Groceries

One of the pleasures of living in my area is that if I’m short of a tea bag (awful thought) I can just nip out round the corner and get a box Yorkshire Gold (other brands are not acceptable) in a matter of minutes from my local grocers. What I would not expect to find is hundreds of boxes in stock waiting for me.

But that is what may have been the case back in 1345 when The Worshipful Company of Grocers was formed by a merger between The Guild of Pepperers, dating from 1180, with the Spicers who bought and then resold spices and other items to the public. But also, a wholesaler was sometimes called a spicer en gross. A gross meant a large amount of some product. Spicer en gross was sometimes shortened to grosser etc.

The Company then was responsible for maintaining standards for the purity of spices and for setting of certain weights and measures. Its membership until 1617 included suppliers of medicinal spices and herbs when the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries was formed.

The Great Twelve City of London Livery Companies

The Worshipful Company of Grocers is one of the 111 livery companies of the City of London and is one of the Great Twelve City Livery Companies (not my capital letters), ranking second in the order of precedence after the Mercers. The Company's motto is "God Grant Grace".

The Grocers' Company continues as a charitable, constitutional and ceremonial institution which plays a significant role in the election of and supporting the Lord Mayor and the Sheriffs of the City of London. The Company provides banqueting and conference facilities at Grocers' Hall situated in Prince's Street, next to the Bank of England.

The Ancient Guild of Pepperers chose a camel as its symbol due to pepper originally coming over land rather than sea. The camel is incorporated as the crest of the company's heraldic achievement which also includes two griffins holding the escutcheon (shield) on which is displayed the coat of arms: "Argent a Chevron Gules between nine Cloves six in chief and three in base Proper".

It is ranked second in the Companies order of precedence after the Mercers' Company. It is said that the Grocers' Company used to be first in the order, until Queen Elizabeth I, as Honorary Master of the Mercer's Company, found herself in procession, after her coronation, behind the Grocers' camel which was emitting unfortunate smells. As a result, the Mercers were promoted.

In time, the name grocer came to refer to a trader who dealt in staple foodstuffs—like tea, coffee, cocoa, sugar, and flour—that were sold in amounts measured for personal consumption. The first known use of the word grocery was in the 15th century, and it referred to the goods sold by a grocer:

Wee bene ageyne charged wyth merceyre, Haburdasshere ware, and wyth grocerye.
— Libel of English Policy, 1436.

The Libelle of Englyshe Polycye (or Libel of English Policy) is a fifteenth-century poem written after the siege of Calais in 1436 but before the end of 1438, and a second edition of the work before June 1441. I haven’t read the thing and it is not particularly relevant to the subject of groceries but I enjoyed finding out about it.

Upmarket Victorian Grocery

In the Supermarket Basket

a bottle of Guinness
small pizza
extra cheese
and a scrunched up note

apps and bans
2 x yell and red pep
halloumi
250g dark choc
wine

a serious list
divided into sections
of dairy and fruit etc

and only one of them ticked
which doesn’t seem right
and leads to thoughts
of maybe a mobile ringing

an argument about the car
or washing up
or a letter found
in someone’s pocket

and someone’s partner
stiff with rage
storming out after
politely replacing the basket
back in the stack at the Entrance

ready to be read
by the customer standing in line
at the Checkout
a customer who needs to know
about anyone else’s life
and more importantly
just what the hell is halloumi.


First published in Acumen, June 2016

Thanks for reading, Terry Q

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Groceries

It was a pleasant surprise to find the supermarket quiet this morning. We weren’t buying groceries, that was something to do online later. We’d popped in to buy a light bulb, mould remover and trainers for a grandson. Oh, and birthday cards in advance. I was trying to be organised. One stop shopping. How times have changed.

When I was about ten years old, I was often sent to Seddon’s with a list. Seddon’s was a small grocery shop not far from our pub, but far enough away to make me feel independent and grown up to do something important by myself. The list was my mum’s order, which Mr Seddon would deliver on Saturday. Sometimes, I would be sent there to get a Hales Granny Cake, or a chocolate sponge to bring home and the cost to be added to our list. We had a milkman and a breadman every day. Meat came from the local butcher.

I don’t know when branded supermarkets started to take over, but I remember a Tesco store opening on the high street in our neighbourhood when I was about fourteen. It was small in comparison to the megastores we have now.

I’m not a fan of food shopping, especially if it involves a long walk up and down too many heavily populated aisles. That’s another pet hate, people and shopping trolleys. I find it easier in Scotland where our regular supermarket is smaller but still has everything. I’m in a happier frame of mind there, too. At home, picking groceries online and taking delivery from a friendly, helpful person is hassle free and suits me perfectly. There’s a local shop for that forgotten item.

My Haiku style poem,

Tesco, Morrison’s,
Aldi, Lidl and Waitrose,
Sainbury’s and Spar.

Booths and the Co-op,
M&S Foodhall, Asda,
Iceland and Farmfoods.

No shopping today,
We don’t need more groceries.
We’ve got plenty in.

Room for just one more,
Tins of this and tins of that.
Shut the cupboard door.

Veg and fish and meat,
A freezer full to bursting,
Ice cream for a treat.

PMW 2026

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The 'X' Factor

After his first heart-attack at the age of 43, Ronald Patrick Bartholomew Grosse thought seriously about a change of career. He had been a principal partner in the Dublin law firm of Grosse, Malarkey & Shenanigans since 2009, earning his litigious spurs in such high profile cases as saw the notorious Cowboys of Clontarf finally put behind bars, or the getting of the Lennox Street Grocer cleared of eleven counts of caffeineicide. But the stress of a life in law (and the whiskey) was taking its toll. 

He arranged a week's recuperation, fishing in Kildare on the estate of the Countess of Colleen, for whom he had acted in a complex divorce case. X marked the spot of the lodge in the woods on his map, as he was of the pre-sat-nav generation. It was peaceful, isolated, idyllic. He also read lots of poetry, Yeats in particular. On his return, he discussed the situation with Ciara Malarkey and Benjamin Reilly O'Shenanigan, who persuaded him to stay on, against the advice of his beautiful, dutiful wife Séarlait. Surely a bit more exercise, a change of diet and prescription meds would see him right, keep him healthy, in his prime, commanding top fees for the firm.

However, despite the mitigations, he suffered a second, more serious coronary attack a couple of years later, on discovering by accident that his beautiful wife Séarlait was not so dutiful after all. The near fatal shock gave him cause to reconsider what was really important in life.

X marks the heart

After a week in intensive care, this time his mind was made up. There was nothing Ciara or Ben could say. No more law (though the firm could keep the name), no more wife (though she could keep the house), most importantly, no more stress. He didn't want for money. What he did want was complete change. Once again, he spent time fishing in Kildare (x still marked the spot). Then he packed a small travel bag and booked a flight from Dublin to Tokyo

There he acquired lodgings in the Suginami ward of the metropolis, in order to be near the workshop of Nakamura, a famed kintsugi artist and teacher. He changed his name to Ron Bartho, started learning Japanese and enrolled as a student and eventually an assistant to Kunio Nakamura. The art and the philosophy of kintsugi (literally 'golden joinery') held a deep appeal for Ron. 

The idea that one could take something that was broken - a pot, a plate, a bowl - and mend it, not invisibly with glue but with gold-infused lacquer, struck him as a metaphor for his own physical rupture and subsequent healing process, breakage and repair as part of the tapestry of life, a celebration of recovery and resilience. For him, a golden X on a restored ceramic marked renewed strength, a firm weld where once there had been weakness. Each object renovated by kintsugi was unique, with its healed wounds, and a thing of intrinsic beauty.

X marks the join (kintsugi)

After several months, Nakamura advised Ron Bartho that he had taught him all he could, and suggested that it was time for his disciple to take wing back to Ireland and set up as a kintsugi artist and teacher in his own right.

Ron Bartho wrote to the Countess of Colleen explaining his radical change of lifestyle and asking if she would grant him long-term tenancy of the lodge in the woods on her Kildare estate as a home and studio in which he could work as a kintsugi practitioner and sometimes teacher. He explained that for him that place had the X factor. He had felt it when he'd stayed there recuperating. it was an almost spiritual thing calling to him. The Countess Clíona responded that she would be delighted to accommodate Ron's request on the condition that he would take as his first commission the repair of some heirloom items of broken or damaged porcelain in the family's possession, including pieces of Irish Dresden, Meissen, Sèvres and Spode. Ron readily agreed.

He returned to Ireland not only a new man, but with a cat, Cocoa which he'd acquired while in Tokyo, and yet another name, this time a Japanese one -  Xaito (斎翔), meaning 'pure of heart'. The simple lodge, cleaned, aired and newly lime-washed, was entirely to his and Cocoa's liking. He fished for her; she prowled and purred for him.

X marks the spot

Over time, as Xaito, no longer Ron Bartho and certainly never again Ronald Patrick Bartholomew Grosse,  he became someone special. His renown spread, not only as a great kintsugi artist and teacher, working at his own pace on the commissions he chose to accept and the kintsugi teaching courses he occasionally ran, through one of which he met his new romantic partner, the poetess Eibhlín Ó Sirideáin (more commonly known by her anglicised form of Eileen Sheridan), but also as a celebrated Irish poet. For Eileen encouraged him to turn his enjoyment of reading poetry and mending broken ceramics into the writing of his own inspired poems. Perhaps his most famous and loved piece is this one, from his collection 'The X Factory':

The Angina Monologue

You crushed with such relentless expectations

I was always waiting for the moment I'd break.

The tension too much to bear, me just wanting 

that instance of rupture which must surely end

 

everything. Until then, whiskey edged my fears

of panic, of letting people down, mostly of pain.

Then when it happened, not once but twice, my

great surprise was that I fought to survive,  with

each constricted breath of my leaden chest. Let

me live, I prayed to some unlikely god,  take all 

I have but let me make it through to begin anew.

After one false start, I have been true enough to

that resolve. Eibhlín likens me then to a spinner

of plates frantically trying to keep them all aloft 

such a sorry waste of time, of energy, of passion

and we were bound to break, all of us.  A second    

gentle lease has taught me how a broken heart or 

a cracked plate can be fixed with the golden flux 

of love - it's all you need & all you need to know.

                                                                                           Xaito

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

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The X Factor

The phrase ‘The X Factor’ has attained common usage in the English language, often used to describe an indefinable quality that makes someone or something stand out from the crowd. The phrase the X Factor is linked to the popular television talent show of the same name crated by Simon Cowell but the origins of the phrase date back much further, with roots in British culture, science, and language.

The term ‘X Factor’ has been used in English for many decades, long before it became associated with televised entertainment. ‘X’ in mathematics and science represents an unknown quantity or variable. The ‘factor’ element refers to a characteristic or component contributing to a result, so together, ‘X Factor’ denotes a mysterious or elusive quality that is difficult to describe or identify. Perhaps the first and most famous scientist to possess the X Factor was Albert Einstein who knew all about scientific and mathematical X Factors. His sheer presence popularised science to a global audience and he is still recognised to this day.

image of Albert Einstein

The phrase X Factor gained widespread popularity in Britain through its adoption by the media, particularly in discussions surrounding entertainment and sport. For example, sports commentators would refer to a player having ‘the X Factor’ if they possessed a mysterious ability to influence the outcome of a match, even if their technical skills were not the most outstanding. One such footballer who had the X Factor was Vinnie Jones of Wimbledon. He possessed intangible qualities such as leadership and a determination to win at all costs.

image of Vinnie Jones demonstrating the X factor against Paul Gascoigne

Similarly, in show business, the phrase was used to describe performers who had something special—an inexplicable charm or magnetism—that attracted audiences. The Sex Pistols or Oasis for example. This characteristic was often seen as more important than technical ability or training, as it was seen as the key to true stardom.

image of Oasis in the early days

In 2004, the phrase ‘The X Factor’ was catapulted into mainstream consciousness with the launch of the British television talent competition of the same name. Created by Simon Cowell, the show sought to find individuals who possessed not only talent but also that elusive ‘X Factor’—the quality that would make them a star. The show’s format explicitly referenced this concept, as judges and audiences were encouraged to look for contestants who stood out due to their unique appeal, personality, and presence, rather than just their singing ability. Some of those who appeared in the X Factor show and went on to become successful include One Direction, Little Mix, Leona Lewis and Olly Murs.

image of Simon Cowell's X Factor logo

The origin of the phrase ‘The X Factor’ is rooted in both scientific and cultural history, reflecting the British penchant for describing the indefinable qualities that set individuals apart. Its transition from scientific jargon to cultural shorthand, and finally to global phenomenon via television, illustrates the enduring appeal of mystery and uniqueness. Whether used to describe a footballer, a singer, or a business leader, ‘The X Factor’ remains a powerful expression of that special something which cannot be taught or measured, but which makes all the difference.

The X Factor

It’s coveted, sought after, once found
people think it’s happy ever after

It can’t be bottled, mined, found in
a tin, caught in the air or hidden
at the bottom of a wheelie bin

It can be a passport to fortune and fame
and things may never be the same again

A double-edged sword that can bring
affluence, manic discord, madness

No one knows how it’s made or where
it’s from but you’ll know it when you
see it, hear it, feel it

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

Dermot Moroney

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The X Factor

If any letter in the English language has the X Factor then it is X. It is used in all sorts of ways and can even be pronounced differently. It can be used on its own or as part of a word or even as part of mathematical equations.

For some reason when I saw the X in the subject my mind went back a few years to a girlfriend (let’s call her Ms X) who used to end her messages with xxxx or xxx or xx or x. No x meant I was in trouble.

But why would she have used the symbol as a kiss anyway? Well that goes back to the times when literacy was low and people who couldn’t write would sign documents with an ‘X’ instead of their name. When people signed with an X it wasn’t merely a mark; it was a symbol that carried the weight of an oath. To make it even more significant some people would kiss the X.

I suppose that the use of an X in a voting booth in an election follows on from that.

There doesn’t seem to be any agreement between linguists about when that oath was transferred to being a romantic gesture but my favourite dates back to 1878 when in Florence Montgomery's novel Seaforth, she describes letters ending with “the inevitable row of kisses; sometimes expressed by x x x x x, and sometimes by o o o o o.”

One explanation I came across several times is that X could simply be the shape of the letter — that it looks like a pair of puckered lips. I’m not going with that one.

Talking about old books reminds me (with great affection) of Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. Where can they find the gold? Where X marks the spot on the map left by Captain Billy Bones.

Luckily, as far as I know, there has never been an X rated film of Treasure Island.

If I’m wrong about that fact then please feel free to use an X (in red ink) to indicate my error.

I still remember the feeling in one particular problem, but not the question or answer, way back when I was a student and spending ages over solving the equation and the response from the Lecturer being a big red cross through it.

Whatever the problem was it would have included something like this:
2x - 5 = 17 or 2 x 4 = 8.
On graphs, the x-axis is the horizontal line on the bottom, while the y-axis is the vertical line on the left side.

One of the weirdest uses of X also relates to mathematics in a way and that is when the Romans used X as one of their numerals. Try thinking about CXVI times XXXII.

I mentioned that X is pronounced differently depending on its position in a word. Normally, it sounds like ks, like in ‘fox,’ ‘complex’ or ‘experience’. However, there are some words that begin with X, and in these cases it's pronounced like a Z as in xenon or xylophone.

Then, of course, there is the use of the X Factor in relation to that certain something that a person, place or thing has that separates them from the norm. 

Some of the above information is from the Engoo website.

The X Factor

you’ve got it
or you haven’t

I had it
for a couple of hours
on the 3rd June
1996

unfortunately
no one was there
to notice

Terry Quinn, his mark..

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Brambles

I had a conversation once with a dear friend about whether brambles and blackberries are different fruits. My friend sought to assure me they are - but I've done research for today's blog and it turns out they are alternative names for the same thing. The bramble/blackberry is Rubus fruticosus - to give its official Latin binomial.

Geological evidence suggests the bramble originated in North America some time in the Eocene age, approximately 34 million years ago, before spreading - as brambles do - to the rest of the world. (Note to self: to read up on the fascinating origins of plant species when I have time).

brambles (or blackberries)

The bramble is fast-growing and tenacious. One can almost see its spiny tendrils reaching out to find new rooting sites, to bind onto whatever else it happens to encounter on the way. I have some brambles in my back garden. The flowers are pretty and bees seem to love them. I manage to collect about a saucepan full of juicy blackberries each year before the birds help themselves,

When I was a child living in Peterborough in the early 1960s, my parents used to take us brambling on Saturday afternoons in late summer in the local Huntingdonshire countryside. It was very rural, lots of quiet country lanes, wide grass verges, with huge stretches of tall brambly thickets around the edges of arable fields. We would go armed with step-ladders, walking sticks and buckets plus a picnic tea and would pick loads of fruit in an afternoon. One time my mother fell off the step-ladder into the brambles. We were shocked, but she'd never laughed so much. Our father untangled her with no harm done, save a few scratches. We all looked forward to bramble jelly and blackberry and apple pies.

Such bramble thickets and hedges can still be found in rural areas, but they are nowhere as numerous as they used to be and the grass verges have disappeared as road-widening schemes were introduced.  Sadly there are fewer places to park, to pick and to picnic than there were sixty years ago. 

As a curious aside, there is a bird called a brambling, but we never saw one when we were out foraging for  blackberries . And its name has nothing to do with brambles, being derived from the old English 'bram' and 'lyng' meaning loud lungs, for it is a mellifluous finch, and very pretty too. 

brambling

You're getting two poems, you lucky people. How could I not share Seamus Heaney's fabulous piece on theme?

Blackberry-Picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

                                                                   Seamus Heaney

My own latest by contrast has nothing to do with brambles, but is written in reaction to what has been going on in the Middle East in recent weeks, with Trump's 'war of choice' against  Iranians who've lived their whole lives under a kind of religious tyranny. I've shaped it as a concrete poem. (I hope it retains its shape in your browser.)  

      Revenge Pawn

                 I'm
             merely a  
           piece on this
          shell-shocked, 

          pock-marked
               board.

        My every move is
 constrained by convention.
   Trapped between oil and
        ideology, my lamp
         no longer burns,
           my heart no
          longer yearns.
           I have never
            truly found
       life. The light was
    elsewhere. So wrap me
   round in a suicide vest and

 point me  towards  that ivory
king.  I’ll  willingly do  the rest.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Bramble

So the question is:
What was established in Torquay, UK on the 24 February 1951 by 7 founding members Denmark, France, Italy, Netherlands, Sweden, Switzerland and the United Kingdom? The first President was Mr Bill Tarling from the UK, followed George Baker the next year, then by George Sieve of Switzerland, Pietro Grandi of Italy, and Kurt Sorensen of Denmark.

If you managed to get (guess) the International Bartenders Association (IBA) then well done and make yourself a Bramble.

I came across that when looking up what sort of fruit or plant a bramble is but most of the information that came up on Google related to the fact that ‘The Bramble’ was created in London, in 1984, by Dick Bradsell and apparently it’s the most famous cocktail ever. 

Dick Bradsell

At the time, Bradsell worked at a bar in Soho called Fred's Club, and he wanted to create a British cocktail. Memories of going blackberrying in his childhood on the Isle of Wight provided the inspiration for The Bramble. The name of the drink comes from the fact that blackberry bushes are called brambles.

Actually if it wasn’t about The Bramble then all the other sites were about other cocktails. (ok, there were a few about the fruit) but by then I had found the IBA website and was fascinated. Here is some information:

What we are
The IBA is a community of bartender associations engaging in sharing knowledge and innovations. We give our community equal opportunities for personal and career advancement. The IBA is a global non-profit organization of passionate individuals who cherish the traditions and heritage of our trade.

What we do
The IBA connects the beverage industry professionals together. We raise the high standards of service and bartending skills through our partnerships, Academy, resources and international competitions. These activities bring our diverse family of national associations together.

Our Mission
To connect, educate and inspire bartenders of the world.

Our Vision
To keep raising the standards and knowledge of bartenders’ internationally.

Our Core Values
Passion – Unity – Legacy

They have created an Academy to raise the bartenders' knowledge and to prepare both the new and established bartenders and prepare them for all aspects of the bar industry with different courses depending on needs and have created an all encompassing textbook to hand in hand with the courses or for students to learn on their own.

The website does actually give recipes for dozens of named cocktails. My favourite name is Last Word.

Nowadays, and to give an idea of how widespread the Association is, the President is from Macau and Vice Presidents are from Ecuador, Switzerland, Albania, Portugal and Belgium. And the registered office is in Singapore.

For the poem I’m going to use a recipe for The Bramble made by Dick Bradsell.

The Bramble

Ingredients

Serving: 1

2 ounces gin
3/4 ounce lemon juice
1/4 ounce simple syrup (1:1, sugar:water)
1/2 ounce crème de mûre
Garnish: blackberries and lemon wheel

Directions
Add gin, lemon juice and simple syrup to a cocktail shaker.
Add ice and shake until chilled.
Strain over crushed ice into a rocks glass.
Drizzle crème de mûre over top, and garnish with blackberries and lemon wheel.

Thanks for reading. Sip slowly. Terry Q.

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Bramble

From a Railway Carriage

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever!

Robert Louis Stevenson, (1850 – 1894)

from A Child’s Garden of Verses.

 

If anyone knows how to get rid of rogue bramble, please tell me. Meanwhile, I’ll keep snipping it at ground level.

They will be back soon. Pale green thorny stalks as thick as rhubarb will conquer the concrete plinth at the base of the fence panels to invade my garden. I call it a garden, but it is just a big yard with a couple of raised beds and a few plant pots. It is enough for me to look after and the spring flowers are pretty at the moment. I can sit out to read on a nice day, so it will do, apart from the horrid bramble.

A bramble bush – Rubus fruticosus – must be indestructible. I’ve done all sorts of things, but the roots are deep, beneath the fencing, which will be staying put.

It began next door, many years ago. The two ladies, mother and daughter, had a beautiful back garden. Borders were stuffed with roses and every bedding plant in summer. They were always out there, tending to the blooms and sweeping the path. At the far end, where some shrubs grew taller than the fence to offer privacy from the alley, the bramble crept in and took root. The ladies made it welcome and enjoyed the blackberries. One would go out with a dish to collect the ripe ones, but the dish returned indoors empty. The harvest eaten as fast as it was picked. Time marched on. The ladies had gone. The house was sold to property developers. The original building was ruined in the interests of modernising, but that’s another story. That beautiful, lovingly cared for garden was dug up and disposed of, replaced by stone chips. One thing survived.

Next door is occupied. The back garden is ‘easy care’, like mine, but they don’t have any plants. Not even bramble.

Two poems, one from Robert Louis Stevenson, a favourite from childhood, and Sylvia Plath, a recent interest.

  

Blackberrying

 

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,

Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,

A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea

Somewhere at the end of it, heaving.

Blackberries

Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes

Ebon in the hedges, fat

With blue-red juices.

These they squander on my fingers.

I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.

They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

 

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks –

Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.

Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.

I do not think the sea will appear at all.

The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.

I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,

Hanging their blue-green bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.

The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.

One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

 

The only thing to come now is the sea.

From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,

Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.

These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.

I follow the sheep path between them.

A last hook brings me

To the hills’ northern face, and the face is orange rock

That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space

Of white and pewter lights, and din like silversmiths

Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

 

Sylvia Plath  (1932 – 1963)

 

 Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Dismembering Enjambment

Prejamble.

From the French enjamber, innit. Literally means to encroach or straddle (the lines) - see helpful illustration below, but don't try this on your local railway tracks as the results are not pleasant. It's also worth knowing that jambe is the French word for leg.

enjambment personified - sense the tension

How and why it works. 

As a poetic device, it's well famous. When reading a poem with an enjambed (rather than an end-stopped) line, the sense of that line of verse is not self-contained, meaning the syntax is not complete and the meaning runs over into the following line without punctuation, thus giving rise to a tension that is only resolved by the rejet, (more French, dudes), the word or phrase on the subsequent line that completes the syntax.

Dismembering Enjambment.

If that's not clear, let me break it down for you, with reference to the illustration above. The width of rails in Canada, also known as the track gauge, is  4 ft  8 1⁄2 in (or 1.435 metres). If a person is taller than that, say 6ft (or 1.829 metres) and is tied to the rails in the path of an oncoming locomotive, his head and his lower legs enjamb the lines and will get chopped off by the passing train. That will  leave a neat 4 ft 8 1⁄2 in body section, the standard width of the lines, plus two or three other separated body parts (head and legs) further down the track. The true identity of the poet (did I not mention that bit? someone couldn't abide his rhymes or so I guess), will only be resolved when all the bits are taken in conjunction, jammed together without punctuation. 

A very short history.

Homer was doing it 2,500 years ago - even before French was a thing. Clever geezer, that one. Some of the Biblical dudes followed suit, though that's probably gained in translation during Stuart times. Those clever Metaphysicals loved it. And Shakespeare, the GOAT, was well into his enjambments, wasn't he. Take his words for it, not mine.

Hamlet by the GOAT, performed by the RSC at Blackpool Grand Theatre

We went to see Hamlet, performed by the Royal Shakespeare Company at Blackpool Grand Theatre earlier this evening, and it was brilliant. Best play of all time. I studied it for A-level English and at university. It's a good job Blackpool FC managed a win this afternoon, because I would have struggled with two tragedies in one day.

Anyway, here's one of Hamlet's soliloquys. It's from Act IV scene iv and it's full of enjambment...

How all occasions do inform against me

And spur my dull revenge! What is a man

If his chief good and market of his time

Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more.

Sure he that made us with such large discourse

Looking before and after gave us not

That capability and god-like reason

To fust in us unused. Now, whether it be

Bestial oblivion or some craven scruple

Of thinking too precisely on th'event -

A thought which quartered hath but one part 

Wisdom and ever three parts coward - I do not know

Why yet I live to say "This thing's to do",

Sith I have cause and will and strength and means

To do't...Examples gross as earth exhort me.

Witness this army of such mass and charge

Led by a delicate and tender prince

Whose spirit with divine ambition puffed

Makes mouths at the invisible event,

Exposing what is mortal and unsure 

To all that fortune, death and danger dare

Even for an eggshell... Rightly to be great

Is not to stir without great argument

But greatly to find quarrel in a straw

When honour's at the stake. How stand I then,

That have a father killed, a mother stained,

Excitements of my reason and my blood

And let all sleep? while to my shame I see

The imminent death of twenty thousand men

That for a fantasy and trick of fame

Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot

Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause

Which is not tomb enough and continent

to hide the slain? O, from this time forth

My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth.

            

Thanks for reading. Mind how you go, S ;-)

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Lancashire Dead Good Poets' April Open Mic Night

Our April online open mic night follows hot on the heels of April Fools' Day.

Cap and bells optional and comic theme not compulsory. Come and do your thing.

Steve ;-)

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