November - Anon

We looked at the rich legacy left to us by artists unknown. From the Museums' collection we borrowed two very colourful abstract prints by the mysterious "L.S."

We had some fun inventing names and profiles for him/her and also seeing many different possibilities in the pictures: robots and coffee pots, flowers and crosses, solitaire and cherries, circuses and skyscrapers .... 

When I was searching for poems by "Anon" I found two on the subject of wind - understandable considering the British climate.  These are shown below.

“Western wind when wilt thou blow”

Western wind when wilt thou blow

the small rain down can rain

Christ if my love were in my arms

and I in my bed again

ANON. (early 16^th century)

“When the wind is in the east”

When the wind is in the east

‘Tis good for neither man nor beast

When the wind is in the north

The skilful fisher goes not forth

When the wind is in the south

It blows the bait in the fishes’ mouth

When the wind is in the west

Then ‘tis at the very best

A short story by Yvette Sutton

Life in the circus was never dull.  So many children yearned for the glamour, the excitement, the smell of the greasepaint.   Few of them recognised the real heartaches, pain and hardship that many of the company felt. 

For Pasha this had been his life for as long as he could remember. His mother a Hungarian gipsy, ‘Born’ she haughtily explained, ‘to travel’.   She was guarded and secretive and as a little boy Pasha longed to know what his mother kept in the large colourful hatbox which she kept hidden under the sofa in their caravan.  Recently he had discovered his mother looking inside this box when he had returned to their home during the interval in an evening performance.  The lid had been firmly and immediately shut when she became aware of his gaze!

“What’s that?” he had asked.

“Nothing that would interest you young man” she had snapped.  The box already returned to its not-so-secret place.

Pasha’s mind raced and his heart pounded.  What could she possibly be hiding from him.  The days and weeks past and his longing for answers burned deep inside.  His mother’s reaction when he had discovered her that evening was so unusually hostile and he had never known her patience so fragile.

The show must go on and Pasha busied himself with rehearsals for the tumbling act he was part of.  Rehearsal and training were part of everyday life and if there was any spare time he would enjoy the free slides on the helter skelter.  Round and round he would slide, just like the many questions in his head.  He would have to risk his mother’s wrath and take a look in the large colourful box, he was not a little boy any longer and for the first time he would defy her, not easy with his strict upbringing deeply engrained.   What was she so reluctant to divulge?