Peasant

Thursday, 6 November 2008

Here are some books I only just stopped myself buying on line today -

- Popular romances of the West of England : or the drolls, traditions and superstitions of Old Cornwall by Robert Hunt

- Legends and Folk-Lore of Devonshire. Illustrated by Cecily M. Rutley and writen by Mildred R. Lamb

or

- Devonshire: County Legend & Folk-Lore by Cecily M Rutley (may be the same book, but this one has a chapter entitled "Chagford Pixies"!)

- Tales of the Dartmoor Pixies Glimpses of Elfin Haunts by William Crossing

- Dartmoor Legends by Roberts Eva , C.

- Traditions, Legends, Superstitions, and Sketches of Devonshire by Anna Eliza Bray

or any other nice old books in a simmiller vein...

Also enjoying the music of Joanna Newsome!

If anyone feels like getting me any of these for Christmas I would be very happy indeed, espesially if they where old and battered and smelt nice...

Tuesday, 9 September 2008

In the stump of the old tree

One of my favourite poems, by Hugh Sykes-Davies

Poem (‘In the stump of the old tree...’)

In the stump of the old tree, where the heart has rotted out, there is a hole the length of a man’s arm, and a dank pool at the bottom of it where the rain gathers, and the old leaves turn into lacy skeletons. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees, where the hearts have rotted out, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and dank pools at the bottom where the rain gathers and old leaves turn to lace, and the beak of a dead bird gapes like a trap. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees with rotten hearts, where the rain gathers and the laced leaves and the dead bird like a trap, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and in every crevice of the rotten wood grow weasel’s eyes like molluscs, their lids open and shut with the tide. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the rain gathers and the trapped leaves and the beak and the laced weasel’s eyes, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and at the bottom a sodden bible written in the language of rooks. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there are holes the length of a man’s arm where the weasels are trapped and the letters of the rook language are laced on the sodden leaves, and at the bottom there is a man’s arm. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there are deep holes and dank pools where the rain gathers, and if you ever put your hand down to see, you can wipe it in the sharp grass till it bleeds, but you’ll never want to eat with it again.

Contemporary Poetry and Prose, 7 (Nov. 1936), 129.