My dead horse dances through dreams by Irena Szirtes

credit Irena Szirtes

 Blood-beat warm, fine-boned, 

muscled to the brink 

of Flight  - 

yet dream-dipped, murmured 

rather than spoken, she stands,

stirred by my longing

to reconnect our  hearts.

She tips like a flittering bird 

into canter, one ear

tilted to where I stand, 

circling me again, again, 

so I totter, bodied now, as If

solid ground delivered me 

from drifting dreams. 

A thought, and she hears, 

powers down to trot, tail high;

a hand-flick, and she stills, 

ethereal as falling feathers.

Why, pure-instinct equus,

did she choose me?

She is pale, proud, white 

as mist over water, poised

like a bee’s wing, 

brimming the arena with 

knowledge of her worth,

flashed through with wild, yet

each fibre fresh-fixed on me - 

I marvel as we move at liberty 

once more, our souls synced 

in songs without sound. 

Dark dissolves, dreams dissipate.

She lingers, though invisible now;

I taste her scent, 

finger-tip warm sinews, 

reach for the straggles of her mane.

But she is gone. 

What If? ... by Irena Szirtes

What if Polish soldiers rescued a captive Syrian bear cub during WW2? What if the bear became playmate, protector, confidant and comrade in battle? Sometimes the strangest “what ifs” are true. Wojtek (pronounced Voytek) was real; you can read about him in the book “Wojtek the Bear” by  Aileen Orr. The following relates how I first heard about the soldier bear:

    My sister spied them from the landing window: great coats and helmets tramping the lane, forever seeking Dad and now his tiny daughters, for he was Polish, they were not. Boots on the stair, blanket snatched away, barrel of a sub-machine gun; and as they squeezed the trigger, I awoke.

    I didn’t tell my parents, or run to their room; I cradled myself in Yorkshire dark, let River Rawthey’s song wash fear away.  

     My sole encounters with WW2 were Dad’s army coat, spread across my blankets, and his eagle cap badge, gracing the photo frame between our bedroom doors. Yet I shared echoes of his post-traumatic stress, unseen and unnamed in the 1950s. I can’t explain how Nazi uniforms stalked my sleep, how terror at being the Hunted infiltrated my subconscious. I had no idea Dad’s own dreams were relentless circles of escape and pursuit. It was as if I shared shards of his memories.

  Shards were all I knew in the waking world, too. He hid WW2 from his smallest daughter, like the shrapnel in his knee, except the story of Wojtek.

  “We had a bear in the Polish Army,”  Dad told me, as we drank hot milk in robust firelight, “a big brown bear called Wojtek. His name means ‘Happy Warrior.’”

“A bear? How did you get him?”

“He was a little cub, and the soldiers felt sorry for him. His owners were cruel and wanted to make him dance. So they swapped some food to get  Wojtek.”

  I snuggled to Dad’s heartbeat, slid sticky fingers round our terrier Judy’s  ears, as she settled on his lap.

“What did Wojtek do? Did he grow big?”

“Oh yes, he grew very big. He loved to play. He wrestled with the men and  drank beer. Just like naughty bears in stories, he sometimes helped himself to jam and honey. One day he stole the lady-soldiers’ washing, in fact he stole the line as well.”

My mind jumped to Mum hanging out our smalls, fielding Judy’s attempts to drop her muddy ball into the basket.

“Did he steal... their knickers?”

“He stole all their knickers, wrapped the line around his head!”

“Knickers on his hea-ead, knickers on his head!”

Dad was eager party to my giggles and squeals. Our exclusive moments of naughtiness always felt special.

“But the best thing,” he went on, as we recovered ourselves, “was that if a soldier felt sad, Wojtek knew, and would go and sit beside him.”

  I pictured this, fingering the shirt cuff that often escaped Dad’s jumper, recalling Judy's interest in my grazed knees and salty tears.

“ Like our little Judy?”

“Like our little Judy and lots of dogs, like lots of animals. They are all very clever, you know. And Wojtek would have stayed in the army if...”

   The sadness that sometimes lingered behind his smile settled, and instinct shook its head at my asking more. I watched sputtering flames spit sparks as charred logs snapped, and Dad offered Judy the remaining milk from his cup. She lapped it up before turning her attention to my busy  fingers. Nightmares were far away. I felt safe in my childhood world, too young to comprehend how Dad’s had been swept away a  few short years before.

   Shrapnel hid quietly in Dad's knee until he was eighty, when it moved and he underwent surgery. Facing anaesthetic caused a shift of memory shards too. There was no doubt Dad swore the Resistance pledge with his whole heart, that love for Poland embroidered his being. But after he returned from hospital, he confessed he’d saved two enemy lives. One had been a wounded officer struggling under fire, the other, a  soldier Dad encountered during his flight to the Polish Second Corps. He was ashamed. He was afraid we too, would be ashamed of a man who'd had compassion on his enemy.

“What was in your mind on the battlefield?”  I asked.

“I didn’t see an enemy.  All I could see was another human being.”

“ And the soldier?”

“ He was young like me, said he’d been taught Poles were ugly, like pigs, sub-human. He was surprised my German was so good. I’d suggested  we stop trying to kill or capture each other, agree to let each other go.”

I told my father I felt no shame.  I was proud, far prouder than if he’d watched a man die in agony, or mown a boy down.

“How did the young soldier respond?”

 “He was afraid, and he agreed with me. And so I got to the Polish Army in the end.”

“And to Wojtek,” I added, seeking to keep him from memories so sharp, he would not permit me to follow. “Tell me about the time he stole the ladies washing! I want the full version – you know - how he ran off with the line on his head, how scared the ladies were, how they softened when the men took Wojtek to meet them afterwards.”

We laughed, raised our glasses to Wojtek, remembering how I first heard his  story over hot milk in flickering firelight.

“You never get tired of hearing that one, do you?”

“Too right, I never do! And you can bet I never will!” 

Read more about Wojtek

The Light by Ann Reader

credit Gencraft

Here it was, at last ! The light I  had held in my mind for such a long time,  the thing that kept me going even when I felt too hungry to walk and my paws were too sore. That little square of light that was a door to warmth and comfort,  security and love. Oh how I had missed those things.

My troubles began through my own curiosity.  I had climbed into a large van to investigate all the things that were being carried out of the neighbouring house.  Suddenly the door had closed and I was shut in the dark. The engine noise stopped anyone from hearing my desperate meowing and scratching.  The noise and movement lasted for a very long time , when it stopped I shot out of the door as soon as it opened.  To my horror I couldn’t recognise anything,  I had no idea where I was.

The Horse by Kay Yendole

As long as I can remember I have always loved horses. Every year I would ask my father if I could have one. The answer was always the same, with a hundred reasons why it would not be practical. I must be content with going to the local stables to help out and save all my pocket money for riding lessons.

But my passion ran deep, content I was not.  Opposite the greenhouse was a corner of the garden not planted, so I claimed it as my special place, and began to build a horse. Yes that’s right, build a horse, not a house. I began with a large metal trunk as the base, then a rolled up mattress as the body. I got a second hand saddle complete with stirrups and a set of reins from the stables.  Polythene and an old army blanket covered most of the contraption and I fashioned a head with papier-mâché  and many coats of varnish to keep it waterproof. To many it may have seemed a pile of rubbish but to me it was my horse, my friend, and I treated it as such, going every day to attend to it and polish the saddle and ride it.  Maybe I was trying to prove to my father that if  I did have a horse I would be committed to looking after it. He was amused, I think, but did not change his mind about getting me one. This was not a passing phase, the horse remained in tact for eight years, and I looked after it until I left home.

 

No need for toys


That plastic rubbish


Taking up space, messing my room.


I want more time


To play outdoors


There is my horse, I am the groom.


I play for hours


Galloping across the downs and jumps

His mane a rope


But the saddle is real


His body built from trunks of steel.


I talk to him my stallion friend


This fantasy will never end.


I urge him on


From trot to canter.


I stroke his neck,


His breath I feel.


Together we ride


Over hedges and fields


This substitution for reality.


So don’t buy me toys


Father can’t you see


My imagination is good enough for me.

Not-At-All-Tall Tilly Tales by Irena Szirtes ... ... ... ... 3: Mourning Meg

credit: Kate Palmer

 The day every animal lover dreads: the day you say goodbye.

   Megan was definitely lead mare of the little herd, long before Tilly worked herself into that position. She had been ill for some time, but this day, she went down. It had been obvious to Megan's owner that day was different, so she was turned out on her own, in a field next to the one normally shared with other mares.

    The vet was called, and Megan collapsed in the field. I had no idea I was about to see clearly, perhaps for the first time, no ordinary pony had entered my life. The moment Megan went down, Tilly raised her head. She crossed the field, began to pace and trot the fence again and again, calling to Megan constantly. The other mares looked up, but carried on with their grazing. Minute upon minute passed; it seemed a very long time. Megan didn't stir, and Tilly wouldn't let up.

    Suddenly, something remarkable happened.  Megan lifted her head. She answered Tilly softly. She did this several times before finally struggling to her feet. Somehow, she managed to walk, then trot to the fence, where Tilly waited and encouraged her with quiet nickering. Reunited, Megan and Tilly spent time nuzzling each other, and something passed between them they both seemed to understand.

    Megan returned to her chosen spot and lay down once more. Tilly seemed satisfied and walked away to graze, but she was to mourn three weeks, because Megan never got up again.

Not-At-All-Tall Tilly Tales by Irena Szirtes ... ... ... ... 2: The Pony and the Phone

credit: Kate Palmer

 Tilly loved to come in. Her previous field had stabling with open access, so when she came to the yard, I did wonder if  evening bring-ins might strike her as somewhat restricting. I needn't have worried. Tilly took to bring-ins so well, she soon insisted on being the first. Round about bring-in time,  even a little before, she’d wait at the field gate, then show displeasure by pacing and whinnying, if  horses on earlier bring-ins passed by.

      It was still early days when the yard manager, Jill, told me how carefully Tilly walked when her young son Aiden held the lead rope. If Aiden led her, Tilly forgot her eagerness to reach stable and feed, while Aiden took  pleasure in her doing all he asked. It was, therefore, surprising when Tilly halted mid-bring-in one evening. She stopped and simply refused to move. They paused and tried again. Tilly wouldn't budge.

   Jill  decided an adult's experience was needed. After talking to Tilly and stroking her neck, she began encouraging  her forward. Nothing. When they tried again, Tilly scraped her front foot on the ground and nodded vigorously. Sensing frustration and fearing lameness, Jill ran her hand down Tilly's front legs. There were no hot spots, no swellings, no cuts or grazes, but there was something else - something in the grass. Jill's phone! She'd lost it earlier, but had no idea where. Phone retrieved, Tilly walked happily back to her stable. Aiden may have imagined it, but he was sure there was an extra spring in Tilly's step that night.

Not-At-All-Tall Tilly Tales by Irena Szirtes ... ... ... ... 1: Tig's Tale.

Tilly                                           credit Irena Szirtes

    Bouncy-black, all waggy and rear-end wriggly, she tore round Tilly again and again  while we walked toward the field. Tig belonged to a fellow yardie, and the yard was a great place for dogs to play - or grab extra walks at turnout time. We loved turnout.The still place we inhabited in liberty sessions made me aware of Tilly's footfall, of distant birdsong,  of grass-munching close by. We were both super-chilled: I sang silly songs to Tilly, or told her things you only tell good friends. Her favourite grazing was the woods field. She always quickened her step as we turned toward it, and Tig would happily adapt her pace to her very own mobile race-track. Round and round, round and round, while Tilly walked on as if there wasn't a dog in sight.

     One morning, everything changed. Tig, tired of her old game, began dodging  in, out, and around Tilly's back legs. Did Tilly go to kicking out, freaking out?  Absolutely not. She stopped. She turned her neck. She lowered her head to spaniel height. She looked hard into two appealing eyes. Tig stopped, and a moment passed between them before she trotted back to the yard. She wasn't afraid, just suitably chastened, and never accompanied us again.

Wasp by Irena Szirtes

credit Canva

 Wasp buzzes, bothers,

but I still release him from

lethal liquid jam.

a night and a day in the life of a cat without a cat-flap by Val Pedrick

for Brin 

as autumn nights draw in

our cat, flat, black against

frosted back door, flashes

peridot eyes; pats

pleading paws on glass:

‘Let me, in, niaow, purr-lease!’

 

in bed by eleven,

cat flat between us;

purrs serenade sleep, but

visits to the loo at midnight,

one, and then, two, disturb her:

‘Let me, sleep, niaow, purr-lease!’

 

four a.m. flying cat clatters at

bedside – one of us – is oblivious!

I rise, don slippers and robe;

top of the stairs, puss pauses- for effect,

trots down, another pause, licks paws:

‘Let me, out, niaow, purr-lease!’

 

alarmed at six-thirty for work;

one of us – (me) – is oblivious;

sleepy-head, breakfasts

in bed; worker dresses and

leaves, calls, ‘puss at the door, get up!’

‘Let me, in, niaow, purr-lease!’

 

escorted to kitchen and fed, cat

runs, jumps onto bed, flops flat

for a fuss, quick wash, then snores …

to tackle the chores, I rise, while

velvet paws fold furry face and flat-cat sighs:

‘Let me, sleep, niaow, purr-lease!’

 

worker returns, for croissants and lunch,

cats stirs for her ‘crunch’, selects a spot

in the flat for her post-prandial nap, then

clicks at the carpet, when it’s time to go out;

a flick of the tail, gallop, trit, trot, downstairs:

‘Let me, out, niaow, purr-lease!’

 

in the cat-flat without a cat-flap,

flat-cat pops out and in for drinks

and snacks; a tiny, cold snout nuzzles

our knees, to say ‘ta’ – (“a-a-ah”)

for leaving our flat-door ajar:

‘Let me, in and out, niaow, when I, purr-lease!’ 

Jessie by Adam Rutter

credit Adam Rutter

Jessie, a peaceful cat

Sleeps soundly

When awake, she purrs loudly

She jumps between furniture

Like a gymnast

With a big leap,

She moves fast

Her emerald-green eyes look calm

She licks my nose, licks my palm

Climbs onto the window ledge

Meows to come in

Chases the string sliding across the floor

Crawls through the hedge next door

Jessie sleeps on the lawn

When she awakes,

She has a big yawn

She sleeps on Mum’s lap

After nuzzling,

She takes a nap

Her tail wags and rises

When she wants to go outside

The window opens

Birds flee and hide

Jessie stays in the garden

The home, it’s her den

Jessie, a peaceful cat

So restful

She falls asleep on the mat 

The Lurcher Anthem. The Lurcher Anthem is one of the most popular songs in lurcher lore, sung with gusto! It is attributed to Fern, a brindle lurcher, and two of her pups, Jock and Meg.

Lurchers                                                                                                              Irena Szirtes

Which dog is jaunty,

Yet gentle and kind,

Keen-honed as a blade,

With lightning-fast mind?

     A lurcher, a lurcher,

     Such beauty and zest,

     A lurcher, a lurcher,

     By far heaven's best!

Which dog is most agile

For turning the hare,

Or spies the hare crouching

As if he's not there?

Which dog leaps higher than

Fawns in the Spring,

Or turns on a claw-point

Again and again?

      A lurcher, a lurcher,

      Such beauty and zest,

      A lurcher, a lurcher,

      By far heaven's best!

Which dog’s eyes shine brightest

And spy far away

Some movement that tells him

The nature of prey?

Whose ears are flattest,

Yet quickest to rise,

Not missing a whispering

Breath from his prize?

     A lurcher, a lurcher,

     Such beauty and zest,

     A lurcher,  a lurcher,

     By far heaven's best!

Which dog tosses some

Plaything up high,

Runs in swift circles

As fast as a fly?

Which dog sports muscle,

Strong sinew and might

Before other dogs,

Without picking a fight?

     A lurcher, a lurcher,

     Such beauty and zest,

     A lurcher, a lurcher,

     By far heaven's best!

Which dog runs swiftest

Like wind through a lane,

Fanning men's love to

A flaring hot flame?

Which dogs hide mischief,

Then sleep in their pen,

Yet cause men to love them

Again and again?

    A lurcher, a lurcher,

    Such beauty and zest,

    A lurcher, a lurcher,

    By far heaven's best!

Which dogs truly know

Creator draws near,

Gifting them bold hearts

For trampling through fear?

Which dog echoes

Creator's sweet grace,

Keeps loving his master

While keeping his place?

   A lurcher! A lurcher!

   So loyal and true-

   A lurcher,  a lurcher,

   O beauties, it's you!

   A lurcher! A lurcher!

   Such beauty and zest,

   A lurcher, a lurcher-

   By far heaven's best!

Speaking without Words by Irena Szirtes

          The day dawned with seductive normality, but set on tearing heartbreak.  As Tilly passed, a five-year window of sweet unexpected connection passed too. She was my first, my only, my heart horse.  As I cradled her head, soft eye-light stilled and I thought of my Grandad. How had he endured this agony again and again?   

   “A fine horseman, steady and trustworthy.” Those words, hand-written on his WW1 discharge papers, had provoked and captivated me.  A fine horseman: not someone who just fed, groomed and rode; horses trusted him, he calmed them as they hauled gun carriages to battle, and grieved if he had to fire the final merciful bullet. As soon as I knew Tilly was mine, my first thought was Grandad. He died too young, and I only ever met him as he walked -or rode- through Mum’s memories.          

 “Handsome brute, isn't he?” he had written on the back of her favourite photograph, “The horse I mean!”.   Yet I didn't aspire to his fine horsemanship. The years had taken their toll; I found myself surprisingly tentative around horses, and riding skills were rusty.   

   “Hack out and drink coffee.... that will do me,” I told them at the livery yard.  I was convinced, in my sixties, that anything more was out of reach. But then came the change that rocked my cautious world.

Green: an hour in the life of a horse! by Jennie Hart

'Star' by Millie Hart

For- goodness- sake Millie! Do I have to have another day in this god-forsaken field? Mara’s eaten all the nice munchy tops and thinks I can thrive on Ragwort. There’s not a blade left in the whole acreage. Oscar and me just about coped but Mara’s stretched the limit.

Sorry I spoke, here you come with my bridle. Oh I see, we’re not riding today, you’ve only got my leading rein. Well, that’s sensible; we don’t want another accident do we? Are we going up Moel-y-Golfa or just round the lanes? It’s a bit wet and slippery you know and my nails need clipping. And,I haven’t had new shoes for ages. 

Looks like it’s to be the lanes. At least I’ll have a chance to supplement my diet. And of all the cheek, Millie says I’m getting fat. It must be down to all those buckets of water I drank in that horrible hot weather. And they still insist on putting my rug on at night!

Oh! I love these juicy verges but Millie will drag me on. Where is a boy supposed to get his nourishment? Ah! We’re pausing. Chomp chomp. Chomp chomp. Sycamore leaves. A bit of a mistake. I like those rounded leaves with jagged edges, with a name the shade of Nana Joy’s eyes. Is it hazel I’m thinking of? That’s right, hazel; just a bit further on near the field gate. We’re walking on now but Millie usually let’s me stop there; she knows I am partial to a bit of hazel. Here we are and we’re stopping. Good old Millie. Knows how to spoil a horse. My word, it must be all that rain. Big succulent foliage like the palm of Millie’s hand. Absolutely delicious! I can’t get enough! Who said anything about greedy? It’s fuel for my fetlocks and marvellous for my mane! A dream for my diet.

Millie is letting me gobble my way along the verge. No ‘Come on Star!’ Not yet!.

Cow Parsley! Thistle tops! Meadow Sweet! Such sumptuous flavours! Millie, please don’t lead me on. Just one more chomp!

Hey Little Sparrow (a little ditty) by Sue Akande

 Hey little sparrow, where have you been?

I’ve missed seeing you from my kitchen.

I haven’t seen you for many a day,

Since my neighbour took his clematis away!

Hey little sparrow – it’s good to see you.

 

Hey little sparrow, where have you been?

I’ve missed your cheep, cheep, chirping.

I haven’t seen you for quite a while,

You and your family always made me smile.

Hey little sparrow – it’s good to see you.

 

Now it’s spring and the daffs are in bloom,

You’ll be building your nest quite soon.

I hope in my garden you will stay,

Bringing a little cheer every day.

Hey little sparrow – it’s good to see you.

Lap Dancer by Val Pedrick (nee Plante)

Our cat’s a ‘lap dancer’

She’s a ’there’s-a-lap!’ chancer.

Covertly observing the progress of lunch,

Until the last crumb, then comes ‘the crunch’

 

‘Sooty'  flies through the air.

Or approaches with care,

 

To claim her favourite perch,

Before I stand and lurch

 

For the kitchen, or a bus –

She’s no light-weight puss!

 

To Radio 4’s ‘Morning Story’

We relax, in our glory –

 

Then the telephone rings,

I rise, she still clings,

 

Abseils, claws like knives –

Risks another of her lives!

 

Banned from my scratched thighs, peeps

From stairs, saucer-eyed.

 

‘Though, as soon as I am seated

Bids for my lap are repeated

 

Reading newspapers will not deter

Resistance is futile, I cannot demur.

 

Once ensconced, a tentative paw Extends,

(with merely a hint of claw),

 

Daintily dabs at my idle hands,

Which obey her insistent demands;

 

To smooth silken ears and velvet black fur.

My reward? A warm lap and soothing purr.

(27^th May 2006)