#cushats

[ia4ymsnnug]

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#cushats #humoral #rousseaus #folia #Piccard #spondylotomy #unterrorized #katabolize #staphs #apospories #cannibalistically #IFLWU #transferrer #pan- #unattentiveness #conjuration #symbolistically #Mick #tzars #inquietation

[selrom-photo]

Big rare forest pigeon in the city, eating cones. Shot on Carl Zess Jena Sonnar 50mm f/1.5 lens.

#bird #pigeon #tree #spruce #fir #eating #cones #city #nature #wild #dove #ringdove #cushat

[mote-historie]

Kay Nielsen, List, ah list to the zephyr in the grove, In Powder and Crinoline, 1913.

Published within In Powder and Crinoline, sub-titled “Old Fairy Tales Retold by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch”, in 1913. This fine watercolour was originally reproduced opposite page 52 and is one of the 26 colour plates. The illustration accompanies the tale of “Felicia or The Pot of Pinks”. The verse is as follows: “List, ah, list to the zephyr in the grove! / Where beneath the happy boughs / Flora builds her summerhouse / Whist! ah, whist while the cushat tells his love”. (x)

#kay nielsen #painting #art nouveau #1913 #In Powder and Crinoline #List ah list to the zephyr in the grove #zephyr #grove #list #illustation #book illustration #art nouveau illustration #nielsen #Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch #Arthur Quiller-Couch #flora #color plates #colour plates #the pot of pinks #felicia #danish #danish art #scandinavian #scandinavian art #Fairy Tales #illustrated work #Old Fairy Tales #art

[searchingforserendipity25]

The Straying | Little Red Riding Hood

Candy Hearts Exchange entry for @traveleorzea!

“Do not give your name to strangers,” Grandmother told you. “Do not wander from the Road, child.”

You didn’t, you didn’t, you didn’t. He was the one who heard you singing, and came in from the dark to chase you.

There was a time when you were not a friend of the dark places, and shied away from the groves where the high trees clustered together most thickly. Then, you had not lingered under the oldest trees, and sang all the louder to pretend not to hear when a fledgling cushat landed rustled the quiet and made it - not dangerous, but alive, or at least alive to the possibility of fear. 

And before that, you did not notice the differences in the voice of the wild. The Road was steepled with golden shadows cast by golden light, and nothing stilled or hurried you. At the end of the Road was your grandmother's home, and the journey was however long it took your walking songs to warm your throat and rise in clouds of steam around your mouth.

That was before. 

You do not keep to the Road now. The birds go still and silent as dead bone when you pass; but if you are very careful, and focus on your woodcraft, they will not notice you at all.

That is better. You can stand in the shadows, listening to the nightingales, watching the wild beasts as one among them. Waiting - 

No one will frighten the birds on your watch. All the creatures curled warmly in their dens, the mushrooms blooming their strange and startling lives in the damp rot, the few human lives scattered and struggling their way in the valleys and dens and hollows where turf walls and peat smoke rises: they are safe. You, girl with the oxblood cape, keep them safe. 

Sometimes, at twilight, your wondrous and treacherous feet betray even you, and your mind takes flight with the scattering of the nightingales. But usually, you notice it before you come to the moss mound where your grandmother once lived, where the forest grew as a barrow around your childhood.

“Do not give your name to strangers,” Grandmother told you. “Do not wander from the Road, child.”

You didn’t, you didn’t, you didn’t. He was the one who heard you singing, and came in from the dark to chase you.

—

You love him. 

Something like love, in any case. Too intimate for anything else. Your family was poor and cold most nights, except for a few dizzying midnights in the summertime; your father was a lumberman and your mother was a lumberwomen, and they taught you to use the ax quick and sure before the hens knew enough to be afraid. Fear was cruel to cause, worse than death; it got into the taste of the stew, and the stew was always meant to last. 

No one taught you to hate, and you were never so keen on schooling to teach yourself now. So it must be love. There is nothing for it. 

You will be swift and sure, when the time comes. Not cruel. He does not know the difference between kindness and cruelty well enough to appreciate how much it costs you to give it. 

—

He said, “Mistress, you sing like the river; you make the silence run and run and leap away from you.”

He said, “Good lady, gentle lady, will you point me to the nearest hearth, so I may be warm in the evening and not cold at night?”

He said, “Where do you go, singer in the Woods, with you satchels and your hampers, heavy in your burdens as a mule, noble in your bearing as a master?” 

These days, you do not speak a great deal with each other. But you meet more often. 

—

It never crossed your mind to fear him. The worn fur of his oversleeves, the golden surprise that was his eyes, the scars crossing his fingers under the sheen of his rings, silver and worked copper and the dull gleam even you could tell was gold, solid and very old.

Nothing that was unholy and unrighteous could walk the Road, whose stones were planted like seeds by kings and queens of Ages long past. 

The cobblestones were worn, rounded. The dandelions grow thick in the cracks, sometimes tall grass thick enough to weave with; but the animals cross it without fear, and lost sheep are sure to find their way to eat and be found, bemused, under the shadow of some oak or aspen or stone pine, grown gnarled in the corner of a crossing. 

These things you had known all your life. You did not fear him: he came in the guise of a man, and men never do evil on the Road. 

—

You hunt him now. You, the daughter of the forest: your parents dead, your grandmother a burrow where hares with long ears and opaque eyes go to breed. You love him. Your mother’s axe is no longer heavy on your back where you carry it; you have grown the muscles you used to envy as a child, and the slow, steadiness of your hands gathering nuts and finding wild carrots and wild onions and tubers and nests full of rich, yolky eggs is the wisdom your father was known for, by the few who knew him. 

But you learning singing from Grandmother, and your singing died with her. Where you go, silence follows; and he after the silence.

—

Once a fortnight you met him on your way to your Grandmother’s house, and once a fortnight he asked you a question. 

That is not much, you used to think, because he dressed like a nobleman fallen to disaster, and the nuance of his voice was strange, curious, rich. Rich-sounding.You thought you were travelers going on opposite directions for the afternoon; you thought he had nowhere to go.

You were sorry for him. In those days, kindness came easily to you, with no hesitation in it. You were braver then than you ever will be again.

“A question for a question,” you said, the third time. Kindness with no excuse is only pity, and you had known even then he was not something that would allow itself to be pitied. It was the golden accent, and then way be tilted his nose, smelling, flaring, imperious.

And you were curious. That is one thing about you that has never changed.

Three times, sitting on the twisted roots that breached the stone path and ran from one end of the Road to the other. The first time, on different roots, under different shadows; the second, running for a place to rest when the sky opened with sudden rainfall.

It was the third time, and yours booted feet touched his, briefly; his eyes did not move from your face.

He smiled.

“Where are you coming from?”

“The Road, friend! Where were all come from.”  

You laughed, not very amused yourself. “ Where do you go, good sir?”

“Who gave you that ring?” 

He stilled. He was not, you knew then, a man who liked to be surprised. 

“I did,” he said. “A gift for myself. Life is cruel enough without us being unkind to ourselves, friend."

Of course you realized that he must have stolen it. By then you knew him very well. You liked him: the idea of his quick fingers fondling a jewel-box, the shadow of his palms like paws around the hinges of a treasure hoard. 

—

You were enchanted by the golden gleam in his eyes, around his fingers, in the limning of his curls when the light set. The fur sewn on his sleeves was soft as a living pelt. You stroked it once - daring - the last time he took you hand and bent over it with old-fashioned courtesy.

The last time. And then, after the last time you saw him as a man -

You think about his hands, now. As often as you used to. How still they were. How sure.

The fur, made a darker red by the blood, covers the skin as a growing thing. Part of a thing: a beast, a man, a wolf that turned to you, his face shifting from animal to Grandmother to wanderer. Your friend, one among many theater masks.

And beneath the illusion, the forest. Old, old, older than old, than the Road, than the kings, the queens, the mastering human stone. He looked at you with his eyes so golden, and you thought of how soft the fur was, how sweetly your hands hand crushed it between your fingers, so gentle a flirtation.

“Red Robed Mistress,” said he. He sounded so surprised. 

The axe is your hand surprised you, as well. It was so much easier to carry than you recalled as a child.

—

You did not give him your name. 

“Red Robed Mistress,” he said, and bowed from the waist, more genteel than any creature wearing boots of leather so worn ought to be. “Sweet friend, how good to meet you.” 

Your grandmother taught you not to be too generous. Oh, how your mother used to complain about it! - her crusty manners, her precise stubbornness, her friendlessness, her love for remote places. But the lumbering season was long and harsh, and when you were very young you stayed with your Grandmother while your parents went Northwest to hack away at the ancient oaks, living in long cabins of cramped bunks to bring down enough wood for the hungry machines of the City’s factories. 

So it was your Grandmother who taught you how to gather dry tinder. To carry old thread spun out of old coarse flax to tie the bundles and balance them on your back, or your head. Where to find the clearest spring water sprouting between hidden stone, behind the curtain of lichens, and where to leave freshly-baked bread for the creatures that kept the water clear and running strong even when the summers lasted long into drought on the other side of the valley. 

Your Grandmother gave her name away to the forest, once. But that was a long time ago, and what Grandmother needed a name of her own, when there were children's children to be fed? You had not found the notion strange at all, or selfish, at the time; but then you were very young, and could not imagine wanting to be a Grandmother yourself, nor giving the forest anything bigger than the best loaf of bread - and even that seemed like too much of a sacrifice. 

—

The questioning has become a vice. In his absence, which is full of him, more than his presence, you take up the habit. Where are you going, Mistress? Axe-carrier, deep-dwelling stranger, where go you? 

You stray away from the Road. The forest welcomes you: its voice the voice of your life, untamed. He escaped you once, for of course the forest loves its fell beasts as well as its singing birds. But you have grown wise in ways your grandmother would approve and ways she would fear, and you give chase now, and you walk around the great roots with your long cloak a flare, a warning, a red promise shrouding you.

In the dark, something gold glistens.

#red riding hood #fairy tales #fairy tale fic #big bad wolf #my fics #legends and fairytales #candy hearts exchange

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“He cried”)

A sonnet sequence

               1

To keeps shore, with zealous of flesh no aching to be perquisitely Virgins, thy stone, that doth nimble deer from your fruitful the Harp be mode of the daisy-star by thou can do. How can your missed, have give the king a foresaid what sweetly speech by poet a genius by day, and that should discover we may of our bitter in the grey: a whole desult of her face! And with many idle flower half-close up of Siren tell this best, steam-engines he sate; since; while thy soul, abhorr’d: how each to passion found Sweet that’s yet, we’ll not more is but thousand neutralize it. And meant; but her end who have give when widows’ shriek like a stain what spirits five me; here bantered like blossoms. But vain to many and in Porphyria’s teeth glory fruit, as many: And though white so strike and out of being gravel thought it little feudal times diseas’d, made of a cushats way. He cried.

               2

Not like wags in my controls. Few you three time, and legs waves chain the Dew-bespangling eye could fetter you for the his shirts. From the Birds soere shall than breaking up to God’s strawberries her some with ease. Of age depresses; tell me, and glitter love. Though three chang’d in the since wise grew dim, as out for So I return’d may stone, and new; a love who thrust, for a reeds me of old fell happy reigning; comes worn and made Catholic eyes are aboue of we, sing the restraitened to speed a dormant and the figur’d Homer rest, she noble the peace when music, and fussed there do youth’s brief, those up, get that, and came. Ere I’ll be the dancer gaze in so adorn’d maybe likely, truly room full of a fossile and and vialed to guides in verse and grey; set me from our thousand traced, she weakens her mind were desult of my lost your soul, which I could not than the distill it senses, when the hill.

               3

Such as earth being the knew she was ne’er reasons, call be: vnited else to the ice; o’ercome for so hoar-frosts for every polish and left the taste, unties who caress to sheaf? Fault curse, wouldn’t make, that mine, each result of this for restors and went of fat and haps too dependence from high posted him as are in; nor soldier put onward fortune ending to the chaste me alchymic furnace, and blood in memory doth parch dies I have the awful swain’s fabled queen, how grows never knowledge, must leaves, supremely was also, which it and her: As I can’t is then, indeed! Below thine.

               4

Pleasure-House and takes his mattern himself;—if not yet to Time. But, as is to Canterbalance immortal like her fair Corinna, thy hand whom fair Corinna sits make show to minus and diseases from the other of each side slaught a quiet place. After sages of candidates to go; long line fall forgot up, sweet fright, making, as wept, and beast? From temple, flung it takes gasp as he, a poor tis same, thou shall over wrinkle twere was they, at last year when Phoebus fix agains. Cupid weaves, but Juan, in the wrinkled even. And flower the king swoons were comin by figured up his eye a moment hast the back or cats and all his brow sad. The memory of court that if an ivory set, wish she had bear-skins bear, sweet, with and all the first draughter’s feelings. As that pious gums. Their every cloud, sunshine brief, when perfect I can stand. Yours I want pay? For even for loved.

               5

I will air so much lily drank grass, and bred a marbles, and into push on; content as tiny no-sex voice is thy faces of for him on this head, and seek not, so it given hairs between the sun will, these presence, it grew dim, merit at lace of the was he sad her bowed came all the paradox which we some forget: the lo’es sae weep or she sun will old heart, too, be overs metaphor. There, although the random gale; and children tearest—now as than cast of Love’s chords could for what had stol’n of Vertue, no hypocrisy designated hearts of meditations and made or booze.

               6

They found him a right Elfins make bowed to send thee, with zeal lingers upon he clime which the sun is case, or at this gifts and tree or thy virgins, theniel’s bonie Mary, but far the world and teach have been crowded me thus, my Katie? That give himself’s so stay: or infamy my happier men? Radiant first: then my half a garden’d was Sabbaths but always to inter of the preferr’d youth, her place opening-star, and with flowers I saw for some passion, hides, and also he clear strength seem pardon then the flesh was old acquaint, refuse that heau’ns food, who cared scraps a thing of thy bracelet.

               7

One present, hark, and scarce could resists, you— tell me when tear-floods, the stuffs, dear-purchased her next the Throne on martyrdom. There she felt—a kindly bring all it chang’d descrie, would live and how shalling desire, althoughts me friendly need to sparkling to heavy, my lot to guides in the for aught to clay. I, when perfect, as we once at last of my buried untimely dreams in thinking to his race-horses! Whilst there, woe is know, sing Present on the strains when so about the rumours, this feel at this largely gift of a first, sharpe desire in the burnt round itself nor did straight, but to give.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #139 texts #sonnet sequence

[violettesiren]

The stirring of a feathery cloud May wake a thought of richest worth, The dew upon the lily's rim To deepest reverie give birth.

Half glimpses caught in idle hours Of shifting lights upon a stream, Some sudden glory in the skies May give the soul a magic dream.

The scent of wood-glades when glad Spring is penciling the dainty leaves, Like subtlest music, round the heart A web of strange enchantment weaves.

The robin's carol to the dawn Soothes like the answer to a prayer; The cushat's melancholy plaint May change our mood quite to despair.

In Nature's wondrous orchestra, The quiver of a single strain Will poise a thought, and give the soul Most exquisite repose or pain.

Nature's Minor Chords by Henrietta Cordelia Ray

#henrietta cordelia ray

[boop-poems]

Squabble

Gathering in the mass  

A conference of cushat  

Fifty, sixty, maybe seventy-four 

Leaving, returning with more 

 

But what brings you to the grass 

What cult or conspiracy beholds me 

Calm until I’m close  

Then you leave me unbeknown  

 

Fine, keep your secrets 

Cooing amongst yourselves 

No one will believe that I saw  

Fifty, sixty, or seventy-four 

#Poem #Poetry #My Poem #My Poetry

[fhithich]

The Great Landslip of 1872

"T' 'ills was fallin' down." How the folk of Bilsdale took Ingleby Greenhow Parish to the Royal Court of Justice to restore the road and won the case.

A hill of many names, Cushat Hill, White Hill, Clay Hill. According to the first O.S. Map published in 1857, the prominence is White Hill[osmap_marker color=green], the lower part of the road climb is Clay Hill Bank, and the upper part Cushat Hill. Just to be clear, Hasty Bank is the south face. The road of course is the old road, not the present day B1257 which was built when the old road was…

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#19th-century

[intellectualtwist]

Wood Pigeon ; also known as the woody, cushat, cushy-do, quist, ringdow and ring dove. by Anjum Satti Via Flickr: The Wood pigeons is, without a doubt, the most common type of pigeon to appear in gardens across the UK.

#Ringdow #Ring_dove #Woody #Cushat #Quist #Cushy-do #Wood_pigeon #Pigeon #Branches #Tree #Wood #Green #Colour #Nature #Bird #Wildlife #Birds #United_Kingdom #UK #England #Britain #Anjum_Satti #Solihull #Rural #Birmingham

[go-squirrel]

Her Notes

Blackbirds speak and the speckled thrush   Good-Morrow gave from the Brake and rush;                                                          In answers that coo’d the cushat gray dove                                                            Her Notes only speak of Peace, Rest, and of LOVE

T.Pando

#self care #self love #self healing #my notes #my poem #soulgrowth #beautiful soul

[biosphereplace]

FINDING FIELD-NAMES (6) CUSHIE

Field-names in the parish of Borgue can be used to identify locations where wildlife was a notable feature and sometimes indicates changes in land use or landscape features.

This field encloses Drummore Hill, (a name derived from the Gaelic druim mòr meaning big ridge), but the field is known as Cushie Wood. A copse is marked on the hilltop on old maps and is an example of a field-name identifying a historic landscape feature. The woodland appears to have been felled about 100 years ago.

Cushat or cushie-doo is a Scots word for a wood pigeon and in this field-name has been reduced to Cushie. Presumably the woodland was the haunt of this common wild bird that no doubt was a valuable ingredient for the farm kitchen.

Other field names referring to wildlife include Eel Park, Hare Field, Peewit Bog (lapwing), Todholes (fox) and Weasel Wood Field.

#field-names #biosphere #borgue

[cbjustmusic]

Band of Burns featuring Ríoghnach Connolly performing “Now Westlin Winds”, a song based on the Robert Burns poem “Song Composed In August”. ___________________________ Now Westlin Winds Lyric by Robert Burns 

Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns Bring autumn's pleasant weather The moorcock springs on whirring wings Among the blooming heather Now waving grain, wild o'er the plain Delights the weary farmer And the moon shines bright as I rove at night To muse upon my charmer

The partridge loves the fruitful fells The plover loves the mountain The woodcock haunts the lonely dells The soaring hern the fountain Through lofty groves the cushat roves The path of man to shun it The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush The spreading thorn the linnet

Thus every kind their pleasure find The savage and the tender Some social join and leagues combine Some solitary wander Avaunt! Away! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man's dominion The sportsman's joy, the murdering cry The fluttering, gory pinion

But Peggy dear the evening's clear Thick flies the skimming swallow The sky is blue, the fields in view All fading green and yellow Come let us stray our gladsome way And view the charms of nature The rustling corn, the fruited thorn And every happy creature

We'll gently walk and sweetly talk Till the silent moon shines clearly I'll grasp thy waist and, fondly pressed, Swear how I love thee dearly Not vernal showers to budding flowers Not autumn to the farmer So dear can be as thou to me My fair, my lovely charmer

#band of burns #robert burns #ríoghnach connolly

[vonseal]

Cushat - (Scot) A wood pigeon.Orphic - fascinating, entrancing.Paragon - A model or pattern of excellence or of a particular excellence. - dictionary hipster ( I wish you the best of luck!)

A WOOD PIGEON THO!!!

and thank you so much! how have u been, dic hip?

#answer #dictionary hipster #i dont like the nickname i just gave u #gotta change it #Anonymous

[anastasiaoftheironwood]

In July ~ Edward Dowden

Why do I make no poems? Good my friend

Now is there silence through the summer woods,

In whose green depths and lawny solitudes

The light is dreaming; voicings clear ascend

Now from no hollow where glad rivulets wend,

But murmurings low of inarticulate moods,

Softer than stir of unfledged cushat broods,

Breathe, till o’er drowsed the heavy flower-heads bend.

Now sleep the crystal and heart-charmed waves

Round white, sunstricken rocks the noontide long,

Or ‘mid the coolness of dim lighted caves

Sway in a trance of vague deliciousness;

And I,–I am too deep in joy’s excess

For the imperfect impulse of a song.

#poem #poetry #In July #Edward #Dowden

[libidomechanica]

Under voiceless, who know

As Jove grove, Jamie, come were no     more, it has been them nothings, Make: o Elenor: he’s own,     so glad in perfum’d, that

weake and speak no more on these a     cushats when he with tears, half-science,—now raise; the Door, and     her immortality

distractors are to a homely     and time, tremble the cup the skies all their happens is sowre-     breath, to retreaty, Threat,

O namel. Ah, but a butchery     of your eyes before the spots are alone was snow where     clear late her five dismay.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #225 texts #ballad

[gejianxin]

July * July * by George Meredith ----- Blue July, bright July, Month of storms and gorgeous blue; Violet lightnings o'er thy sky, Heavy falls of drenching dew; Summer crown! o'er glen and glade Shrinking hyacinths in their shade; I welcome thee with all thy pride, I love thee like an Eastern bride. Though all the singing days are done As in those climes that clasp the sun; Though the cuckoo in his throat Leaves to the dove his last twin note; Come to me with thy lustrous eye, Golden-dawning oriently, Come with all thy shining blooms, Thy rich red rose and rolling glooms. Though the cuckoo doth but sing 'cuk, cuk,' And the dove alone doth coo; Though the cushat spins her coo-r-roo, r-r-roo - To the cuckoo's halting 'cuk.' // Sweet July, warm July! Month when mosses near the stream, Soft green mosses thick and shy, Are a rapture and a dream. Summer Queen! whose foot the fern Fades beneath while chestnuts burn; I welcome thee with thy fierce love, Gloom below and gleam above. Though all the forest trees hang dumb, With dense leafiness o'ercome; Though the nightingale and thrush, Pipe not from the bough or bush; Come to me with thy lustrous eye, Azure-melting westerly, The raptures of thy face unfold, And welcome in thy robes of gold! Tho' the nightingale broods-'sweet-chuck-sweet' - And the ouzel flutes so chill, Tho' the throstle gives but one shrilly trill To the nightingale's 'sweet-sweet.'

#yellow #field #color #nature #flower #floral #summer #bright #close-up #leaf #season #grass #garden #petal #flora