Valentine's poem for Jeanie

I thought this was rather neat and it gave Jeanie and me a lot of fun. She;s great!  Hope you enjoy it too.
Nick

PS: a new drawing coming up on Jeanie's life drawing blog http://ipadpainting-jeanie.blogspot.co.uk/

PPS:  We;re working on the ebook version of Illustrated Fluteplaying.  Hope it will be available this summer.  More soon.

PPPS  Our daughter Lucy has recently created a couple of amazing bronze women nudes. A picture is below.  You can see more and learn about the process of creating a bronze from her blog.

https://mellersh.wordpress.com/2016/02/20/casting-in-bronze/

Bronze by daughter Lucy Mellersh.  Learn more at her blog 

 

Is it true our pretty Christmas story?

And is it true

Our pretty Christmas story?

No never true, for it is more than true

The heart leaps at it.

It is a doorway into joy that each of us can enter.

The angels singing. Surely we hear that whisper when a baby's born.

The ox and ass bowing their heads.

It's right, for every child knows that in some ways,

The beasts see more than we do.

Then come the curious, shepherds and wise men,

The peasants and the sages both knowing

That something very new is here.

And last those two who haunted the doorways of the synagogues.

Anna and Simeon

Suddenly their doubt has ended

It's come what they'd been waiting for.

And was it like the pictures in our minds

An English landscape, snow, Mary a pure bred Anglo Saxon,

The baby blue eyed?

No it was not. But that's no matter.

No matter how we see it, it can be our way

to see that God is in this fearful world and cares for it.

For this is more than truth. It is a doorway into joy.

This Christmas let us go through the doorway.

Nick Mellersh 2016

Today (Sunday Jan 31) is Candlemass  the last act in the nativity story. When two strange prophets Simeon and Anna tell Mary that her son is something very amazing.  Heaven knows what Mary thought.  Weren't the angels enough without having two eccentric old pensioners disrupt the Christening?  Anyway here's a holy poem to mark the end of this Christmas.  I hope it makes you think.

The work on the ebooks continues and we are making good progress on Illustrated Fluteplaying as an ebook.

As ever there is a new set of drawings on the sister blog currently showing "A nude a week", well almost every week anyway.  See http://ipadpainting-jeanie.blogspot.co.uk/

Poem of the week: How Freya became the world's best football player

This is the story of a girl named Freya

Who became the world's best football player.

It all began as a sort of mistake

When her mother baked her a beautiful cake.

She was almost eight and for her birthday you see,

There were eight sugar fairies playing under a tree.

Each one was lovely, but best of all

Was the one who was running and kicking a ball.

Her birthday party came and, out of control,

Freya grabbed that fairy and swallowed her whole!

The next thing that happened was really frightening

Freya was struck by a bolt of lightening.

And everyone said “How good and speedy!

It serves Freya right for being so greedy.”

But Freya stood up, not dead at all

And said “I really must kick a ball.”

She ran to the garden as quick as quick

Found a ball and gave it a terrific kick.

It went through the walls, it was kicked so hard

And knocked the top of the London Shard

And traveled, at twice the speed of sound,

And landed in Arsenal's football ground.

Arsene Wenger said “I must have that player.

There's a name on the ball and the name is Freya.”

They found her and taught her to head and pass 'n all

And soon she was in the first team at Arsenal.

The other team laughed at the big surprise,

She was eight, and a girl, and was half their size.

Their captain said “Go easy on her mate”

But Freya had the ball and then it was too late.

She dribbled round the captain, quick and neat,

Ran through his legs and round his feet,

She jumped over his head and the crowd all roared

Freya gave a kick and Hooray!, she scored.

And she scored and scored and went on until

Her team was winning 50 nil.

The other team soon forgot their sneers

And every one of them left in tears.

After that Freya was a huge sensation

She was in all the papers throughout the nation

And her playing career went up and up

Till she played for England in the big World Cup.

They were playing the final against Brazil

There was a minute to go and the score nil – nil.

And the crowd was shouting to every player

"Pass the ball, pass the ball, pass it to Freya!!"

She got it with only ten seconds to go,

How she ran so fast we will never know.

She made each man look like a silly one

As she dribbled through the legs of every Brazilian.

Then she kicked with all of her heart and soul

And it broke the net of the Brazilian goal.

The crowd all cheered and every player

Was shouting “Hooray! Hooray for Freya”

There were fireworks and music. It was quite as scene

As she took the World Cup from the Queen.

There were shouts and cheers and a great big fuss

And she rode at the front of an open-topped bus.

Now each team in the world are wanting Freya

'Cos she is the world's best football player.

They said to her “Freya, see how this sounds,

We want to give you ten gazillion pounds.”

But Freya said “No that's not for me

I want to go home to my Mum's for tea.”

And so she did.

Nick Mellersh 2016 The quick sketches by Jeanie see her blog at http://ipadpainting-jeanie.blogspot.co.uk/ where she puts up a nude drawing most weeks

Happy new year to you all.  Hope you are happy with the change from the serious to the ridiculous.  That's how life is it seems to me.  Nick

PPS: Went to see this great film last night written and directed by my God-daughter's husband.  It's real fun and we hope it will go far see http://www.5greedybankers.com/

Poem of the week: Granny in the poo

The day Granny fell in the poo and was chased by hounds

Here's a story of our Granny,

She may be old but she is canny

Gran does what Grans never do,

And one day she FELL IN THE POO!

And then was chased through woods and bogs

By an excited pack of dogs!

Granddad and she walked on the downs,

Where you can view the sea and towns.

They walked past an old famous pond

To see the countryside beyond.

Then Gran saw something she thought might

Be some old prehistoric site.

A place that could be very old

Where she’d find, jewels, bones and gold.

“I wonder what this thing could be.

I'll climb on top of it and see!”

She took one step, and then took two,

There was a squelch beneath her shoe,

Her foot went in, what could she do?

It was a pile of old sheep poo.

She knew that something had gone wrong

When she first smelt the horrid PONG!

Oh what an awful sight to see,

One leg was in beyond her knee.

The other sinking rather fast,

And every step might be her last.

She shouted to her husband Nick

“I’m falling in.  Please help me, quick”

Nick answered “Grab my hand. You must!

Roll and you won't go through the crust.”

So she rolled down and all was well,

Excepting for the awful smell.

She stood up then and almost cried.

She said, “I really might have died!

I didn’t like it – nor would you,

To drown in piles of smelly poo!”

The two of them made quite a scene,

Their feet and legs were browny green.

Then Granny said, “Here’s what we’ll do,

Run to the pond. Wash off the poo!”

They ran, looked round for men and houses,

And seeing none, took off Gran’s trousers.

She washed her legs and feet so green,

Till they were moderately clean.

Then suddenly a fox rushed by.

And granddad said "I wonder why ...."

Then they heard barks and hunting sounds

And then they saw a pack of hounds!

The hounds smelt Gran and thought "That knocks

Spots off the boring smell of fox.

Lets go and see what it can be

It smells like paradise to me."

And so the hounds all turned and ran

Until they had surrounded Gran.

They barked and woofed and wagged their tails

And licked her toes and feet and nails.

They swallowed both of granny's socks

The huntsman shouted "Chase the fox!"

"Let go my trousers "Granny screams

They'd grabbed her trousers by the seams

And two dogs pulled on both the legs.

"Don't pull so hard" our granny begs.

But then there was a tearing sound

A pair of shorts lay on the ground.

The huntsman yelled. "Your stupid stunt

Has totally destroyed our hunt.

There's only one thing I can do

I'll set the hounds to chasing YOU!"

There wasn't any time to plan.

Gran grabbed her pants and off they ran!

The hounds came after thinking "Well

What fun to chase this lovely smell."

Well, just imagine how it feels

When hounds are biting at your heels.

They saw a tree and did not stop,

Till they' had scrambled to the top.

When they looked down all they could see

Was hounds who barked around the tree.

The huntsman shouted "Just my luck.

Hounds must go home - I hope you're stuck!"

And so they were. Stuck in the tree.

They didn't dare climb down you see.

A woman rode up on a hoss.

"Oh Lord" said Granddad, "she looks cross."

She shouoted "YOU get off my land!
You hippie nudists shoulld bel banned!
You totally destroy my view.

The tree is ruined and I'll sue!"

Then Granny said "We can't get down"

The woman gave a haughty frown.

"I'll call my men who have an axe.

They'll cut you down in forty wacks."

She called, and Granny's heart went thump.

Gran said. "We're going to have to jump."

They jumped and ran, it wasn't far

Until they'd got into their car.

"Come back and give your name I say"

But Granddad quickly drove away.

When they got home they had to laugh,

As they sat in a lovely bath.

Gran's trousers, just to end my song,

Had one leg short, the other long.

 Nick Mellersh 2009 for our golden wedding party

With Christmas coming I thought the tone of this blog needed lightening up.  We have been on gloom and war all through November.  Seeing my only fan is my great niece, I thought she and others lucky enough to have a childish  temprament enjoy this tale which is based on a sort of truth.  Granny did step into a pile of sheep poo on the downs thinking it might be some historic tumulus and did wash herself in one of the dew-ponds you find up there.  The story about the hunt and the tree is, thank goodness, fiction.

Don't forget to look at the sister blog "Nude a week" by my wife, where there is a sweet little Christmas film see http://njeanius.blogspot.co.uk/
And don't forget my father's ebooks at njeanius.uk, an excellent Christmas present for anyone interested in the story of the first World War. 

Hope to put up another of these stories during December and a holy one for Christmas sorry it will have to be orthodox Christmas or Epiphany now£.  Meanwhile happy Christmas to all my readers (hope there are some!! I'd love to hear from you.

,Love Nick

three world war 1 books

 Here is a video I have just made about the three World War I books written by my father.H E L Mellersh.  They are now being published as ebooks.  This is a link ro the website www.njeanius.uk where you can read bits and buy them for your ebook reader whatever it may be.

War Poets 7: You can't blame us

“You can't blame us” said the generals,

“We did what you told us to do.
We thought that you asked us to win the war.
And we won it. What more could we do?”

“You can't blame us” said the government.
“We had to defend the land,
And these things always come at a cost,
Surely you understand.”

“You can't blame me, said the soldier.
I just did what I was told.
And anyway I was simply a kid.
I was killed at twenty years old.”

So was it all simply nobody's fault?
The horror, the killing the pain?
It seems like the truth. But if it is true,
Why it's certain to happen again.

                                      Nick Mellersh November 2015

Wrote this after going to a talk with a retired general who lives in a village not far from us. (The link at "general" leads to more about him.)  His talk was entitled "Lions Led by Donkeys." It was about the first world war and whether the generals had been given an unfairly bad press.  

He is an impressive and intelligent man and he made the case very strongly that the generals had been unfairly blamed.  The type of war was new, the enemy efficient and determined yet the British army (unlike the French and the German) never showed signs of falling apart. And they were the army that brought it to an end in the last 100 days.  Days my father missed as he was at home in hospital with his third wound. The generals, given the circumstances did a surprisingly good job.

I believe this to be true.  And so did my father who fought in the war and wrote three books about it. But somehow the whole thing left me feeling unhappy.  If everyone was doing their best (and generally they were) why was the outcome so terrible. The preservation of peace is a dilemma and mankind seems thoroughly bad at it.  As I write this the clouds of war are gathering.  We must try harder than a predecessors if we are going to avoid another ghastly bloodbath  But surprisingly we avoided a nuclear war in the fifties and sixties when that seemed inevitable so let us not give up hope.

(What seems to me very frightening is the way the debate is skewed. Corbyn asks whether the plan to drop more bombs on ISIS (and kill a few more misguided idealistic young men) is really a part of a coherent military strategy. The press discuss everything but this. Mostly "should we leave it to our allies to do all the dirty work then", and "I suppose Corby thinks we can just send a few policemen around to Raqua and arrest them all"  But thinking back to the 50's maybe we can sort out the mess in the middle east without making things a million times worse.  I hope so.)

The last few weeks of this blog have been dealing with serious issues mostly to mark the publication as ebooks of my father's books about World War I.  You can have a look at excerpts from them all at njeanius.uk/warbooks.

Next week it should be time for something a bit more happy.  Oh yes and for some beautiful drawing have a look at my wife's blog,http://ipadpainting-jeanie.blogspot.co.uk/ this week showing four life drawings. 

PS: I managed to find the bit that was in the Lymington times about my dad's books today.  It's up on the website.

War Poets 6: Who reads the peace poets?

War poets! - we love 'em
They're exciting and never a bore.
War poets!- there's action, emotion,
There''s glory and horror and gore.

Where are the peace poets?
You won't find their books on our shelf.
The tiresome old, boring old, treadmill of life
We've experienced that for our self.

Yes give us the glory, the action,
The pity the horror, the gore.
Yes let's read the war poets
While we wait for another war.
                                Nick Mellersh November 11 2015

Well I've written it the peace poets poem that has been going around my head for a long time.  Not aas good as it looked in my mind but not bad I think.  At least it is short.  It is too easy to run on and on when not bound by some set form like the sonnet.

As you can see from the earlier posts I'm a bit doubtful about the influence of the war poets.  It is so hard to mourn the horrors of war without in some way glorying in it.  War poetry seems to me to verge on the edge of pornographic violence.  I suppose this is part of the old argument between Plato and Aristotle.  In brief the  argument goes.  Plato "Watching all these plays about people killing each other just encourages people to do it."  Aristotle "No no, it enables us to feel the horror without actually really doing it - it purges the mind/"  The argument is pretty much that, though put at greater length (try here to learn more.) .  And the answer is really we don't know whether it is good or bad, or maybe we don't care.  People are going to watch violence and read about violence whether it's bad for them or not.

Perhaps it also throws light on the difference between Owen and Sassoon.  The last two posts on this blog have been readings by my friend Nigel Pascoe of poems by this pair of World War I poets.  Sassoon's "The General" distances itself from the horrors.  Owen's "Dulce et Decorum Est" dives straight in and immediately involves the reader in the emotion and the horror.  Those, like myself and my father, who prefer Sassoon to Owen are perhaps fearful that being too close to the emotion is too much like glorying in it.  Hard to say who is right.  Hard to remember the dead of the wars in a way that seems honest and right.

I mention my father because I have just published his books on World War I as ebooks.  He fought on the front from 2015 and was wounded several times.  There are three of these books, an autobiographical novel, a true autobiography, written many years later, and a life of Siegfried Sassoon which of course mentions Owen (Sassoon and Owen met in a shell-shock hospital and Sassoon encouraged and influenced Owen.)  You can read about my father's books here on the njeanius website and there is plenty on the web about the meeting of Sassoon and Owen.  You could start here.

There's a lot more I would like to write more generally about poetry and what it is for.  Also I have found on Google (thanks be to Google) the parody of "Scorn not the Sonnet" about keeping poems short.  I hope to cover it in my n ext when I will leave war poetry for a bit.

Link to my Dad's World War I books