Hooked

I don’t know where I’ll end up with this because as I’ve been going through various meanings of hooked. I’ve come across a link to an exhibition at the Science Gallery, London. It was entitled ‘HOOKED: WHEN WANT BECOMES NEED’ which had taken place between the 21st Sept 2018 and 27th January 2019.

the Science Gallery, London

It says ‘From gambling to gaming and smartphones to social media, HOOKED invited you to question what makes us as humans vulnerable to addiction and interrogated the underlying factors and routes to recovery. We invited you to challenge the stigmas associated with addiction, consider addiction as a health issue we are all susceptible to, and explore how recovery takes many forms.’

Which didn’t sound that promising until I saw some of the names of the Exhibits. The first one to make me look again was entitled ‘The Curtain of Broken Dreams’ by Natasha Caruana. I mean what a title for a poem.

It actually refers to the collection of pawned, discarded golden rings, which physically enmesh you (in the exhibition presumably), and which represents approximately 1% of divorces in the UK over a typical 12-month period.

The Curtain of Broken Dreams, Natasha Caruana, 2017

Number seven in the list of exhibits (there are twenty four) is an exhibition with the title of ‘Short Periods of Structured Nothingness’. Absolutely brilliant. I know a couple of poets who could really go to town with that.

Apparently it relates how Blast Theory worked with an anonymised group of young women who shared their lives and experiences with the artists over seven days through instant messaging, photos and phone calls.

Katriona Beales exhibit is called Entering the Machine Zone II which I find fascinating as much for the title (it’s the number II that intrigues me) as for the work itself which (from the brief summary) explores the theory that a major driver for gamblers is not money, but the dissociative, trance like state that continual play generates.

Entering the Machine Zone II, Katriona Beales, 2018

Tony Smoking Backwards by Richard Billingham is a title that could be worked on. The summary says: Richard’s subjects reflect his working class roots, but the underlying issues in his work are universal: anyone from any class can get bored or develop dependencies, even if some do so with more material comfort.

And exhibit number 22 is the wonderfully titled Another Day on Earth (Marshmallow Pants) by Olivia Locher. I haven’t read the whole summary as I don’t want to spoil the beginning:

‘Ladies tights stuffed with mouthwatering marshmallows suggest an unwieldy, uncomfortable body, deformed by the fluffy, swollen confections...’

Well all that was unexpected. And I’ve never heard of the Science Gallery London. As I said earlier the above exhibition was from 2018/9. The current one is entitled Quantum Untangled and is on until Feb 28th, 2026.

It can be found here:

King’s College London, Guy’s Campus
Great Maze Pond
London SE1 9GU
Nearest station: London Bridge (use Guy’s Hospital exit).

I’ve been writing about how the titles of the exhibits could be the title of a poem as a hook to read the poem which has got me thinking about a title which has done that for me. After a bit of a think I’m going for ‘Song of Myself’ by Walt Whitman as not only did it attract my attention at the time I first saw it but it also has the best first and hookish lines, in my opinion.

Walt Whitman, Song Of Myself

Song of Myself (1892 version)

1

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

                                                                    Walt Whitman


Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

Read More

Hooked

One Enid Blyton book was all it took to set me off on a life-time of reading. I’ve mentioned before about the box of books left ‘for the little girl’ in a pub we were moving into. The little girl was me, aged seven and the pub was The Boar’s Head in Blackpool. This was my introduction to The Broons and Oor Wullie, which enabled me to master a Scottish accent on paper. My teacher was not impressed, bless her. It was also my introduction to a love of Enid Blyton stories, with the donated hard-backs of The Secret Seven, The Ring o’ Bells Mystery and The Rilloby Fair Mystery. I was hooked. I read them over and over again. I remember finishing The Rilloby Fair Mystery and going straight back to the beginning. I loved it so much. A nearby newsagents sold toys and books. My parents knew exactly what to bring home for me. I still have most of the books. My children preferred Roald Dahl and J.K.Rowling. My grandchildren prefer activities on screens – a sign of the times – but Michael Rosen is loved by a grandson and Jacqueline Wilson is loved by a granddaughter. I was born in the ‘50s, thank goodness.

Another thing got me hooked, literally. My grandmother taught me to knit. My mother did, as well, but it was mainly Nanna. She crocheted a lot, making herself lacy tops that were like works of art. She had the patience of a saint trying to teach me. Watching her, deliberately going slow to show me, I would be confident that ‘I’d got it’. She would start me off by making a chain then handing me the hook and yarn to carry on. We were making a scarf. I was making a mess.

“Oh, give it here!” Another exasperated grumble as she grabbed the tangle of wool from my hands.

This went on into my teens and I failed to crochet anything except the foundation chain.

My grandmother passed away when I was nineteen. Something must have clicked because shortly after, I discovered I could crochet, after all, and I still do. I crocheted a fancy bedspread. That was the first thing I made. I have lots of blankets I’ve made from crocheted granny squares and I’ve managed to crochet teddy bears for charity. Yes, I’m crochet hooked.

Enid Blyton, known as a story writer, but less known as a poet. This is one of hers,

Fairy Snow

Yesterday, the sky was white,
For one big cloud was spread
From east to west and north to south
Above my head.

But in the night the fairy-folk
Began to wonder why
They saw no moon nor little stars
About the sky.

They didn’t like that big white cloud,
So up they softly flew
And tore it all to tiny bits
The whole night through.

And one by one the bits fell down,
Like feathers soft and white,
Until the ground was overspread
With dazzling white.

And now today that big white cloud
Beneath my feet is spread,
And all the sky is blue again
Above my head.

Enid Blyton  1897-1968

 Greetings from Dumfries & Galloway. Thanks for reading, Pam 

Read More

Endlings

""My dear fellow, you are cordially invited", so it read... an invitation to Endlings, Lord Abaddon's country pile near Upper Slaughter in the Cotswolds. Perhaps you know it. 

Endlings

"A last hurrah", it promised, "our final house party of the season. A spot of shooting. Everything must go. Bring that pretty little mistress of yours. I'll provide the guns. Morty. RSVP."

How could I say no? I'd known Morty since our days in South Africa, before the Boer Wars that saw many of us ship out finally for England. His family had always been big game hunters. It was in their blood, a proud tradition of claiming the last kill of the species. It became a standing joke that they were  living up to the family name.

His great-grandfather Royston Killcullen (1764-1827) had bagged the last surviving Bluebuck in Swellendam, Western Cape, in 1806. His grandfather Josiah Killcullen, the first Lord Abaddon (1800-1869) shot the only Cape Lion left in Natal in 1854. Its skin is in the library at Endlings. His father Daniel Killcullen, the second Lord Abaddon (1833-1902) had needed to roam further afield  to make his mark. He is credited with having bagged the final Atlas Bear on a hunt in Morocco in 1873. And Morty himself, the current Lord Abaddon (1858-    ), was proud to have ambushed and killed the last Quagga on a shooting party in the Southern Plains to celebrate his 21st birthday. 

a Quagga

However, when it became known a few years later that that there was still one Quagga living in captivity in Amsterdam Zoo, he needed to take care of that one too, in a stealthy night raid with a poison-dart gun on 12th August 1883. I should know. I accompanied him. For Morty it was a matter of family honour, and it was a secret between just a few of us.

So of course I would join the final house party of the season. I was intrigued by the suggestion that everything must go. Was Morty heading back to Africa ahead of the prospect of war in Europe? Anyway, apparently eight of us chaps would be there, Morty, his two uncles, his younger brother Thomas, myself and three other old friends.

I picked Diana up from her Kensington mews and we motored out to the west country on Friday afternoon in my brand new Vauxhall Velox. On the way she asked me why the place was called Endlings, such a strange name. So I regaled her with the Killcullan family's proud tradition of being in at the extinction of several species over four generations. I must say she seemed less than impressed, went rather quiet in fact. So it's just as well I hadn't admitted to being present when Morty had offed the last Quagga (on two separate occasions).

Anyway, she was rather more impressed with Endlings when we arrived, sweeping through those gates and up the tree-lined drive to the great house in its acres of parkland, with the occasional sightings of shy Schomburgk's deer. We were graciously received by Morty himself and I was given my usual quarters in the south wing, where Diana and I spent a happy couple of hours before we dressed for dinner.

The talk at table, and what a sumptuous repast it was, concerned itself much with the coming war, for a set-to with Germany does seem inevitable. We debated the pros and cons of offering our services at our age, and in what capacity. The splendid 1884 Margaux may have fuelled our brave talk.

Then Morty explained what he planned for the morrow and why. Always a superstitious fellow, he had recently engaged the services of Mrs Annie Brittain, much touted as "England's premier clairvoyant", and she had put the wind up him by claiming to foresee that his days were numbered and that his herd of deer would be the cause. That a woman from Staffordshire might know about his secret herd of Schomburgk's deer was enough to convince Morty of the veracity of  the clairvoyant's prediction and so in the morning we were all to be afforded a splendid day's shooting until we had dispatched every last animal. We protested that he shouldn't take such prophesising seriously, but he was adamant, and as his family and friends we must support him in ridding this threat to his life.

a shooting party at the lodge

We duly assembled at the lodge after breakfast on Saturday, having left the ladies in the party to their devices, and off we set on foot with field-glasses, ammo belts, weapons at the ready and no little sense of  anticipation and excitement, to track down Morty's herd of Schomburgks. 

We walked eight abreast in an wide arc down through the park towards where Morty said the deer usually grazed, but they were nowhere to be seen. So then we stalked their tracks across to the woodland in the northeast corner of the estate and thought we caught a glimpse of a few among the trees. This would be more fun, more of a challenge, than taking them down in open country.

I almost can't bring myself to narrate what unfolded next. 

Morty knelt, took aim and fired the first shot, but the next minute he lay collapsed on the ground. Had that second retort been an echo or was it really returning fire from the woodland? As we leaped to Morty's aid, we knew he was a goner, with a bullet hole in the middle of his head. Our instinctive reaction was to drop to the ground and scan the woods. 

Morty's uncle Edward took charge of the situation. signalling for me to head round left towards the woods and Thomas, Morty's brother to flank out towards the right. He had barely started running when another shot rang out which threw him backwards and he lay still as death. I dropped to the ground a second time and lay waiting and watching. 

The other five then started firing volley after volley into the trees. Deer came darting out in all directions. Some were hit and fell quivering, some ran off as fast as their legs would take them. The shooting party kept on firing regardless for several more minutes and then paused. All was silent for a long while. 

I was signalled again to flank out left and into the cover of the nearest trees. I proceeded cautiously, working my way from tree to tree until I came upon Diana's body, riddled with bullets. I had never even imagined that she knew how to handle a gun."

There is no poem today. My short fiction should suffice. By the way, the endlings - the term applied to the last of a species or the last of a line- are hyperlinked in the text (the names in bold green type), so if you wish to read more about those sadly extinct species, just click on the names and they will take you to Wikipedia entries.

As for Schomburgk's Deer, the very last recorded specimen in the wild was killed by a hunter in Thailand in 1932. Another survived as a tame animal kept at a Thai temple until 1938, when it was stabbed by a drunken man who perhaps thought it a wild deer.

There isn't a hyperlink for Morty Killcullen, the third Lord Abaddon. But then his was an end to a line best forgotten, wouldn't you agree?

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

Read More

Endlings

I’d never heard of the word Endlings before and neither had friends when I asked them about it. It wasn’t Endings as I first thought when I read the word but in a way it is. It was first proposed in a letter to the editors of Nature on April 4, 1996, in which the correspondents wrote:

‘There is a need for a word in taxonomy, and in medical genealogical, scientific, biological and other literature, that does not occur in the English or any other language. We need a word to designate the last person, animal or other species in his/her/its lineage.’

A few years later in 2001, the National Museum of Australia, in Sydney, used the word in an exhibit in reference to the thylacine (also called the Tasmanian tiger), and its common usage was established.

thylacines (Tasmanian tigers) by Henry Constantine Richter (1821–1902)

When I started to look up the uses of it there were the expected scientific ones but surprisingly there have been two books entitled 'Endlings' and one of them had been longlisted for the 2025 Booker Prize. It is a debut novel by Maria Reva and is set in Ukraine and follows three women and an endangered snail species on a journey across the country during the Russian invasion.

The other is an epic fantasy from Katherine Applegate about Byx, the youngest member of her dairne pack, a rare doglike species. Her pack is lured into a trap and wiped out. As Byx sets out on a quest to find a safe haven—and perhaps even another of her kind—she meets new allies, who each have their own motivations for joining her.

There is also a Canadian science fiction television series about four young children living on a farm, who discover an extraterrestrial alien on their property after its spaceship crashes, and become drawn into the adventures of helping the alien in its mission to save endangered species.

Let’s get back to reality and for an example of Endlings look at what happened to the thylacine mentioned above. 

According to the National Museum of Australia the name thylacine roughly translates (from the Greek via Latin) as ‘dog-headed pouched one’. It was once the world’s largest marsupial carnivore. It was commonly known as the Tasmanian tiger, due to the distinctive stripes on its back. Despite its fierce reputation, the thylacine was semi-nocturnal and was described as quite shy, usually avoiding contact with humans. The fossilised remains of thylacines have been found in Papua New Guinea, throughout the Australian mainland and Tasmania.

one of the last thylacines (Tasmanian tigers) in captivity

Factors including the introduction of the dingo led to the extinction of the thylacine in all areas except Tasmania about 2,000 years ago. The thylacine population in Tasmania at the time of European settlement is estimated at about 5,000. The establishment of European settlements in Tasmania in the early 1800s resulted in colonists clearing large areas of land and cultivating livestock such as sheep and cattle.

As early as 1830 bounty systems for the thylacine had been established, with farm owners pooling money to pay for skins. In 1888 the Tasmanian Government also introduced a bounty of £1 per full-grown animal and 10 shillings per juvenile animal destroyed. The program extended until 1909 and resulted in the awarding of more than 2,180 bounties.

The last known shooting of a wild thylacine took place in 1930, and by the mid part of that decade sightings in the wild were extremely rare. Authorities from scientific and zoological communities became concerned about the state of the decimated thylacine population and pushed for preservation measures to be undertaken. However, a shift in public opinion and the start of conservation action came too late. The species was granted protected status just 59 days before the death of the last known thylacine, which died in Hobart’s Beaumaris Zoo, possibly from exposure and neglect, on 7 September 1936.

My friend Julie Maclean lives near Geelong in Australia and has travelled around Tasmania. Ginninderra Press published her pamphlet in 2022 entitled ‘Spirit. Visiting the ghosts of Lutruwita (Tasmania)’. 

Julie Maclean (photo by Tania Hershman)

This poem is taken from that publication.

Thylacine

I saw you, I did.
You crossed in front of me
at midnight on the Fish Creek Road.
You were dead skinny with a
bone of a tail.

I was driving
in my canary yellow Corolla
with my young lover in the dead of night.
A dead secret between us, Foxy Boy.
Remember me?

                                 Julie Maclean, 2022

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

Read More

My Home Town

When I get asked 'Where are you from?' I'm not sure what answer to give, or even what answer people expect to hear. At least I don't get the follow-on question 'Yes, but where are you really from?' That's because I'm a white person living in the UK, though I was born in West Africa, a fact that several of my past girlfriends have used to wind their parents up. ("Well don't think you'll be bringing him home!") 

The traditional answer to the "Where are you from?" question used to be the place someone was born and spent their formative years, where they have family roots. It was so much more clear cut in the old days when social mobility was the exception.

Right now (at least since 2013) my home town is Blackpool, jewel of the north, but  my only real tie to the place - though I love it and it feels like home - is to the football team. It's why I ever came here at all, because a young lad growing up in West Africa 3,000 miles from the nearest English football league club has no natural affiliation, except that Blackpool won their only FA Cup in the year I was born and that has been good enough for me.

As for my original home town, and the house in which I spent those formative years, that was in a place called Afon, in Nigeria. You've never heard of Afon. It wasn't very populous in the 1950s and was described in the somewhat tribal chronicles of the region as an ancient “walled” town which has never been conquered in history by any other town. Its residents were mostly farmers and their families, the farms being spread around outside the town walls. The nearest big town was Ilorin, about twelve miles away. You've probably never heard of that either. 

our house in Afon, Nigeria, 1950s

During the time I lived in Afon, neighbouring Ilorin was about the size of modern-day Blackpool, population approximately 130,000. It had a royal chief (or Emir) who lived in a palace and whom I had the privilege of meeting when I was about four years old. It was the administrative and commercial centre of the region, with a Moslem law court, several large markets, including a night market, shops, hospital, high school et cetera. It still has an Emir in fact. His Royal Highness, Alhaji (Dr.) Ibrahim Sulu-Gambari, is the 11th Emir of Ilorin. He ascended the throne in 1995. I may even have met him, for he would have been in his late teens when I was presented to his father. Afon and Ilorin are both in Kwara state, in southwestern Nigeria. (Google Maps if interested.)

Of course, Nigeria has changed almost beyond recognition since I was born and grew up there. Afon itself may still be relatively rural, a farming town of some 20,000 inhabitants, approximately the size of Penwortham or Buxton, but nearby Ilorin has ballooned from its 130,000 into a major city (Nigeria's 7th largest) with a population today of over 1 million. It boasts an international airport, contains Nigeria's largest university and now has a National League football club, ABS FC or Abubakar Bukola Saraki Football Club, named after the man who owns it. (Can you imagine Simon Sadler FC?)

Nigeria itself claims to be the wealthiest country in Africa. It certainly is the most populous, with some 230 million citizens (making it the 6th most populous in the world after India, China, USA, Indonesia and Pakistan). That wealth is largely built on its oil industry, followed by chemicals, machinery, food and drink, leather and textiles. Some assert it has become one of the most corrupt countries, with bribery rife. I don't know. I've not been back there since I was a boy, and have no desire to do so now,

Afon in the 2020s

As to why Nigeria was the land of my birth and Afon my home town, that was down to social mobility of a most specific kind. My father and mother were devout Christians who met shortly after World War II at an evangelical event in Huddersfield. He was training to be a minister of religion, she was a midwife. They fell in love and, fired by a belief that they had been "called by God", they decided to get married and offer themselves for missionary work in Africa. I suppose they were almost the last of a long line of well-intentioned Christians who had gone overseas since mid-Victorian times, to spread the word of Jesus and generally 'improve the lives' of the native peoples by building chapels, schools and medical facilities, all under the benevolent arch of colonialism. Nigeria was not yet an independent country when they embarked on their mission in 1951.

My father went trekking through the bush to all the villages and towns round about, converting people to Christianity. Many up to that point had been worshipping their ancestral tribal gods and getting their medical aid from witch doctors. Many others were Muslims whom he sought to persuade to change allegiances. He organised the building of chapels and schools for the new congregations of Nigerian converts. My mother ran the local medical centre and dispensary in Afon until my arrival, the first of their three children to be born there.

I suppose I had a happy enough though quite isolated childhood and all of my early years memories are of our big old thatched-roof bungalow (without electricity or running water), the expansive garden with its fruit trees, our pet peacock, ducks and rabbits, the constant warnings about snakes and scorpions, the occasional sightings of elephants and other wild life, and it always being warm, even in the rainy season. I just accepted everything, in the way children do. It never occurred to me to wonder why everyone was a different colour to me and my parents, or to question the fact that we had a gardener and a 'houseboy', the nearest I had to a friend. I learned to speak some Yoruba (the local language) though I've forgotten most of it. I was schooled at home, can still remember a time before I could read for myself and what a magical mystery books seemed until I mastered the skill. And I loved music, played on my parents' wind-up gramophone.  

But of course I and we never really belonged to Afon or the land of my birth. Roots, aunts, uncles and grandparents, were in faraway England. They used to send Christmas cards with snow on (how strange I used to find that) for our Christmas days were always hot and sunny. They would send books, football annuals and the like, and I was always conscious that we lived a somewhat exotic existence in our town of mud walls, thatched huts, red dirt roads, beds with mosquito nets on, and diet of yams, maize, groundnut stews, with  poultry, mangos, bananas and grapefruit from the garden..

picking grapefruit with my (pregnant) mum in our Afon garden

It was an unusual and in some ways quite privileged childhood. I never knew what cold was until we returned as a family to England, a much better option in retrospect than my parents sending us off to boarding school. But as I said earlier, I have never felt any desire to return to Nigeria. I follow the progress of their national football team with interest, and I enjoy the country's Highlife music (Fela Kuti, Prince Nico, Sunny Ade), but as for the rest, it has all changed so much. The best and worst parts live on in memory.

The very worst part of all was our house burning down and me having to watch it do so. That traumatic event has given rise to today's poem. Some burning grass from a nearby field had been carried about half a mile on the wind and landed on the tinder-dry thatched roof of our house, which went up in flames. 

I've titled the poem in reference to Morimi, the Yoruba goddess of fire. She got invoked when flames were used to prepare the earth for new planting. She was also known for deliberately setting the countryside on fire. So there's an irony somewhere in the fate of our Christian missionary house in Afon. We lost everything in that blaze. When nowadays I see footage of houses being consumed by wildfires as a result of global warming, I know just how those poor people feel.

Morimi Strikes Alight

A roar like motorbikes approaching

but the road is empty, no dust rising,

clear to the vanishing point. Yet still

they sound, nearer, louder. And then

smoke comes billowing down, spikes

of burning thatch, a rain of scorpions.

We leap up from the veranda, run out,

turn back to see the roof ablaze. I'm 4

and my house is on fire. We had just

started tea, my brother, mother and I.

Soon come shouts and men running,

our father, villagers, armed with cans

and buckets, anything to carry water

in a human chain from the water tank

to hurl it at the flames. Through door

and windows we see the thatch fall in

setting the whole insides alight. I fret

my parents might try to rescue things

but the fire is so intense, scorching us

as we stand and watch it, mesmerised,

horrified. If I have any concept of hell

it's just being realised before my eyes.

By evening, my home is a charred and

flickering shell. We all stink of smoke,

are smutted and thirsty, my teddy bear

burned, my books are ash, but we four 

are safe, if homeless. I don't know how 

we'll sleep tonight, or where we might.

our house in Afon after the fire, 1958

Ku ni ilera.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

Read More

Bolton - My Home Town

Of course it’s not Bolton, Lancashire anymore. Bolton, Greater Manchester doesn’t sound as good, does it? But that’s what it is now.

I have always loved James Taylor’s “In my Mind I am going to Carolina”. It is not really a song just about Carolina, of course. It’s a song about going home. Well just not about going home because for him in the song and for me in my poem below, “Home” is a state of mind.

I spent the first twenty five years of my life in Bolton but think about it every day. I have carried some of the imagery in the poem for most of the time since. A couple of weeks ago I paid a visit home to backfill the story. Hence the poem.

Bolton town centre 1960s

Hometown

When you get off a plane abroad,
the first thing that hits you is the heat.
Bolton’s not quite like that.
It’s cold and wet.
But I want to hear the accent.
To wrap it round me like a comfort blanket.
That throaty sound found on corners when I was a kid
But in this borough of splendid diversity,
It’s getting harder to hear “Eeh by gum” or “Are’t all rite?”
Maybe it’s only found now in the traditional songs and ballads.
Bernard Bullfrog Wrigley, Bob Williamson, the Valley Folk,
singing into the microphone at a folk club
and me.

I unfolded a street map and laid it out like a quilt,
letting my fingers weave across its coloured squares.
Through the houses, streets and alleys of my past
to find a cabinet of curiosities stuffed with memories.
The Iron Church Draycott Street Scouts on Friday.
Woolworths little boys learnt to shoplift.
The Palais on Sunday night’s boys tapping up girls.
The Man and Scythe teenagers learnt to drink.
Hayward Grammar if you passed 8 “0 levels” it was a ticket out.
Last but not least a full set of Wanderers programmes,
Frank Worthington, Nat Lofthouse and Jay Jay,
scoring goals for fun down at Burnden Park
and me.

Then the town centre appeared,
as theatre scenery staging its own history.
Bolton in all its post war you never had it so good glory.
Romance and nostalgia cousins of deceit
playing hop scotch on the shadows of my youth.
Suddenly the set came crashing down like demolished mill chimneys,
to reveal endless vape stores, bookies, charity shops and takeaways
in repetition as far as the eye could see.
But look up above the hoardings and shop fronts.
Inscriptions carved into brick that reflect past glory.
Richard Arkwright, William Lever and Samuel Crompton,
crouching stone lions on the town hall steps ready to roar,
and me.

Burnden Park

For Sharon, Trish, Rosemary,
and me.

Bill Allison

Read More

Lancashire Dead Good Poets' December Open Mic Night

Our last virtual open mic night of the year will be on Thursday 4th December via Zoom. Early booking is advised. 

There is no set theme, and there are 20 x 5-minute slots available for readers. It's also okay to just listen in. To book a place and get the Zoom sign-in code, email deadgoodpoets@hotmail.co.uk

To make the occasion more festive, feel free to have mince pies and wine on hand on the night. 🍷

Steve ;-)

Read More

My Home Town

My Home Town, not My Home City or Village. That might be because the single beat of a word town rolls off the tongue better than the two of City or Village, or more likely the concept of the size of a town is more comfortable than the large and small numbers of people in the other two. I’m from Birmingham and I’ll say it’s my home town.

early Victorian Birmingham

What I won’t say is that I’m from Brummagem, which appeared in the Middle Ages as a variant on the older form of Bermingeham, which is in the Domesday Book, and was in widespread use by the time of the Civil War.

I didn’t know until today that Brummagem was a pejorative term in the 17th Century. It had a brief reputation for counterfeiting groats. The word passed into political slang in the 1680s. The Protestant supporters of the Exclusion Bill were called by their opponents Birminghams or Brummagems (a slur, in allusion to counterfeiting, implying hypocrisy). Their Tory opponents were known as anti-Birminghams or anti-Brummagems.

By the 18th century times had definitely changed and it is of this part of the story of Birmingham that I’m most fond. The Lunar Society, or Lunar Circle met in and around Birmingham between 1765 and 1813. They were very particular about who was allowed to become a member. An exclusive club, it never had more than fourteen core members, and each member was noted for their special area of expertise including the greatest engineers, scientists and thinkers of the day. 

the Lunar Society

Their preferred venue was Soho House in Handsworth, the home of Mathew Boulton who was the heart of the Lunar Society. It is said that this group would bring about the ultimate fusion of science and social change that would fuel the fires and ignite the Industrial Revolution.

The society gained its name as its monthly meetings were always scheduled for the Monday nearest to the full moon, the better light helping to ensure the members a safer journey home along the dangerous, unlit streets. They actually called themselves the lunarticks.

For a terrific read about the group I’d recommend ‘The Lunar Men: The Friends Who Made the Future’ by Jenny Uglow.

Here are a few of them:

Mathew Boulton. The leading industrialist of his day, he developed modern-day industrial practice and introduced the first workers’ insurance schemes and sick pay.

James Watt. Developed the world beating steam engines that provided the power for the new factories that were springing up across the country.

Erasmus Darwin. Poet, inventor and botanist. He published a theory of evolution 60 years before his grandson Charles. He developed a steering system that was used by Henry Ford and a mechanical copying machine. A visionary, who predicted the use of steam powered propulsion.

Josiah Wedgwood. The father of English pottery, who was also Charles Darwin’s other grandfather. As an industrialist, he was dedicated to improving everyday life and brought affordable tableware to the masses.

Joseph Priestley. The cleric and scientist, famous for isolating oxygen, discovering carbon dioxide and carbonated (fizzy) drinks.

The meetings were not dry and pompous. When Darwin was unable to attend due to a fever he wrote a letter of lament for his absence:

“Lord! What inventions, what wit, what rhetoric, metaphysical, mechanical and pyrotechnical, will be on the wing, bandy’d like a shuttlecock fro, one to another of your troop of philosophers!”

I’m thinking that the following covers the 19th, 20th and 21st centuries.

Gas Street Basin, Birmingham

Bridge 88

(for Anne)

There are more canals in Birmingham
than there are in Venice
and who would deny
that the Gas Street Basin
has more of an atmosphere
than the Ponte de Rialto

although as you pointed out
over tea at the old café
it’s actually more miles of canal
which, surprisingly, didn’t annoy me
as you picked up your keys
keen to explore the path

past bars and posh restaurants
past apartments with balconies
places where the cut
was really from the past

until we went under
the old brick road bridge
and you stopped suddenly
as I thought you might

it’s what towpaths are for
that look of surprise
you pointing to the other side
where a screen of trees
stretched beyond distance

you were telling me all the names
while I was keeping an eye
on the railway tracks this side
wishing I still had my Ian Allan

the spell wasn’t broken
by a narrow boat passing
we waved back to the couple

you asked if we could walk to Worcester
water has that effect on folk.

First published in Acumen, May 2025

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

Read More

Achievement

Many men and women deserve credit for moving human civilisation forward, for helping to cultivate the tree of knowledge, if you like. That being the case, it's almost invidious to pick out a greatest achiever or achievement. It would be akin to having to select a player of the match after a brilliant team display by Blackpool FC this afternoon. Nonetheless, I'm going to nominate Carl Linnaeus, as one worthy among many. His crowning achievement was to be the father of taxonomy. Sorry Hatshepsut, Aristotle, Euclid, Hippocrates, Pliny, Galileo, Newton, Merian, Darwin, Curie, Einstein et al. 

For those of you not familiar with Linnaeus, he only went and classified the natural world back in the 18th century.  "The first step in wisdom is to know the things themselves; this notion consists in having a true idea of the objects; objects are distinguished and known by classifying them methodically and giving them appropriate names. Therefore, classification and name-giving will be the foundation of our science." 

This classification, as outlined in 'Imperium Naturae' and 'Systema Naturae' is still the basis of the formal scientific naming system of animals, minerals and plants 300 years later. Good on him.

Carl Linnaeus (1707-1778)

Linnaeus, born in Sweden and educated at Lund and Uppsala universities, was a biologist and physician who not only became a Professor of both Medicine and Botany but who also spent much of his life collecting, discovering and classifying plants and animals. By the time of his death he was one of the most acclaimed scientists in Europe, known variously as the Prince of Botanists, the "Pliny of the North" and one of the founders of modern ecology. 

From an early age he had a love of plants and the natural world. As a child he was given his own patch in his father's garden where he could grow flowers. At school he would bunk off and go exploring in the countryside looking for plants. As a student, at Lund and then Uppsala, he was lucky to have excellent mentors who encouraged his love of botany in particular.. 

the Linnaeus summer home at Hammarby near Uppsala

His greatest legacy is the system of classification that he developed and expounded in those seminal works of the mid-18th century, written in Latin as the international scientific language of the day. Linnaean taxonomy, his formal and rigorous multi-level system of naming things, soon superseded all previous attempts at codification. There are seven layers to Linnaean classification, applicable to all living things, and the sequence goes as follows: Kingdom - Phylum - Class - Order - Family - Genus - Species. (If you want a mnenonic by which to remember the sequence, I give you: kids prefer candy over fresh green salad.)

There are only five kingdoms: Animals (all multicellular living organisms), Plants (all green plants), Fungi (moulds, mushrooms, yeasts), Protists (amoeba etc) and Prokaryotes (bacteria and algae).

There are many phyla, including: Chordata (with backbones), Arthropods (jointed legs, exoskeletons) and Annelids (segmented worms).

Class is a subdivision of a phylum. For chordata, that might be: Mammals, Birds, Amphibians, Fish, Reptiles.

Within class there are orders. Within mammals are found such orders as: Carnivores and Primates.

Orders are further subdivided into families. The order of carnivores includes, among others, the families of: Canidae (dogs) and Felidae (cats).

Genus follows on from family. Felidae contains the likes of: Acinonyx (cheetahs etc), Panthera (lions and tigers etc), Neofelis (such as clouded leopard) and Felis (domestic cats).

Species is the lowest level of classification and, as you might have deduced from the paragraph above, divides a genus into specific animals (or plants or fungi etc). In my drill-down example, Panthera comprises just five species: Jaguar, Leopard, Lion, Snow Leopard and Tiger.

Because Linnaeus wrote in Latin, all seven divisions of any creature's full taxonomy are in Latin, and its binomial is always the genus and species. Accordingly, what we call a jaguar is termed Panthera onca and its full seven level classification is: Animalia - Chordata - Mammalia - Carnivora - Felidae - Panthera - Onca. Oh, the beauty of it.

What Linnaeus did for animals in the example above, he also did for plants.

frontispiece of Praeludia Sponsaliorum Plantarum, 1729

I don't know how far he got with his system of classification, whether fungi, protists and prokaryotes were afforded the same level of attention, but his methodology became universally accepted and scientists ever since have used it when discussing or writing about existing species, but also to categorise both 'new' species as they have been discovered in the last 300 hundred years, and to retrospectively categorise 'extinct' species as evidence about them  has come to light. That's quite some legacy, and a phenomenal achievement, I think you'll agree.

To conclude, a new poem from the imaginarium.

Shopping For Green Tea And Honey

(warning: contains binomials)

   

Saturday market by the harbour wall

between rows of tamarisk trees,

sometimes referred to as salt cedars.

They shade the stalls in this island port.

Linnaeus, himself named after a lime tree,

devised the taxonomy by which this avenue

of tamarisks is known as Tamarix parviflora,

occasionally by its synonym Tamarix cretica.

I don't tell you any of this, you'd be bored.

Not much has essentially changed here

in centuries, except for tourists of course

and the euro usurping the oldest coinage.

I'm happily shopping for green tea and honey

but you're impatient to strip off, start tanning.

You'll burn, you always overdo it, won't be told.

We have two glorious weeks ahead. Go slow.

Camellia sinensis. loose leafed, weighed out

into a brown paper bag. And honey comes in

so many colours, depending on the varieties

of plants Cretan bees collected nectar from.

I prefer thyme honey, from Thymus capitatus.

Would you be interested to know that honey

is an excellent natural treatment for sunburn?

Green tea also. I'll save those facts for later. 

Thanks for reading, have a good week. S ;-)

Read More

Achievement

Achievement can mean many things to many people across all cultures, ages, backgrounds and social status. In essence, achievement involves an act of accomplishing a task, a goal or achieving something through courage, determination and skill. A dictionary definition of achievement may not provide a glimpse of the effort and intention required for someone to attain their target nor the personal sacrifice required to reach their allotted goal. Achievement is personal but it can also be local, national or international such as scoring a winning goal in a local football cup competition or a gold medal in the Olympics.

For most people, achievement is deeply personal and can be associated with self-development development, self-improvement or pursing one’s hobbies. Personal achievement can be measured in passing examinations, learning to speak another language or learning to play a musical instrument. Here it could be argued that achievement involves the experiences learned along the way in addition to any certification which recognises such attainments. When pursing achievement an individual learns many things about themselves and develop attributes such as perseverance, inner strength and tenacity. Self-esteem, self-confidence and self-motivation are also improved through the process of achievement.

celebrating academic achievement

Achievement can also be celebrated in wider society such as passing examinations, gaining a university degree, or being promoted at work. This means achievement is recognised and validated by external sources such as exam bodies, continuing professional development courses or work progression routes. This can mean increased social status, increased financial renumeration or public recognition such as winning an accolade of some sort. However, if external recognition is the basis of achievement, the lack of personal fulfilment may form internal disaffection and, therefore, the need to for more external validation which can have negative consequences for the individual concerned.

It is important to consider that achievement is rarely a straight-line process and journey. There are setbacks, disappointments and outright failures which are part and parcel of the achievement experience. Consequently, overcoming obstacles, barriers and setbacks are what makes achievement all the sweeter, character building and more rewarding when it occurs. Learning from mistakes, overcoming obstacles, adapting to new environments and persisting in the face of adversity are essential for building character, inner strength and resilience. These newly found attributes help individuals to overcome challenges in the future. People in all walks of life have faced moments when defeat is staring them in the face. Yet somehow, somewhere they conjure up the wherewithal to overcome defeat and go on to great success. Therefore, setbacks provide the opportunity for growth and propel people to their goals.

physical achievement on an assault course

Achievement and its meaning can change over time and today in the modern world achievement may not necessarily be defined by material wealth, social status or celebrity status. Many people now seek to define achievement as something more personal, creating greater work-life balance, enhancing their sense of well-being and contributing to local comminates, their local environment and wider society. Volunteering, joining art groups, poetry societies, local football clubs or helping out in hospitals are all forms of achievement on a personal level and are celebrated as such by the participants.

Ultimately, achievement is highly personal and is a highly individual experience. Such a journey is formed by personal values, societal influences and the different challenges and obstacles people confront along the way. Whether these achievements are large or small, public or private accomplishments is irrelevant as they are all successes that are highly personal to those who undertake them in the first place. All achievements add to an individual’s esteem, help to build a meaningful life and encourage people to achieve their potential. Engaging in achievement activities allows the individual to develop the capacity to grow and inspire themselves and others to attain and improve their skills. This allows people to acquire resilience and develop an inner strength that creates self-confidence, inner satisfaction and a sense of achievement. What more could anyone ask for?

Achievement

Be in no doubt, you’re in with
a shout, you’re going to succeed

Aim for the sky, no obstacle too tough
or too high, you’re going to succeed

You’ve done the hard yards and played
the right cards, you’re going to succeed

Give it your best shot, let it have all that
you’ve got, you’re going to succeed

Believe that you are strong, that you can
do no wrong, you’re going to succeed

When you cross that line with your best
Finishing time, you know you have succeeded

Thanks for reading and please leave a comment as they are always appreciated.

Dermot

Read More