Monday, 9 January 2012

Feaver-dream

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.

2 comments:

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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