Memories - Remember when...

                                   

This Pantoum poem of mine came up on Facebook Memories the other day, in line with Remembrance Sunday. I wrote it in June, 2018, exactly one hundred years since my paternal grandfather’s 18th birthday. He was going off to war. I have his bible with a hand-written message inside from his future mother-in-law, wishing him well and a safe return.

I wonder, was it hot like today?
And was he eager, and was he keen
To get to Belgium, where he would stay
In the summer of nineteen-eighteen.

And was he eager, and was he keen
Joining his comrades to go to war?
In the summer of nineteen-eighteen,
Manchester boys, not travelled before.

Joining his comrades to go to war,
Weighed down with stuff and Army khaki.
Manchester boys, not travelled before
Building up some camaraderie.

Weighed down with stuff and Army khaki,
Merriment from the back of the truck,
Building up some camaraderie.
Take care now boys, and the best of luck.

Merriment from the back of the truck,
Grandad George with that Manchester lot.
Take care now boys, and the best of luck.
And I’m still wondering, was it hot?

                                                                   PMW 2018



I have some photos that my grandfather and his fiancée gave to each other, with shared messages. The sentiments are beautiful. The young lady became my grandmother. I didn’t have her for long, but we made memories and she is still close to my heart. I can’t really imagine the romance between the two of them, even though the proof is there.

Between the ages of 6 and nearly 8, I loved to stay with them during school holidays. I was their long-awaited, first and only grandchild for years, so they probably made the most of having me around. They lived in a bungalow in Heald Green. It was Cheshire at that time, but I think it’s been swallowed up into South Manchester now. Ringway airport, now Manchester International was close by and the planes coming and going were a source of fascination to me. I wondered if they might land on the roof. My nanna’s scrambled eggs were the best I’ve ever had. I can’t make them anything like as good as hers and I’ve spent many years trying to.

I’ve been jotting down a few memories of that side of my family to pass on to a cousin who is working on a project concerning a mutual family member. Digging out old photos and relevant pieces, I found this poem,

A Memory of Nanna Hetty

Clouds of ‘Pledge’ in the sitting room,
Patio swept with the outside broom.
Tea leaves saved to feed the roses,
Flowers gathered for indoor posies.

She lets me peep in Uncle’s room
And lifts the blinds to ease the gloom.
He isn’t there, he lives in Reading,
Where he moved to, after his wedding.

Blankets cover his un-used bed,
On his wall, an African head,
Carved in wood, it filled me with fear,
Something brought back from Nigeria.

A duster in her pinny pocket,
Grandad’s photo in her locket.
Currant buns on a baking sheet
And comfy slippers on her feet.

                                                            PMW

A get-together with friends or family always includes some ‘remember when’ moments. I suppose us older ones tend to look back more than we look forward – or that’s just me. Those shared memories, coming from our various angles or perceptions can be interesting. Something once considered important, might not have made the same impression on all of us, some parts forgotten or remembered differently.

Another point of interest is when we start to create memories, like our first childhood memory, the first thing we remember. Again, we’re all different. I remember being in my pushchair on a wet day and another child being squashed in with me while our mothers were talking. My distress is probably why I remember it. I cried so much. I expect I was less than two years old.

Memories are important to us. It is comforting to have fond memories to look back on and keep any bad memories away as much as possible.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Cumulus

It has not been an easy week, and I'm not really focused on clouds or blogs right now. 

On the plus side, America demonstrated an upswelling of common sense and decency as Trump and his musky pals got their come-uppance in the mid-term elections, the Republicans losing control of both houses - though I fear the world will still be subjected to more fuckery from the orange man-child over the next two years. 

Then on the minus side, Adele lost her very dear older sister to an unexpected and catastrophic stroke. We were only lunching with her last week and she seemed so happy and full of life, heading off to over-winter in Spain. That sudden sad event has really overshadowed everything else in recent days.

cumulus

I've written a brief poetic 'requiem' as an immediate response, which you can read here:

Cumulation

At five on the fifth, her death.

She is one with the clouds rising,

rose gold and intangible as breath.

And I'm working on a longer poem, 'Lesley's Last Day On Earth', that will appear at some future date.

However, I didn't want to short-change you, so I'm also sharing another poem about death, as it fits the mood. Here is Ruth Padel, one of my favourite contemporary poets, reflecting movingly on the passing of loved ones. It's from her latest collection, 'Girl ' (Chatto & Windus, 2024).

Last Breath

Another angel     now foretelling death

like maybe all angels do. Last time it was just

her and the angel in a corner

but this dying is O so public

her son's friends in brace position

covering their heads    knuckles in their eyes

each one more private than she is

her body flung back on the bed in a coarse red dress

her halo a demi-lune thread you hardly see

everything ungainly    lolling head

swollen stomach dangling feet. No tights

no cover up of old lady legs.

Looking at her picture online

I remember my mother's hands still wearing the ring

he gave her    a little translucent beige topaz

I always wished it had more colour but she loved it

and the wedding ring behind    thinned and resized

through the decades. Hands so age-spotted

there seemed more freckle than skin

flesh sunk to nothing between the bones

raised veins where the warfarin-blended cells

have finally given up    hands that cooked for us all

so many years    wiped up    cleared up    gave us the world

now folded over her stomach in that purple fleecy top of hers.

We were all round her like the sorrowing apostles.

It was the mountainous breathing. It was the heart.

I went out into the February evening

under a moon capsized like a canoe

picked a spike of myrtle    a few snowdrops

nodding their fresh white and green

and put them into her hands

with a blackbird fluting away into the dark.

                                                                   Ruth Padel

I hope that normal service will be restored next weekend.

In the meantime, thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Cumulus

The best place I’ve ever been to watch the effects of a thunder storm was when I worked on the 13th floor of Charing Cross Hospital. I could look though the windows of my department and see lightening strikes all over west London. I seem to remember Fulham football club floodlights being hit.

I hadn’t realised until coming to write this article that those ferocious bolts and the deafening sounds started with the little fluffy clouds known as Cumulus. I found out about the process by finding the MetMatters website of The Royal Meteorological Society so over to them.

‘But how much do you really know about thunderstorms? It happens in three stages – the developing stage, the mature stage and the dissipating stage.

Cumulus clouds form when moist warm air rises, cools and condenses. If the updraught of warm air continues the cloud soon looks like a tower – hence the name towering cumulus. There is little to no rain at this developing stage but you can get occasional flashes of lightning.

The cloud will eventually grow upwards into areas where the temperature is below freezing, creating ice crystals that the upper level winds fan out to form the classic anvil shape at the top of a cumulonimbus cloud. Ice at the top of a tall cloud is an essential ingredient for the thunder and lightning associated with thunderstorms.

Thanks to the millions of collisions between the ice particles and water droplets bouncing around within the cloud, an electric charge builds up. When the electrical charge becomes sufficiently separated in a thundercloud, with some regions acquiring a negative charge and others a positive charge, a discharge of lightning becomes likely. In turn, a positive charge can build up on the ground beneath the cloud, on anything that sticks up such as mountains, people or trees.

When the charge coming up from the ground connects with the charge coming down from the clouds then – flash – we’ve got a lightning strike. The air surrounding the lightning channel briefly reaches temperatures of up to 30,000°C, causing the air to rapidly expand, which we hear as thunder. Thunder and lightning occur at roughly the same time, but you see the flash first as light travels much fast than sound.

We're now entering the mature stage of our storm when the updraught of rising air continues to feed the storm, but the water vapour in the cloud has formed heavy enough water droplets that precipitation begins to fall, and this creates a column of air pushing down. This downdraught and rain-cooled air spreads out along the ground to form a gust front. It's at this stage we're most likely to get hail, heavy rain, frequent lightning, strong gusty winds and even tornadoes.

Eventually, the rising updraught is overcome by the cool downdraught and the storm begins to dissipate. The gust front cuts off the warm moist air that was feeding the thunderstorm, rainfall decreases but lightning remains a danger until the storm is all rained out and often all that's left is a wispy anvil of cirrus cloud, high up in the sky.

The entire thunderstorm life cycle from growing cumulus cloud to dissipated storm takes an hour on average with less than 30 minutes of thunder and lightning. If it lasts longer then there is more than one storm cloud present.’

And it all started with a fluffy, white Cumulus. I think the RMetS have done a splendid job in explaining what can happen next.

I’d been looking for poems about Cumulus and clouds and there are some good ones but most of the time I was doing that I was humming along to Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell from her Clouds album. It must be a sign.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NfdOrNlrO-I

Rows and floes of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way

I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all

Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way

But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away

I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way

But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day

I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all

I've looked at life from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Heroic Cutlets

To my certain Norwich, not since school daze have I composted a pome in heroic cutlets. Hand to hart, pen to paper, it's just not my stylo. Those neat rose of foot soldiers, ranks of the iambic pent amateurs... te tum te tum te tum te tum te tum. Good lord, te deum!

Only once have I, even Steven, ventured 'remotely close' - now there's a poxymoron - to writing a comic pome in rhyming pears and that was tenures ago. You can find it here:  Death By Chocolate, defiantly not heroic!

Nerveless, just for today, I'm going full heroic cutlets. Think of this new pome as a spiritual prequel to the one linked above. Read my home groan tail and weep. Chop chop!

A Savoy Savory

There was a village in the south of France

much troubled by the native boars' advance.

Down from the Alps the tusky porcines swarmed,

searching out troubadours where they performed

in squares and halls, for boars hated music,

roused them to a spiteful pitch of physic

and an urge to purge all such antic sounds.

Even when the minstrels had gone to ground

the hyped up beasts laid waste to all around,

and this one village in Savoy they found

so much to their liking, they chose to stay!

The frightened folk hid in their church to pray

for deliverance from this massacre.

The pigs meanwhile munched all the brassica,

a staple of the region's cabbage soup.

While the citizens huddled in a group

came riding by a Knight of the Long Knives

accompanied by his two lovely wives.

They saw at once what needed to be done

and laid about them till the final one

of the squealing, charging, mad-eyed tuskers

crusading against the tribe of buskers

was flung atop the bloody pile! Starving

villagers rejoiced, joined in the carving

by their Hero and his couplet of dames

(though history does not record their names)

then built a massive fire with orange flames

and while the chops were grilling they played games

of 'blind man's buff' and other lively sports -

'squeak, piggy, squeak', 'defender of the forts' -

until such time as everything was prepped.

Then to their seats the grateful peasants stepped.

They tucked into the butchers' prime cutlets

(for vegans the wives provided nutlets :-)

and most said roast boar chops with rosemary

were quite the thing, though a few were chary,

but everyone agreed they feasted well.

Here ends my tale, there is no more to tell.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Heroic Couplets

I’ve heard of Heroic Couplets but don’t know what they are. Presumably some sort of poetic style from a few hundred years ago. I’ll have a look in a minute or so. But just before I do that, a thought has just popped into my head of a couple of heroes of my own.

What had struck me was Lennon and McCartney. Not only one of the greatest song writing partnerships with approximately 180 jointly credited songs but they are widely credited with establishing the modern singer‑songwriter model. Before the 1960s most bands did not write their own material, and most of their hits were written for them by session musicians hired by record companies.

Lennon and McCartney, song writing partnership

Then another couple sprang to mind as I’d just watched the ‘America’ dance scene from Leonard Bernstein’s ‘West Side Story’. Which is how the show is usually advertised, even for the Proms. It is, of course, Bernstein AND STEPHEN SONDHEIM’s West Side Story. It does annoy me that lyricists are usually the forgotten heroes. Here’s a link. Perfect matching of words and music:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_e2igZexpMs

I let my mind drift for other couples and unexpectedly thought of Torvill and Dean. At the Sarajevo 1984 Winter Olympics the pair won gold receiving twelve perfect 6.0s and six 5.9s which included artistic impression scores of 6.0 from every judge, after skating to Ravel's Boléro. One of the most-watched television events ever in the United Kingdom, their 1984 Olympics performance was watched by a British television audience of more than 24 million people. I just had another look and their routine is still astonishing:
https://www.olympics.com/en/video/torvill-and-dean-s-legendary-bolero-performance-music-mondays

I can’t not include football partnerships and not from the Premier League, thank you very much. After much thought I decided to stick with what I’ve seen or else it should include Stan Matthews and Stan Mortensen in the famous Matthews Cup Final of 1953.

Mortensen and Matthews (sitting on the shoulders of giants)

So I’m going for the Tony Adams and Steve Bould from Arsenal’s great seasons in the late 80’s and early 90’s. I know that it should include Lee Dixon and Nigel Winterburn but it’s my article and I’ll have those two as the second couplet.

Of course, the very best couple was Trevor Francis and Bob Latchford for Birmingham City in the mid 70s but that is too obvious.

I first came across Detective Chief Inspector Morse back in about 1986 when I spotted The Silent World of Nicholas Quinn and was immediately hooked. His partnership with Sergeant Lewis is wonderfully portrayed in Colin Dexter’s books. The tv series is fine but the books are properly gritty, not the lush version on screen.

I think one of the most heroic couples are Jane and Stephen Hawking. The couple met at Cambridge University. They went on to marry in 1965, Jane aged just 21, and had three children together. They were married for 30 years from 1965 until they divorced in 1995. Stephen’s story is well known but I hadn’t known that Jane had earned her PhD degree in medieval Spanish poetry in April 1981.

I should end on a more up to date couple who are my heroes and they must be Wallace and Gromit. Created by Nick Park, from Preston, and described by the BBC News as ‘some of the best-known and best-loved stars to come out of the UK’.

Nick Park with Wallace and Gromit

Unfortunately, I’ve just realised that I’ve run out of time and space but have had time to find a few Heroic Couplets by Alexander Pope.

The Rape of the Lock

Here Thou, great Anna! whom three Realms obey,
Dost sometimes Counsel take—and sometimes Tea.

A little learning is a dangerous thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.


True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance.


Good nature and good sense must ever join;
To err is human, to forgive, divine.


Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be blest.

            

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Heroic Couplets

                     

I hadn’t opened my study copy of Chaucer’s ‘The Wife of Bath’s Tale’ since it was required reading for English A Level. I’ve forgotten everything, after all this time, except Chaucer’s constant use of ‘heroic couplets’. I cast my eyes over the first page, trying to read and make sense of Old English, glad that the work is translated into modern English for the likes of me. Unfortunately, it wasn’t what I wanted to share here, so I looked elsewhere, and spent hours chuckling at Pam Ayres – she makes it look and sound easy.

Mrs May’s Hair

One thing I do admire in Mrs May:
She’s not afraid to let her hair go grey.
No dye from pricey crimpers does she seek,
To keep the fabled barnet looking chic.

Unlike us timid ones, who monthly go,
To cover up the roots as white as snow,
And, in our fight to look less like an Alp,
Endure the fiery tint upon the scalp.

We, who pay a fortune as we leave,
Remember Mrs May, and softly grieve,
Though some may choose to take the cheaper path,
And do the job themselves, over the bath.

                                                                Pam Ayres

Iambic pentameter. I’ve been there, counting syllables, finding the right rhythm, da dum da dum. I still search for words to fit and count on my fingers like a child doing maths. I try very hard. Sometimes it hits the mark, sometimes it doesn’t. Here’s one,

The Ballad of a Lady Rock Singer

Jazz tempo piano and bluesy guitar,
It’s gone 2 a.m. in the Cyclops Bar.
She sips pink gin through a long, curly straw
And sits and waits, with one eye on the door.
He said he’d be along to see her set,
But he’d promised before – not made it, yet.
Perched on a bar stool, cigarette in hand,
Minutes away from her spot with the band,
She leans a bit further back on her seat
And her red stiletto taps out the beat.
She’s laughing, swaying, about to begin,
Adrenaline rush, or too much pink gin.
She’s out of her mind, not really crazy,
Her vision’s soft focus, smoky and hazy.
Snug black and red dress, short, strapless and low,
Especially chosen for this kind of show.
She clutches the mic stand, a hint of a smile
Then bangs out a song in Joplin-esque style.
The heat and the smoke hit hard on her throat,
But she stays on key, not losing a note.
Whistling and cheering, the Jazz Club’s alive.
Lorna kept singing ‘til quarter to five,
Then went out happy to greet the next day,
Her bass playing new love leading the way.

                                                                   PMW

This one isn’t strictly heroic couplets, but I hope you enjoy my quirky humour,

Mary, the sister of Anne Boleyn

Determined that she would have her way,
She walked ahead of him to court one day
And stood near the doors as he went in,
Mary, the sister of Anne Boleyn.

He saw a vision of sweet delight,
Young and blonde, beautiful and bright.
His lecherous thoughts were full of sin.
Mary, the sister of Anne Boleyn.

She was pure and youthful, fresh and new,
He was eagerly lustful and untrue,
Wanting an easy conquest to win,
Mary, the sister of Anne Boleyn.

Henry fulfilled his urgent desire
As her body set his soul on fire,
Until he trembled with joy, within
Mary, the sister of Anne Boleyn.

                                               PMW
Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Cracked

An alarmingly topical take tonight as Storm Boelo blasts across the jewel of the north, furious on the heels of slightly more dainty Storm Austen.

It blustered all through an afternoon of torrential rain at the football stadium, where not so mighty Blackpool slumped to a dispiriting 1-4 defeat (and it could have been more) after a bright opening. Tactics and fortunes changed at half time, and as thousands of soaked supporters streamed out early in the downpour leaving the home stands virtually empty well before the final whistle, it feels as though something has cracked in the collective spirit of the club and its fanbase.

cracked

And Boelo hasn't let up this evening. A screaming wind is whining across as I write this, tugging at rooftops and chimney pots, bending trees, mashing fences to the accompaniment of battering squalls of rain. This evening's events - the annual Lightpool festival and a firework display - have been cancelled and anyone with any sense is hunkered down and hoping for the best as 80mph gusts tear in from the Irish Sea. If I still drank whisky, I would be doing so now, with headphones clamped on and a bit of Wagner blasting out. 

wild and windy way

An amber alert has been advised for the north-west and this storm is going to rage all night...for an extra hour as well, because the clocks go back. It's a wild one, Boelo (meaning brave or strong apparently) and here's a strange new poem to suit the mood. It comes with the caveat that it may get modified down the road.

Boelo

How was it for you? he asked, basking in the aftermath 

like some spent, self-satisfied lover seeking affirmation.

Rewind a few hours...

He came in sweeping off the western sea, blindly lusting

in his passion, ripped and roaring, set on forcing himself

on whatever lay in his whoring way. It was her bad luck, 

poor, gap-toothed Funtown, to fall prey to his attentions,

who was minding her business, trying to enjoy a Saturday

night with mates. She'd been warned about his sort before

but you've got to live, don't you. He ripped apart defences

and battered and pounded, on and on. No more, she cried,

no more, make it stop, but he was deaf to entreaty. Where

he got the strength from she didn't know,  and he came on

this senseless Boelo, mad for it, a force of nature, passion

without pause,  his agonising onslaught lasting until dawn.

It was then, assuaged, that he asked so how was it for you? 

Terrifying, she whimpered, shivering still. A violation.

                         

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Cracked

With time a little short this week I was rushing through various websites trying to find an aspect of Cracked that would do the job. I was thinking of eggs, Agatha Christie, old china sets etc. I came across ‘kintsugi’ which is an embracing of the flawed or imperfect as in cracked vases.

kintsugi bowl

Japanese aesthetics values marks of wear from the use of an object. This can be seen as a rationale for keeping an object around even after it has broken. It can also be understood as a justification of kintsugi itself, highlighting cracks and repairs as events in the life of an object, rather than allowing its service to end at the time of its damage or breakage.

Unfortunately, I haven’t got the time to go into this in a way to do it justice so I will have to leave it for another time, which has left me with Humpty Dumpty. 

The earliest known version was published in Samuel Arnold's Juvenile Amusements in 1797 with the lyrics:

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Four-score Men and Four-score more,
Could not make Humpty Dumpty where he was before.

The tune from 1870 in James William Elliott's National Nursery Rhymes and Nursery Songs. Its origins are obscure, and several theories have been advanced to suggest original meanings. The rhyme is listed in the Roud Folk Song Index as No. 13026.

The common text from 1882 is:

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.

Humpty Dumpty makes an appearance in Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking-Glass (1871). There Alice remarks that Humpty is ‘exactly like an egg’, which Humpty finds to be ‘very provoking’. Which is why I’m using Humpty as if he did have a great fall then he would crack. Alice clarifies that she said he looks like an egg, not that he is one. They then go on to discuss semantics and pragmatics when Humpty Dumpty says, ‘my name means the shape I am’.

Alice and Humpty Dumpty

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, in the seventeenth century, the term ‘humpty dumpty’ referred to a drink of brandy boiled with ale. By 1785, the term became slang for a short, squat, clumsy person (or someone who had too much to drink and tumbled over).

There are also various theories of an original Humpty Dumpty. For instance, King Richard III depicted as hunchbacked in Tudor histories and particularly in Shakespeare's play, and who was defeated, despite his armies, at Bosworth Field in 1485.

Another is that Humpty Dumpty was a ‘tortoise’ siege engine, an armoured frame, used unsuccessfully to approach the walls of the Parliamentary-held city of Gloucester in 1643 during the Siege of Gloucester in the English Civil War.

Colchester tourist board stated that a cannon was used from the church of St Mary-at-the-Walls by the Royalist defenders in the siege of 1648. It was termed Humpty Dumpty. A shot from a Parliamentary cannon caused the cannon to tumble to the ground. The Royalists attempted to raise Humpty Dumpty but ‘All the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't put Humpty together again’.

In science Humpty Dumpty has been used to demonstrate the second law of thermodynamics. The law describes a process known as entropy, a measure of the number of specific ways in which a system may be arranged, often taken to be a measure of ‘disorder’. The higher the entropy, the higher the disorder. After his fall and subsequent shattering, the inability to put him together again is representative of this principle, as it would be highly unlikely (though not impossible) to return him to his earlier state of lower entropy, as the entropy of an isolated system never decreases.

Humpty Dumpty's Song by Lewis Carroll

In winter, when the fields are white,
I sing this song for your delight.

In Spring, when woods are getting green,

I’ll try and tell you what I mean.

In Summer, when the days are long,
Perhaps you’ll understand the song.

In Autumn, when the leaves are brown,
Take pen and ink, and write it down.

I sent a message to the fish:
I told them “This is what I wish.”

The little fishes of the sea,
They sent an answer back to me.

The little fishes’ answer was
“We cannot do it, Sir, because-“

I sent to them again to say
“It will be better to obey.”

The fishes answered, with a grin,
“Why, what a temper you are in!”

I told them once, I told them twice:
They would not listen to advice.

I took a kettle large and new,
Fit for the deed I had to do.

My heart went hop, my heart went thump:
I filled the kettle at the pump.

Then someone came to me and said
“The little fishes are in bed.”

I said to him, I said it plain,
“Then you must wake them up again.”

I said it very loud and clear:
I went and shouted in his ear.

But he was very stiff and proud:
He said “You needn’t shout so loud!”

And he was very proud and stiff:
He said “I’d go and wake them, if-“

I took a corkscrew from the shelf:
I went to wake them up myself.

And when I found the door was locked,
I pulled and pushed and kicked and knocked.

And when I found the door was shut,
I tried to turn the handle, but-

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Lancashire Dead Good Poets' November Open Mic Night

 Fire up your poetry at our bonfire night open mic event on zoom...

There is no set theme, and no headliner. Everybody can shine. Email: deadgoodpoets@hotmail.co.uk to get yourself a 5-minute slot, or just to listen in. It promises to be a sparkling occasion.

Hope to see and hear you there, Steve ;-)

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Running Numbers

A staple of US crime novels and gangster movies, running  numbers  is part of the mechanism of illegal betting rackets, a favourite enterprise of the American mafia back in the day. Although legal state lotteries had been in place in some states ever since the Louisiana State Lottery Company obtained a 25-year charter for its state lottery system in 1868, the Mob couldn't resist the hugely lucrative financial rewards of the numbers racket, and they did a pretty good job of organising their unlicensed lottery in the major cities. 

The interesting thing about it is that, since bettors were suspicious of criminal gambling syndicates, instead of having the racketeer organise the draw himself (since then, he could cheat, and choose numbers no-one had bet on), the winning numbers would be something out in the public domain,  printed in a reputable newspaper, numbers clearly not under the bookie's control.

picking a winner

For many years, the 'number' was the last three digits of the 'handle', the amount race track bettors placed on race day at a major racetrack, published in racing journals and major newspapers (much like attendance figures at football games). Other numbers, like the last digits of a stock price, or the exact balance of the US Treasury, were sometimes used. Punters would place bets with a bookie at a tavern, bar, barber shop, social club, or any other semi-private place acting as an illegal betting parlour. Runners would carry the money and betting slips between the betting parlours and the local syndicate headquarters, called a 'numbers bank'.

I planned and co-hosted a poetry writing workshop recently based on numbers and objects. One of the numbers I chose was pi. Others included the fibonacci sequence and the golden ratio.

There is a growing body of poems whose form references the mathematical constant known as π (or pi), the ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter. As a number, it is written as 3.1415926535897932384626433 (etc to as many decimal places as you care). As a poem - or rather a piem - regardless of content, its form is based in some fashion on the sequence of digits in the constant.

This could be for instance letters or syllables per word (or line), words per line, lines per stanza or some other cleverly devious representation of 3.1415926535897932384626433 (etc), or a rounding of it to so many decimal places - you choose. Let me give you some examples that I shared at the workshop.

Here’s a straightforward piem from Sir James Hopward Jeans based on the number of letters in each word:

How I want a drink, alcoholic of course, after the heavy lectures involving quantum mechanics.

Here’s a piem by Dmitri Borgman that uses the number of letters per word approach, only he’s taken it to the thirtieth digit of pi and he’s choses an ABAB rhyming structure:

Now, a moon, a lover refulgent in flight,
Sails the black silence's loneliest ellipse.
Computers use pi, the constant, when polite,
Or gentle data for sad tracking aid at eclipse.

Here’s a piem variation based on lines in a stanza. Jacques Bens has structured it on the first five digits of pi, and because they happen to add up to fourteen, he’s called the form an irrational sonnet:

Melancholy

So I’ll once more find my old horizons,
cherished scent of winds and habitations.
Fear not if it seems I’m quitting the place.

I leave Paris just to love it better.

One tends to hurry a banal embrace.
But what’s this pride worth that’s past all seasons?
Try to unite the heart with its reasons.
The city, while smiling, leaves a rough trace.

I leave Paris just to love you better.

To love you better, I couldn’t picture—
Now I see the present whisks us away.
To see you, I have to step back a bit.
I lock up my regrets, as will be fit,
Slipping my key under your entryway.

At the workshop in Kate Eggleston-Wirtz's art studio, I worked (among other pieces) on a piem of my own, based on an object in her studio, this quaint rocking-horse. I suppose I chose it because I had in mind to write this blog about betting, horses and running numbers. That, and it was stood right in front of me.

the rocking-horse winner

I've used  π (or pi) to determine the form of the poem, in this case the number of lines in each stanza. I didn't stop at fourteen lines, but raced on to nine decimal places (3.141592653) before running out of puff.

Horse Pi(e)

Triangle on a quadrilateral

with parallel legs and a rocking base,

some child's delight, a nursery toy.

Stop!

D.H. Lawrence wrote a ghost story

about a boy, The Rocking Horse Winner,

who rode a frantic dash to death

proclaiming "I've got it - Malabar."

Or some such.

I've not read it in, oh, fifty years

but I'm pretty sure he guessed

the winners in advance of big races

by going into a rocking trance

until the name came to him.

He told the family's gardener,

good working man, who placed his bets

and managed the money that came in,

sometimes used a tip on his own behalf

but nothing compared to the thousands

the boy was building up in secret,

planning to give the funds to his mother

who always complained of not having

enough for the family to get by.

When she told him he was getting too old

for rocking horses, he planned one last run.

That's what killed him, number one son,

eighty thousand to the good. I wonder

what happened to the little horse

after the tragedy. His story wasn't told.

Did he become horse pi(e)?

Put down to firewood perhaps?

Did grief, that constant

reminder of the ratio between

the circumference of their loss

and the diameter of their gain 

prove endlessly recurring

on haunted nights? 

The soft rhythmic thrumming of a

riderless runner across the nursery floor?

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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