The Grand Budapest Hotel: a terrific confection

It's set in Eastern Europe before the wars, it's beautiful to look at and it becomes very funny. It made me long to go to E. Europe again, even though it isn't really in an E. European country; it's a kind of fictional composite. Here is nostalgia within nostalgia: nostalgia for Communist bloc tacky, with its own streaks of integrity - maybe artistic integrity in the face of state oppression - and nostalgia for Imperial grandeur and the old nobility with its unapologetically eccentric characters. Also nostalgia for a filmstyle we have lost and the 1930's wacky comedies - I kept thinking of Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin but this is just because my knowledge of films of this period is very slight. I liked the Jeff Goldblum character, who ran away from danger to a Kunstmuseum, but was followed by Willem Dafoe's ghastly ruthless assassin with his trousers at half mast.   You don't need it to be deep. It's just fun and lovely and beautifully made - like a cake from Mendl's.

The life scientific: Mark Miodownik

This is a very interesting person. He thinks we should have making libraries instead of libraries of books. I find myself seeing the point entirely. Most humans really do need to make things. this programme is available for a year.

Mark Miodownik's chronic interest in materials began in rather unhappy circumstances. He was stabbed in the back, with a razor, on his way to school. When he saw the tiny piece of steel that had caused him so much harm, he became obsessed with how it could it be so sharp and so strong. And he's been materials-mad ever since.

Working at a nuclear weapons laboratory in the US, he enjoyed huge budgets and the freedom to make the most amazing materials. But he gave that up to work with artists and designers because he believes that if you ignore the sensual aspects of materials, you end up with materials that people don't want.

For Mark, making is as important as reading and writing. It's an expression of who we are, like music or literature, and 'everyone should be doing it'. To this end, he wants our public libraries to be converted into public workshops, with laser cutters and 3 D printers in place of books

this is the link

The influence of Daniel Kahneman

This was in the Observer last month so I thought I would write a quick precis:

Daniel Kahneman

Steven Pinker:

 DK's central message could not be more important, namely, that human reason left to its own devices, is apt to engage in a number of fallacies and systematic errors, so if we want to make better decisions in our personal lives and as a society, we ought to be aware of these biases and seek workarounds. That's a powerful and important discovery.

My most recent book, The Better Angels of our Nature, is about the historic decline of violence, a fact that I argue is under-appreciated precisely because the human mind words the way Kahneman says it words, namely, that our sense of risk and danger is influenced by salient events that are available from memory. Our minds do not naturally process statistics on incidents of violence, and so Kahneman helps explain why my claim is news or why it's hard for people to believe. ....

We have our differences. I think he is a pessimist, whereas I am an optimist. I do think he's right that human nature saddles us with some unfortunate limitations, but I also think - and  - actually he himself shows in the "slow thinking" part of his book - that we have the means to overcome some of our limitations, through education, through institutions, through enlightenment. It will always be a flaw, human nature will always push back, but gradually, bit by bit, with two steps forward one step back, I think that our better angels can push back against our limitations and flaws. 

Thinking, Fast and Slow us an interesting capstone to his career, but his accomplishments were solidified well in advance of writing it and they'd have been just as significant without the book. His work really is monumental in the history of thought.

Richard Thaler

Richard Thaler is a behavioural economist and co-author of the bestseller Nudge, which explores how individuals and governments can influence people to make choices.

Danny is warm and moderate but also, inside himself, highly volatile,. He quit writing this book at least a dozen times. And I had to convince him not to quit, n+1 times. He genuinely didn't think anybody would buy it. It was a biased forecast - he prides himself of being a pessimist. He was shocked that it did so well and he's still in shock. He didn't think it would sell more than a million copies worldwide.

Certainly his work has to be viewed as one of the most important accomplishments of 20th century science. it's hard to think of any psychologist whose work has influenced so many different fields.

Nassim Nicholas Taleb

Risk engineering professor and author of he bestselling book The Black Swan, about the problems created by rare events.

The first idea Danny gave me in Rome is that people do not perceive stand-alone objects, rather differences away from an anchor point. He said that it was not cultural: even the vision of babies was based on identifying variations. It was simply more economical for the brain to do so. Investors are more effected by changes in wealth than by wealth itself and they are very sensitive to the way information is presented to them; ... They just take a benchmark and react to variations from it. So one could make them react more rationally by modifying the anchor.

Salley Vickers

Former psychotherapist and novelist.

Daniel Kahneman's lucid and witty accounts (backed by thorough research)  of our apparently innate tendency to risk-aversion reveals the crucial link between economics and psychology.

it also underlines our problem with rationality. We are no less keen, it seems, on abandoning hopeless endeavours than we are at taking risks. [She means we are reluctant to do both, because we think of the time/money invested in our hopeless endeavour and cannot bring ourselves to write it off.] Ultimately, Kahneman demonstrates, we are not rational creatures but instinctive ones and any attempt to make us act rationally must take that inbuilt bias into account or fail. 

...his insight that financial success has more to do with random chance than planning. The rise and fall of businesses has little to do with who runs them and much to do with a natural statistic - failure of any kind is usually, that is to say statistically, followed by success. ...his dismissal of financial advisers and insurance policies, confirming my ignorant but it turns out accurate prejudice, made me rejoice that I never buy into these. 

Thinking Fast and Slow - Daniel Kahneman again

I was reading the end of Thinking Fast and Slow see previous page and I'd got to the part where Prof K is considering an experiment which involves a questionnaire asking people to rate their happiness. I was rather disappointed that he had resorted to questionnaires as I don't think the results are reliable, and then he, quite brilliantly, analysed why questionnaires don't give the true picture. Because nothing matters all the time as much as it does when you are thinking about it. So if a questionnaire asks you how much happiness you get from your car, for example, it suddenly becomes an important issue, whilst most of the time it doesn't matter so much, or even, not at all.

Then I was pleased with him again and he popped up on Start the Week, which is well worth listening to as the topic was Making Decisions.

making decisions, radio prog available 1 year

Went skiffing - first time for 6 months

It was a lovely day - it was very like this, but more Springlike

We were able to see the damage done by the floods to the other bank. One landing stage was a ruin as the footings had been washed away. But there were euphorbia and alyssum in the gardens, and the weeping willows  were very bright. I felt much better after coming quite quickly downstream. aha, coming downstream was easy!

Home is the river, first, where one is not
anyone in particular, but part of the
whole picture, the nature of things. I am like
a duck, doing my thing, as they do theirs.
I’m at home in a boat, with a pair of oars, rhythmically
chonking my blades in the water, effortfully
pulling through and stretching forward, carefully
taking the catch and thinking about the skill;
pulling through evenly, using the feet to press
harder again through the stroke. Suddenly goes
the green flash of a parakeet, or the grey
angled outline of a heron, then I fail to think.
When the light falls on the water in the spring,
I hear my boatman voice, and the song that I can sing.

what makes my job hard

What makes my job hard is that I plan and teach 2 lessons on Monday which are both for mixed level groups, so I plan 2 lessons for each lesson. The first group is one with almost illiterate Bangladeshi ladies together with Upper Intermediates who want to take exams at Levels 1 and 2. So there is a lot of work in teaching them. I drive for 25 minutes breaking the speed limit in order to get to the next venue. The second group is the mums who come for the creche, and get a free 2 hour lesson once a week. They absolutely love it and are great students, but they are a large class and mixed levels (14 students between Pre-intermediate and Upper intermediate/Advanced); they take a lot of organising and the paperwork for them is absolutely irrelevant but has to be done in case we are inspected. And it is all worthwhile because I particularly enjoy that class, especially when even the shy ones open up and talk all about their experiences of childbirth (I have one man too, who takes his day off on Monday especially to come to the class, and he has to hear all about that and in return tells us about horrific accidents at work.) They all want grammar and vocabulary and are particularly keen on homework.

I sometimes feel rather happy after this has gone well, and go to work at college to do the registers, answer emails and think about lessons further on in the week. In the evening I do yoga. On Tuesday I have to be early at the college to get a parking space and I teach in the morning and in the afternoon. My class is made up of unemployed people, who are sent by the Jobcentre, but in spite of this they are usually co-operative students. There is only one who really seems to be wasting our time deliberately, but one is wasting our time accidentally, one has an addiction problem and is unreliable, one has a youth-related problem and seldom attends, and one is a full-time carer with children who is often called away. So they do have all kinds of problems but I teach them as well as I can and try to get some rigour into them. But I have them for 4 hours (used to be 5 hours twice a week) and I make it as interesting as I can. they also need some employability taught every week, which falls to me, and some of them are taking exams, and that's difficult to organise. Also new ones arrive all the time. We had 6 more in the last 2 weeks. But when it all goes well it does give me such a high! The unfortunate thing is that the teaching takes a lot of adrenaline and afterwards I am very tired. After 2 days of adrenaline my eyes are smarting and I am soooo tired, but I also teach from 9 am until 9 pm on Weds. Then I have a day off and then I teach on Friday a.m. - a different place. Then I have to start planning for the next Monday and Tuesday. The planning takes a long time usually because of the mixed levels.

 The unfortunate thing is that when I am observed the assessor always comes to the evening class, which is maddening, I am too tired for it really, but I have got something quite good planned for my next observation. Which was meant to be taking place tomorrow and now it isn't, so I have to plan something else, but I am frankly toooooo tiiiiiiired. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Indian Windows scam

Recently I have received three calls  from Indian gentlemen who tell me they work for Windows (not Microsoft, Windows) and they have found something wrong with my computer which they can fix, but they want me to co-operate by giving them my IP address, I suppose so they can go poking about in my laptop for all my details. I am not such an idiot as to co-operate. I am sorry for the elderly people who aren't so savvy and do get caught this way. I have found the quickest response is to say, "I have an Apple Mac". "Goodbye Mam" they say, sounding very tired, and then I feel sorry for the Indians who do this job and sound so defeated and are, I suppose, demoralised.

the archaeology of the Walton reach of the Thames

My niece the archaeologist gave a talk on this last night: another winter entertainment at the Valley. She is employed by Surrey CC to map the archaeological sites in the county.

1. the river used to be all over the place and did not stay snugly in its bed: the river to start with was more of a wide wet patch with islands and mudbanks in. The earliest finds in the area are, of course, flints, some of them smooth and polished.

2. During the Bronze Age, when the climate was so nice, people made fine bronze tools and axes and threw them in the river. A number of these have been found. Alex can't understand this - it has been explained as a ritual but she is not convinced-

Bronze age tools

Super weather these days.

3. During the Iron Age there was a hill fort on the next upstream reach (St Anne's Hill) and one on St George's Hill, where some iron age pottery was found. It was believed that Caesar camped there on his invasion into England. This is announced proudly on a Victorian map - Caesar's Camp - but there is no evidence for this and he is more likely to have crossed the river at Staines than at Walton.

From the St' George's Hill Residents' association website:

Much has been written about security on the estate. It was the need for security that has left evidence of some of the earliest known residents on what is now St George’s Hill.

In the area comprising parts of Camp End Road, Horseshoe Ridge and Tor Lane there are the remains of an iron age hill fort covering some 13 ½ acres (5.5 hectares). This is evidenced by the remains of a ditch and ramparts which at one time would have been some 23ft (7m) high. The reason for the defences was the need for protection against emerging elite who were wishing to establish their own territories and to create early kingdoms. It appears to have been quite an advanced community, with evidence of iron smelting found.

Today the site is designated an ancient monument by English Heritage and is protected by law. The protection covers the entire site including the ground under the existing houses. There are severe penalties for anyone causing damage to the site. English Heritage has contacted this Association expressing concern over the increased rate at which damage and erosion is affecting the site.

The Association is proud of this site and we would ask everyone whose house stands within the site to liaise with English Heritage before any works are carried out that would potentially damage the archaeology.

Part of the earthworks can easily be seen from Camp End Road between Caesars Cottage and Hevesta on the west side of the road. These are the remains of part of the ditch. If you would like to find out more you should visit Elmbridge Museum, which is above the library in Weybridge.

4. Cowey Sale, a meadow by the river, was once called Cowey Stakes, and there was an avenue of very large (over 6 ft tall) stakes in the river there - dating from ? and Alex believes they were some kind of fish trap! It was a very major fish trap.

The Anglo-Saxon historian Bede asserts remains of stakes were seen in his day, each as large as a man's thigh and covered with lead. Formed of the entire bodies of young oak trees. Wood so hardened as to resemble ebony could be polished. Each about 6 foot long. Stood in 2 rows as if going across river. 9ft apart as water runs, 4 ft apart crossing the river. The Ford crosses the stream in a circuitous direction so the stakes cross it twice.
(From the Elmbridge Museum website, which is very badly written, by a stranger to grammatical fundamentals.)

 The stakes were taken away to be analysed and put in museums.  Read here:  an old book tells the local belief that these were the remains of Caesar's bridge.

5. The most consistent settlement in the area seems to have been at Staines Road farm, Shepperton, where finds have dated from a long period of time, and include an iron age burial of a 40 + woman, complete.

the Story of the Amulet by Edith Nesbit

I love the Nesbits, and this one is my favourite.

In the Story of the Amulet, the children who found the psammead (sammy-ad) that could grant them wishes find an amulet in a London junk shop, that can take them anywhere in the past to look for the other half of itself. They have to hold up the amulet and say the sacred name (which is read to them by the learned gentleman in the flat upstairs) and the amulet grows into a doorway, and they walk through it to wherever in time they want to go. The stories are very exciting - for example, the time they are imprisoned in ancient Babylon, they want to escape but then they remember that Jane has the amulet and Jane is missing! Jane, who is the indiscreet youngest, is telling the Babylonian queen all sorts of fascinating facts about Edwardian London with the result that the queen says "I wish I could see your country some day." and the psammead has to grant her wish.

So some weeks later the ancient Babylonian queen visits the children in London. She is very tyrannical, unsuitably dressed and wants all kinds of things. She is not happy with London. Someone has the bright idea of taking her to the British Museum and she is very angry that so many of her precious possessions are in there. She starts to break the glass cases and take her things back and the guards throw her out, believing she should be locked up in an asylum.

Anthea took the Queen’s hand and gently pulled her away. The other children followed, and the black crowd of angry gentlemen stood on the steps watching them. It was when the little party of disgraced children, with the Queen who had disgraced them, had reached the middle of the courtyard that her eyes fell on the bag where the Psammead was. She stopped short.
“I wish,” she said, very loud and clear, “that all those Babylonian things would come out to me here—slowly, so that those dogs and slaves can see the working of the great Queen’s magic.”
“Oh, you are a tiresome woman,” said the Psammead in its bag, but it puffed itself out.
Next moment there was a crash. The glass swing doors and all their framework were smashed suddenly and completely. The crowd of angry gentlemen sprang aside when they saw what had done this. But the nastiest of them was not quick enough, and he was roughly pushed out of the way by an enormous stone bull that was floating steadily through the door. It came and stood beside the Queen in the middle of the courtyard.
It was followed by more stone images, by great slabs of carved stone, bricks, helmets, tools, weapons, fetters, wine‐jars, bowls, bottles, vases, jugs, saucers, seals, and the round long things, something like rolling pins with marks on them like the print of little bird‐feet, necklaces, collars, rings, armlets, earrings—heaps and heaps and heaps of things, far more than anyone had time to count, or even to see distinctly.
All the angry gentlemen had abruptly sat down on the Museum steps except the nice one. He stood with his hands in his pockets just as though he was quite used to seeing great stone bulls and all sorts of small Babylonish objects float out into the Museum yard. But he sent a man to close the big iron gates.

You can read this book free of charge! Here

That's my favourite chapter and it's very funny. when E. Nesbit was researching her stories she simply went to the B.M. and knocked on the door marked Curator. She made a friend of the learned gentleman who worked behind the door and then they became more than friendly, probably on a glass case. She dedicated the book to him, Dr Wallis Budge.

Because her husband was an appalling philanderer, and she didn't see why she should not, E Nesbit had a number of lovers, many of them younger than herself, and stayed friends with them even after they had married other women. I think her stories were always written with her mind on the amusement of her peer group - H.G. Wells, for example, loved them, probably Shaw too.

Gilgamesh : Stephen Mitchell's version

The Epic of Gilgamesh is, perhaps, the oldest written story on Earth. It comes to us from Ancient Sumeria, and was originally written on 12 clay tablets in cuneiform script. It is about the adventures of the historical King of Uruk (somewhere between 2750 and 2500 BCE).

This poem is described as an epic but in fact it isn't very long, and in this version it is fast-moving and easy to read, as well as being in good metre. The author has skipped some tiresome repetitions whilst keeping enough of them to give you the general idea. I read the poem first, then the interesting introduction by Stephen Mitchell, and then the notes, which last were quite boring but one feels one should. I really recommend it not as an antiquity but as a work of art that one enters into. Here are some extracts from the poem to give a flavour of it. 

Story of the civilizing of Enkidu and how Enkidu and Gilgamesh became friends (chap. 1)

"Enkidu sat down at Shamhat's feet.
He looked at her, and he understood
all the words she was speaking to him.
"Now, Enkidu, you know what it is
to be with a woman, to unite with her.
You are beautiful, you are like a god.
why should you roam the wilderness
and live like an animal? Let me take you
to great-walled Uruk, to the temple of Ishtar,
to the palace of Gilgamesh the mighty king,
who in his arrogance oppresses the people,
trampling upon them like a wild bull."
She finished, and Enkidu nodded his head.
Deep in his heart he felt something stir,
a longing he had never known before,
the longing for a true friend. Enkidu said,
"I will go, Shamhat. Take me with you
to great-walled Uruk, to the temple of Ishtar,
to the palace of Gilgamesh the mighty king.
I will challenge him. I will shout to his face:
"I am the mightiest! I am the man
who can make the world tremble! I am supreme!"

Story of the journey to the forest and the killing of Humbaba (chap. 2)

They had reached the edge of the Cedar Forest 

They could hear Humbaba's terrifying roar

 Gilgamesh stopped. He was trembling.

 Tears flowed down his cheeks. "Oh Shamash," he cried

 "protect me on this dangerous journey 

Remember me, help me, hear my prayer".

 They stood and listened. A moment passed. 

 Then, from heaven, the voice of the god

 called to Gilgamesh: "Hurry, attack,

 attack Humbaba while the time is right, 

before he enters the depths of the forest, 

before he can hide there and wrap himself 

in his seven auras with their paralysing glare. 

He is wearing just one now. Attack him! Now!"

They stood at the edge of the Cedar Forest, 

gazing, silent. There was nothing to say.

*****
Knowing he was doomed, Humbaba cried out, 

"I curse you both. Because you have done this, 

may Enkidu die, may he die in great pain, 

may Gilgamesh be inconsolable, 

may his merciless heart be crushed with grief."

Story of Ishtar and Gilgamesh, and the Bull of Heaven (chap. 3)

When he returned to great-walled Uruk, 

Gilgamesh bathed, he washed his matted

hair and shook it over his back, 

he took off his filthy, blood-spattered clothes,
put on a tunic of finest wool,
wrapped himself in a glorious gold-trimmed
purple robe and fastened it with
a wide fringed belt, then put on his crown.
The goddess Ishtar caught sight of him,
she saw how splendid a man he was,
her heart was smitten, her loins caught fire.
"Come here, Gilgamesh," Ishtar said,
"marry me, give me your luscious fruits,
be my husband, be my sweet man.

Story of the death of Enkidu (chap. 3)

Then Enkidu said to Gilgamesh, 

"You who have walked beside me, steadfast 

through so many dangers, remember me, 

never forget what I have endured."
the day that Enkidu had his dreams,
his strength began failing. For twelve long days
he was deathly sick, he lay in his bed
in agony, unable to rest,
and every day he grew worse. At last
he sat up and called out to Gilgamesh:
"Have you abandoned me now, dear friend?
You told me that you would come and help me
when I was afraid. But I cannot see you,
you have not come to fight off this danger.
Yet weren't we to remain forever
 inseparable, you and I?"

*****
When he heard the death rattle, Gilgamesh moaned
like a dove. His face grew dark. "Beloved,
wait, don't leave me. Dearest of men,
don't die, don't let them take you from me."

Story of Gilgamesh's journey to Utnapishtim (chaps. 4-6)

My friend, my brother, whom I loved so dearly, 

who accompanied me through every danger - 

the fate of mankind has overwhelmed him. 

For six days I would not let him be buried, 

thinking, "If my grief is violent enough, 

perhaps he will come back to life again. 

"For six days and seven nights I mourned him, 

until a maggot fell out of his nose. 

Then I was frightened, I was terrified by death, 

and I set out to roam the wilderness. 

I cannot bear what happened to my friend - 

I cannot bear what happened to Enkidu -  

******

and won't I too lie down in the dirt 

like him, and never arise again? 

That is why I must find Utnapishtim, 

whom men call "The Distant One". I must ask him 

how he managed to overcome death.

Story of the flood (chap. 5)

Gilgamesh said to Urshanabi,
"Come here, look at this marvellous plant,
the antidote to the fear of death.
With it we return to the youth we once had
I will take it to Uruk, I will test its power
by seeing what happens when an old man eats it.
If that succeeds, I will eat some myself
and become a carefree young man again."

But I would not spoil the story by telling you the next bit. 

The oldest surviving texts of this story are in Sumerian and date from about 2100 BC. Sumerian was the learned language of ancient Mesopotamia. A later version was written on clay tablets, of which 11 have been found. This is called the Old Babylonian version, and was written in Akkadian and dates from about 1700 BC. few fragments have been found. Five hundred years after the Old Babylonian version was written, a scholar-priest called Sin-leqi-unninni revised it. This is called the standard version. Stephen Mitchell seems to be able to refer to all of these to help him with his version.

He writes a good introduction too: 

The archetypal hero's journey proceeds in stages: being called to action, meeting a wise man or guide, crossing the threshold into the numinous world of the adventure, passing various tests, attaining the goal, defeating the forces of evil and going back home. It leads to a spiritual transformation at the end, a sense of gratitude, humility and deepened trust in the intelligence of the universe. After he finds the treasure or slays the dragon or wins the princess or joins with the mind of the sage, the hero can return to ordinary life in a state of grace, as a blessing to himself and to his whole community. He has suffered, he has triumphed, he is at peace.

The more we try to fit Gilgamesh into the pattern of this archetypal journey, the more bizarre, quirky and post-modern it seems.

That's perhaps why it seems so fresh, and the hero seems more like a vulnerable mortal than the stories of the Greek heroes, who were always slaying things and being very clever with string and shields. But in the end Gilgamesh did learn something through his adventures: he learned he was not nearly so clever and important as he had believed. Which I guess is the beginning of wisdom.

 In 1844 excavations began on the mounds of Mosul in Iraq which turned out to be the lost city of Ninevah, the ancient capital of Assyria. Over 25,000 of the clay tablets were shipped back to the British Museum. Oh, we were shockers in those days! We behaved as arrogantly as the oil companies do now - everything we found belonged to us.

Incredibly beautiful and sad - I am on the lion's side, and I think the artist is, too, because the men look so unfeeling.

You have got to admire whoever managed to translate this - an amazing achievement

Post script:
Note: my favourite archaeologist believes it was a good thing we got the clay tablets in safe keeping, she fears they would have otherwise been lost, destroyed or sold.

Original Poems by me

Prince

He came bounding over the threshold –

His skin was rich, plush, warm to the touch

Under the sumptuous velvet of his coat,

I closed my eyes and caught

The scent of a waterfall: rising sky,

And a cloud of oxygen filled me:

I hardly breathed

Soul-shaken: winded, bass notes blown

So softly I was not aware of music

Only the drowning depths of the sea

Resounding echoes in the vast dark.

Gently he said: “This can be trusted, but

You have only one taste.” The tang was blood salt

Vital.  It healed my tongue so

I could speak, and from my idiot throat

Came a song I had never heard

Speaking and singing I was free,

Amazed

And shaking with newfound laughing.

Of course I searched for him in vain;

After sightings in various locations:-

Brighton, Sydney, Berlin, Bangkok:

I sold my pearls for tickets and information

Tracked him to the giggling denials

Of princessy boys prancing on a Phuket beach.

In Tijuana I scented his fresh presence

In the dressing-room of that snake-hipped dancer

Who lisped his lies, laughed mockingly

While I cajoled, beseeched, despaired,

Finally shattered my glass heels

Stamping on his stupid sombrero. 

 Scarlet dancers

Scarlet dancers, imperfect in your pointed petals,

You unfurl and dangle your pollened parts

so gracefully, and your bright arms are sturdy

postured prettily to shield your skirts,

as the rain patters, and the chill wind

brings down the dull brown leaves.

You have no choice but to wait for

Some rare late bee, bumbling softly

Brushing at your delicate bunches

Your vivid little toes. But the cold

Keeps him, or he fell, lumbered

By a plenitude of days. He will not come.

So I put you in this vase, be warm.

It’s November.

The river

I come from the wide flat Thames flood plain

It’s fertile land that yearly drowned in silt

A century ago a flood was a valued gain,

But then the meads were sold and houses built.

It’s the stockbroker belt and the green belt

And there are pretty towns, pubs and churches

But you haven’t known the land until you've felt

Part of the river: swum on its depth, tasted its wet

Waded in it and felt silt jelly your toes

Netted the water-boatmen and nymphs,

Caught a one-legged frog and forty minnows

Stood watching in a humming quiet reed patch

The shining needles of dragonflies hover

Inspected the nets of the fishermen’s catch

And when black clouds have gloomed the river over

Dread comes to you, and all your mind is pressed

Tense against the glass, for when the river’s anguished

Nothing can prosper. I was a river-child. Possessed.

Chiswick Bridge by Rob Adams
see painter's website