerine,
I'm pretty sure that Keats, though he had heard
'of candied apple, quince and plum and gourd'
instead of 'grape against the palate fine'
would have, if he'd known it, plumped for mine,
this Eastern citrus scarcely cherry size
he'd bite just once and then apostrophize
and pen one stanza how the fruit had all
the qualities of fruit before the Fall,
but in the next few lines be forced to write
how Eve's apple tasted at the second bite,
and if John Keats had only lived to be,
because of extra years, in need like me,
at 42 he'd help me celebrate
that Micanopy kumquat that I ate
whole, straight off the tree, sweet pulp and sour skin-
or was it sweet outside, and sour within?
For however many kumquats that I eat
I'm not sure if it's flesh or rind that's sweet,
and being a man of doubt at life's mid-way
I'd offer Keats some kumquats and I'd say:

You'll find that one part's sweet and one part's tart:
say where the sweetness or the sourness start.

I find I can't, as if one couldn't say
exactly where the night became the day,
which makes for me the kumquat taken whole
best fruit, and metaphor, to fit the soul
of one in Florida at 42 with Keats
crunching kumquats, thinking, as he eats
the flesh, the juice, the pith, the pips, the peel,
that this is how a full life ought to feel,
its perishable relish prick the tongue,
when the man who savours life 's no longer young,
the fruits that were his futures far behind.
Then it's the kumquat fruit expresses best
how days have darkness round them like a rind,
life has a skin of death that keeps its zest.

History, a life, the heart, the brain
flow to the taste buds and flow back again.
That decade or more past Keats's span
makes me an older not a wiser man,
who knows that it's too late for dying young,
but since youth leaves some sweetnesses unsung,
he's granted days and kumquats to express
Man's Being ripened by his Nothingness.
And it isn't just the gap of sixteen years,
a bigger crop of terrors, hopes and fears,
but a century of history on this earth
between John Keats's death and my own birth-
years like an open crater, gory, grim,
with bloody bubbles leering at the rim;
a thing no bigger than an urn explodes
and ravishes all silence, and all odes,
Flora asphyxiated by foul air
unknown to either Keats or Lemprière,
dehydrated Naiads, Dryad amputees
dragging themselves through slagscapes with no trees,
a shirt of Nessus fire that gnaws and eats
children half the age of dying Keats . . .

Now were you twenty five or six years old
when that fevered brow at last grew cold?
I've got no books to hand to check the dates.
My grudging but glad spirit celebrates
that all I've got to hand 's the kumquats, John,
the fruit I'd love to have your verdict on,
but dead men don't eat kumquats, or drink wine,
they shiver in the arms of Prosperine,
not warm in bed beside their Fanny Brawne,
nor watch her pick ripe grapefruit in the dawn
as I did, waking, when I saw her twist,
with one deft movement of a sunburnt wrist,
the moon, that feebly lit our last night's walk
past alligator swampland, off its stalk.
I thought of moon-juice juleps when I saw,
as if I'd never seen the moon before,
the planet glow among the fruit, and its pale light
make each citrus on the tree its satellite.

Each evening when I reach to draw the blind
stars seem the light zest squeezed through night's black rind;
the night's peeled fruit the sun, juiced of its rays,
first stains, then streaks, then floods the world with days,
days, when the very sunlight made me weep,
days, spent like the nights in deep, drugged sleep,
days in Newcastle by my daughter's bed,
wondering if she, or I, weren't better dead,
days in Leeds, grey days, my first dark suit,
my mother's wreaths stacked next to Christmas fruit,
and days, like this in Micanopy. Days!

As strong sun burns away the dawn's grey haze
I pick a kumquat and the branches spray
cold dew in my face to start the day.
The dawn's molasses make the citrus gleam
still in the orchards of the groves of dream.

The limes, like Galway after weeks of rain,
glow with a greenness that is close to pain,
the dew-cooled surfaces of fruit that spent
all last night flaming in the firmament.
The new day dawns. O days! My spirit greets
the kumquat with the spirit of John Keats.
O kumquat, comfort for not dying young,
both sweet and bitter, bless the poet's tongue!
I burst the whole fruit chilled by morning dew
against my palate. Fine, for 42*!

I search for buzzards as the air grows clear
and see them ride fresh thermals overhead.
Their bleak cries were the first sound I could hear
when I stepped at the start of sunrise out of doors,
and a noise like last night's bedsprings on our bed
from Mr Fowler sharpening farmers' saws.

(* = and 51!)

[amateur51]

A Kumquat for amateur51
by Tony Harrison

Today I found the right fruit for my prime,
not orange, not tangelo, and not lime,
nor moon-like globes of grapefruit that now hang
outside our bedroom, nor tart lemon's tang
(though last year full of bile and self-defeat
I wanted to believe no life was sweet)
nor the tangible sunshine of the tangerine,
and no incongruous citrus ever seen
at greengrocers' in Newcastle or Leeds
mis-spelt by the spuds and mud-caked swedes,
a fruit an older poet might substitute
for the grape John Keats thought fit to be Joy's fruit,
when, two years before he died, he tried to write
how Melancholy dwelled inside Delight,
and if he'd known the citrus that I mean
that's not orange, lemon, lime, or tangerine,
I'm pretty sure that Keats, though he had heard
'of candied apple, quince and plum and gourd'
instead of 'grape against the palate fine'
would have, if he'd known it, plumped for mine,
this Eastern citrus scarcely cherry size
he'd bite just once and then apostrophize
and pen one stanza how the fruit had all
the qualities of fruit before the Fall,
but in the next few lines be forced to write
how Eve's apple tasted at the second bite,
and if John Keats had only lived to be,
because of extra years, in need like me,
at 42 he'd help me celebrate
that Micanopy kumquat that I ate
whole, straight off the tree, sweet pulp and sour skin-
or was it sweet outside, and sour within?
For however many kumquats that I eat
I'm not sure if it's flesh or rind that's sweet,
and being a man of doubt at life's mid-way
I'd offer Keats some kumquats and I'd say:

You'll find that one part's sweet and one part's tart:
say where the sweetness or the sourness start.

I find I can't, as if one couldn't say
exactly where the night became the day,
which makes for me the kumquat taken whole
best fruit, and metaphor, to fit the soul
of one in Florida at 42 with Keats
crunching kumquats, thinking, as he eats
the flesh, the juice, the pith, the pips, the peel,
that this is how a full life ought to feel,
its perishable relish prick the tongue,
when the man who savours life 's no longer young,
the fruits that were his futures far behind.
Then it's the kumquat fruit expresses best
how days have darkness round them like a rind,
life has a skin of death that keeps its zest.

History, a life, the heart, the brain
flow to the taste buds and flow back again.
That decade or more past Keats's span
makes me an older not a wiser man,
who knows that it's too late for dying young,
but since youth leaves some sweetnesses unsung,
he's granted days and kumquats to express
Man's Being ripened by his Nothingness.
And it isn't just the gap of sixteen years,
a bigger crop of terrors, hopes and fears,
but a century of history on this earth
between John Keats's death and my own birth-
years like an open crater, gory, grim,
with bloody bubbles leering at the rim;
a thing no bigger than an urn explodes
and ravishes all silence, and all odes,
Flora asphyxiated by foul air
unknown to either Keats or Lemprière,
dehydrated Naiads, Dryad amputees
dragging themselves through slagscapes with no trees,
a shirt of Nessus fire that gnaws and eats
children half the age of dying Keats . . .

Now were you twenty five or six years old
when that fevered brow at last grew cold?
I've got no books to hand to check the dates.
My grudging but glad spirit celebrates
that all I've got to hand 's the kumquats, John,
the fruit I'd love to have your verdict on,
but dead men don't eat kumquats, or drink wine,
they shiver in the arms of Prosperine,
not warm in bed beside their Fanny Brawne,
nor watch her pick ripe grapefruit in the dawn
as I did, waking, when I saw her twist,
with one deft movement of a sunburnt wrist,
the moon, that feebly lit our last night's walk
past alligator swampland, off its stalk.
I thought of moon-juice juleps when I saw,
as if I'd never seen the moon before,
the planet glow among the fruit, and its pale light
make each citrus on the tree its satellite.

Each evening when I reach to draw the blind
stars seem the light zest squeezed through night's black rind;
the night's peeled fruit the sun, juiced of its rays,
first stains, then streaks, then floods the world with days,
days, when the very sunlight made me weep,
days, spent like the nights in deep, drugged sleep,
days in Newcastle by my daughter's bed,
wondering if she, or I, weren't better dead,
days in Leeds, grey days, my first dark suit,
my mother's wreaths stacked next to Christmas fruit,
and days, like this in Micanopy. Days!

As strong sun burns away the dawn's grey haze
I pick a kumquat and the branches spray
cold dew in my face to start the day.
The dawn's molasses make the citrus gleam
still in the orchards of the groves of dream.

The limes, like Galway after weeks of rain,
glow with a greenness that is close to pain,
the dew-cooled surfaces of fruit that spent
all last night flaming in the firmament.
The new day dawns. O days! My spirit greets
the kumquat with the spirit of John Keats.
O kumquat, comfort for not dying young,
both sweet and bitter, bless the poet's tongue!
I burst the whole fruit chilled by morning dew
against my palate. Fine, for 42*!

I search for buzzards as the air grows clear
and see them ride fresh thermals overhead.
Their bleak cries were the first sound I could hear
when I stepped at the start of sunrise out of doors,
and a noise like last night's bedsprings on our bed
from Mr Fowler sharpening farmers' saws.

(* = and 51!)

'moon-juice juleps' Quite brilliant - many thanks, ferney

[mangerton]

Ne'er cast a clout till May be out! I'm not putting mine away yet. It's 16° here, zero wind, and the BBC forecast promises more of the same for the rest of the week. However, I see the Met Office have just issued a yellow warning for Scotland: A rather warm, moist airmass derived from Scandinavia will be drawn west and south across Scotland during Monday, and into parts of northern England later in the day. All the ingredients are there for some energetic storms to form by the afternoon in eastern Scotland, transferring across parts of the central lowlands and southern Scotland by evening, as well as parts of northern England. although that doesn't seem to appear on the BBC weather page yet.
I seem to have frittered away most of the morning so will resume garden duties this afternoon.

What meaning of "May" are you using?

Thanks for the yellow warning. No sign of the storms yet. This morning it was still, there was drizzle, and a very thick mist. The mist has now cleared, it feels a bit drier, but the temp is a low 11°C.

[Anna]

What meaning of "May" are you using?

Thanks for the yellow warning. No sign of the storms yet. This morning it was still, there was drizzle, and a very thick mist. The mist has now cleared, it feels a bit drier, but the temp is a low 11°C.

I've always believed it to be the month of May as the trees can flower at the end of April. There are two May trees round the corner which are the most spectacular deep red, they almost seem to glow. We reached 18°, but it's dropping back now. My non-stop gardening fell by the wayside as I was seduced by the Test Cricket on BBC LW However, I gave the ivy a stern talking to! (I have in fact produced a large sack full for collection on Tuesday) At least with the long light evenings it's possible to work quite late and feel virtuous in not succumbing to feet up and the lure of the television! I've never had a kumquat

[amateur51]

I've never had a kumquat

sliced thinly and microwaved in a little orange juice, they make a delicious alternative to orange sauce with duck, Anna

Alternatively ...

http://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/kumquats-spiced-syrup-with-cloves-cinnamon-star-anise-10000000833347/

[BBMmk2]

All this exotica! has summer come?

[salymap]

All this exotica! has summer come?

Here, summer, thought it was October again. Computer trouble too.

[Serial_Apologist]

Here, summer, thought it was October again. Computer trouble too.

Having just faced a stiff northerly wind, checked and noted the temperature at 14 C, and now finding myself staring out at a uniformily grey sky of stratus, I'm wondering if the Met office and I are inhabiting different worlds.

[aka Calum Da Jazbo]

Having just faced a stiff northerly wind, checked and noted the temperature at 14 C, and now finding myself staring out at a uniformily grey sky of stratus, I'm wondering if the Met office and I are inhabiting different worlds.

... undoubtedly

[Anna]

... undoubtedly

Or perhaps a parallel universe? But that wouldn't surprise me in Dulwich ......
Very disappointing day here, early morning dark grey and dull necessitating ritual donning of the Berghaus, we were promised sunny intervals (haven't had even one of those) and 19° (ha!ha!) and there is a nasty cold North wind, it seems the rest of the week will steadily get cooler. Will we have a sunny bank holiday?

[mangerton]

I went out at 2.30 this afternoon, sun splitting the pavement, and very warm. Left t. Berghaus at home.

I returned an hour later, to torrential rain, thunder and lightning. I had to sit in the car for ten minutes to let it stop.

There are two morals here.

1. The old adage about clouts and may/May being out is well worth heeding.
2. Don't take leave on a Monday.

[salymap]

I went out at 2.30 this afternoon, sun splitting the pavement, and very warm. Left t. Berghaus at home.

I returned an hour later, to torrential rain, thunder and lightning. I had to sit in the car for ten minutes to let it stop.

There are two morals here.

1. The old adage about clouts and may/May being out is well worth heeding.
2. Don't take leave on a Monday.

Oh sorry for that. Confusing for children and foreigners. As a small child I thought cast a clout meant hitting someone, hearing a woman in a shop threaten to 'clout' her little boy.

[BBMmk2]

Spring, summer. autumn or winter