Monday, 9 January 2012


Just back from a coffee with Maggie, who's given me a lovely wooden winebox to grow basil in. I relish this time of year, tending as it is in the direction of my favourite festival, Candlemas, on 1st February. It's lustration-tide: everywhere the dead leaves of autumn have melted away and the bulbs are budding, tulips snouting through the soil, bluebells elbowing the paving slabs apart on St Bernard's Road today. I love the still, cold quietude and thin lemonwash light, bedding down early into afternoon darkness. The psychic pot has been given a good stirring recently, and indeed I dreamed a few nights ago of skinning and slicing up a huge white pig, before cooking a piece slowly until all the fat melted and crisped deliciously. As I walked home I thought of that dream, and the time of year, and the close of a poem by Vicki Feaver, from her remarkable The Book of Blood:

I join in the cooking: jointing
and slicing, stirring and tasting -
excited as if the King of Death
has arrived to feast, stalking
out of winter woods,
his black mouth
sprouting golden crocuses.


Steffen said...

Thank you very much for introducing me to Vicki Feaver. Shortly after reading this blogpost I purchased Book of Blood and found it very interesting. Again thanks and keep up the good work.

Bo said...

Oh good, that's great news!

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