In a Stew

Winter has long been my favourite season of the year, bringing as it does, ideally, those cold, crisp, sunny days when it is a pleasure to walk in a healthy atmosphere, hot breath colliding with frosty air to form life-confirming puffs of steam. Winter also brings the enchantment of Christmas, cosy nights in, hatches batoned, cocoa, jumpers, scarves and gloves, sherry, port, football (hmm, maybe not this season), hot toddies, furry boot slippers. And root vegetables – lots of them.

Parsnips, carrots, swedes, turnips, Jerusalem artichokes, celeriac, beetroots, ginger, sweet potatoes – these gnarled and unlovely jewels of the earth add depth and nutrition to our winter diet. Parsnip soup, spiced with cumin, coriander, cardamon and ginger; a melting gratin of layered potatoes, onions, garlic and cream; Jerusalem artichokes sliced into a stew to add an interesting smokiness; beetroots roasted with onions, garlic, cinnamon, allspice, olive oil; buttery celeriac mash; carrots and swedes mashed together with butter and parsley; a simple casserole of all of the above, with herbs and vegetable stock, simmered low and long to bring out the sweetness of the roots; a mellow mixture of roughly cubed vegetables roasted slowly in olive oil, basil, oregano.

I’m romanticising, of course, for we can buy sanitised, scrubbed up versions of these vegetables all the year round at the supermarket. But I hark back to my years as an allotmenteer, when the roots grew in profusion ready for harvesting in the winter months. There was something right and proper about hauling them from the ground in the winter months, ugly and filthy with soil (them and me!), to lug them home for a good scrub and transformation into something delicious.

It is New Year’s Eve and a time when we look back reflectively, as well as forward optimistically. I am thinking today with sadness, affection and gratitude, of all the people who have shaped my life and are no longer with us – my roots, in other words. Our roots are what equip us to go forward in life and I will at least start the new year in a hopeful frame of mind. I wish you all a happy, creative, satisfying year ahead.

To end, here is a poem about vegetables that amused me.

There aren’t many words
To rhyme with ‘vegetable’
That aren’t either laughable
or barely acceptable.
But finding those most suitable
Is fast becoming pretty insurmountable
(and, to be honest, a tad cerebral)
A vegetable
Is honest and dependable
Verging on the comfortable
And incontestably respectable.
Presentable in most receptacles
Never indigestible
But with all the potential to be absolutely delectable.
Its a shame there aren’t any words
To rhyme with ‘vegetable’
As this poem could really be incredible!

V. Robinson

Thank you for reading,

Sheilagh

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Beatlemania Was Born In Blackpool

The Beatles 'arrived' when I was nine and nothing would ever be quite the same again. They permeated our young lives and literally became the soundtrack to my adolescence. Christmases were always awash with fabulous Beatle music (1963 With The Beatles, 1964 Beatles For Sale, 1965 Rubber Soul). We thrilled to their sound on transistors, radiograms and TV specials.

Tennis rackets became guitars, biscuit tins became drums (except no one really wanted to be Ringo) and the girls next door became groupies as we mimed to John, Paul, George and Ringo's unprecedented string of number one hits. In the playground there were mock battles between Beatles fans, Searchers supporters and those deluded few who thought the Dave Clark Five were going to take over the world. We were still all wearing short trousers - even in winter. They seemed such innocent and exciting times....

Years later, Beatles For Sale was the de rigeur LP (and then CD) of choice to be played during the annual decorating of the Christmas tree, and so the Beatles became not just part of my DNA but indelibly part of my daughters' as well... and Revolver remains my favourite album of all time.

Today's poem is one that I've just written as part of a project for Blackpool's Imperial Hotel, about some of its most famous guests and this being Christmas week, what better time to give it an airing?

The Beatles in their (smoking) prime

The iconic1964 image of The Beatles in Blackpool was taken on the roof of the Opera House by local photographer Peter Emmett.

Beatlemania!

Beatlemania was born in Blackpool

back in the summer of sixty-three.

The fab four rocked the town by the sea

no fewer than eight times in that giddy year,

playing Queens Theatre, the Opera House and ABC

from balmy July to sultry September,

each show a performance to remember.

None more so than their first appearance

at the Queens - once Feldman’s - on Bank Hey Street

(now a cut-price department store)

when four thousand frenzied but ticketless fans

besieged and surrounded the sold-out venue,

completely blocking all of its doors

so that the mops

had to be smuggled in across rooftops –

the first of many a Hard Day’s Night. 

On stage their fringes shook in crazy joy,

their music, soundtrack of our unshackling,

hardly heard above the noise

of screaming girls in pheromone flow.

It was mayhem of the most wondrous kind…

…and later in Imperial pomp

the boys sipped scotch and coke to unwind,

cloistered in their hotel suite

figuring the chords to I Feel Fine. 

But the Fab Four did so much more

than light up Blackpool –

they were about to turn on a generation!

From Love Me Do to Love You To,

the Beatles soon commanded every station.

A cultural phenomenon

unparalleled in modern times,

these four young men enthralled a nation

eager to escape our post-war blues.

They switched the points -

and in doing so

allowed us to forgo

destination Squaresville
in favour of a Magical Mystery Tour.

Thanks for reading. Have a rocking New Year, Beatlemaniacs everywhere, S :-)

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Faithless

Like yesterday's poem, this is another one that speaks for itself:

Faithless

Wedding bells’

Last toll

Evaporates

Beneath the threadbare sky.

 

The ancestral headstone,

The final resting place

For a blasphemous bouquet

Disguised as respect.

 

Fires of welcome

Flare joyfully for guests

But the soothsaying chimney smoke

Woefully whispers the future

Into the dusk,

Unnoticed,

But for one.

 

Preying

With vulpine

Velvet

Luring tongue,

Plagiarised promises of paradise.

 

Offended eyes become blisters

Witnessing the frantic friction

Of loveless lies.

 

The embrace of hot water

Is unconditional and complete,

Coaxing salt streams

To dilute,

Dilute

 

The sting of brine healing

Begins

Thank you for reading. Heather Taylor

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Relationships - mine have been like Verlaine's and Rimbaud...

...not really. That's a quote from our man Dylan, who's done a better job than most [in my humble opinion] at apprehending the essence of male-female relationships in popular song from Blonde on Blonde  to Blood on the Tracks [seminal albums both] and Desire. Maybe that's just a male perspective. Lady Dylanophiles speak up, if indeed there are any.

Lines I wish I had conjured up [#127 and #128 in an infinite series] come from Dylan's "Visions of Johanna" which can be found on the afore-mentioned Blonde on Blonde album from 1966.  A former Poet Laureate has proposed that composition as greatest song lyric ever written and I wouldn't be so churlish as to disagree with the Motion. It is seven minutes of aural magic, Dylan's amphetamine-sparkled imagination fired into a wider and wilder orbit after his encounter with Allen Ginsberg. Of the many wonderful images that come tumbling out, these are two I still marvel at every time I hear the song:
- 'the ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face'
and

- 'inside the museums infinity goes upon trial'

Give it a listen if you get the chance. It's on vinyl and CD, iTunes and Spotify and there's probably a YouTube rendition lurking in the ether.

So then, relationships. Here's a poem I started to write over a decade ago but only finished to my satisfaction tonight. It's about a pivotal - and fairly catastrophic - time and I think it speaks for itself [otherwise it's not doing the job properly].

Sofia Gardens
Sofia Gardens
in the sun
planting bulbs out as she hums
a tune that comes from nowhere
earthly.

I heard today a friend of mine
has gone.
Life isn't tidy, love isn't neat
can't be kept in a box

nothing stays discreet

my head a riot of emotions
but there's a stillness in retreat.

I was looking for some answers
and missing you is what I found.
It's hard to figure out
what's right and wrong
and where my feelings for you
belong. Don't be long.

Lovers come and lovers go,
passion burns as hot as snow
and every body wants to be
wanted.

When darkness falls
I smoke another silhouette
listen as the soundtrack slows,
shorn of absolutes
bereft of co-ordinates
   intangible and shifting
      irresolute and drifting...

Sweet friend of the dew
apprehended anew
your smile and your touch
are like prints on my soul
and Sofia Gardens

 

Thank you for reading. I wish you a Merry Christmas and much happiness in 2015, S ;-)

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Welcome home, Elsie

Artist : Bex Fitton

Relationships have been rather strained chez Dyson of late. This is because we have recently moved home, in my case for the first time in 37 years. Moving house is long established as one of the most stressful life events in our society, along with divorce (which I wouldn’t discount at this stage!). Colliding, as it does in our case, full pelt with Christmas preparations, a cauldron of emotion, stress, agonising and dwindling funds is assured and the resulting fall-out means exhaustion, as well as more of the above.

Ah well, there are compensations. At last we have a permanent home for our magnificent painting of Elsie Tanner, seen above.  She of the smouldering eyes and the inevitable fag, Elsie was no slouch herself when it came to relationships, mostly unsuitable ones. I bought the painting months ago from the brilliant artist and Nana extraordinaire, Bex Fitton and have been longing to put it in pride of place in my dining room, where Elsie can cast a laconic eye over family meals, parties, all the human traffic that life involves.

To finish, here’s Carol Ann Duffy’s take on an unusual relationship.

A CROW AND A SCARECROW

A crow and a scarecrow fell in love
out in the fields.
The scarecrow’s heart was a stuffed leather glove
but his love was real.
The crow perched on the stick of a wrist
and opened her beak:
Scarecrow, I love you madly, deeply.
Speak.

Crow, rasped the Scarecrow, hear these words
from my straw throat.
I love you too
from my boot to my hat
by way of my old tweed coat.
Croak.
The crow crowed back,
Scarecrow, let me take you away
to live in a tall tree.
I’ll be a true crow wife to you
if you’ll marry me.

The Scarecrow considered.
Crow, tell me how
a groom with a broomstick spine
can take a bride.
I know you believe in the love
in these button eyes
but I’m straw inside
and straw can’t fly.

The crow pecked at his heart
with her beak
then flapped away,
and back and forth she flew to him
all day, all day,
until she pulled one last straw
from his tattered vest
and soared across the sun with it
to her new nest.

And there she slept, high in her tree,
winged, in a bed of love.
Night fell.
The slow moon rose
over a meadow,
a heap of clothes,
two boots,
an empty glove.

CAROL ANN DUFFY

Thank you for reading.

Sheilagh

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Escapism

For as long as I can remember, I’ve only had to look up into the night sky to escape the daily grind. Trundling through the day-to-day, I sometimes forget that what is decreed as “living” by the puppeteers in power is not the true reality of our existence. When I lose myself in the spectacle of the heavens, I am grateful for the reminder that our planet is a mere speck of dust in the swirling spirals of a galaxy which, in itself, is insignificant in the depths of space.

The sheer scale of the universe is both grounding and wondrous. It reminds me not to concern myself with what car I drive or how many i-gadgets weigh my pockets down. Yet it screams at me to dream big, to believe in the impossible. Most weeks the impossible is as simple as making it to the weekend with my sanity intact. But every so often I journey out of my comfort zone.

Recently, I enjoyed “A Night of Astronomy” at the Lawrence House Astronomy & Space Science Centre based at Rossall School, headed by the enthusiastic and engaging Dr. Lister. I was a teenager the last time I indulged my inner-geek in this way.  At fifteen, I joined a local astronomy club and have fond memories of times such as being huddled on a dark hillside with my fellow anoraks as we gazed in awe at Halley’s Comet racing past the earth.

When I was that age I wanted to be an astronaut. So much so I wrote to Mary Cleave for tips. She was a real-life N.A.S.A astronaut who flew two Space Shuttle missions and I wanted to be her. I’m unsure how long we exchanged letters for, but it felt like Christmas each time a pale blue Airmail envelope landed on my doormat. What I remember most is the smell of the cellotape she used to seal her hand-written letters. The opaque American sticky strip had a strong, yet fragrant, plastic aroma that I thought was so much better than our clear, odourless version. Every so often I catch a waft of something similar and I’m transported back to being that excited child devouring every word in those letters.

Here’s a Haiku I wrote about the moon:

Beacon of the night

Inspiration beaming down

Captivating me

Thank you for reading,

Fiona

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Escape To Reality!

A trip to Blackpool has long been a form of escapism for many: a family holiday by the sea where the sun always shines; a wild week-end where, if you can remember what you did, then you weren't having a good enough time; a drive through the illuminations as the next best thing to finding Neverland; a Saturday trek up the motorways of England to see the mighty Seasiders in their pomp at Bloomfield Road. I've done all of the above, that latter one regularly for many seasons.

But what if you live in Blackpool, as many of us - including myself now - actually do? Have we escaped to reality in some convoluted way? [Pend that thought.]

Perversely, I'm not actually in Blackpool as I write this, being down in London for this afternoon's game at Charlton. So time is of the essence and - brevity being the soul of wit - today's blog must by definition be both soulful and witty! [LOL]

Blackpool Illuminated - South Promenade

Fittingly, the poem is brief, too! Actually, I'd rather think of it as succinct. It flares, reaches escape velocity and is gone. I dashed it off a couple of months ago in honour of the afore-mentioned illuminations, for which Blackpool is rightly famous, but I think it fits the week's theme...

Blaze!

Brilliant bulbs burn bold, burn bright,

Luminous lovers hug this humming night,

Accelerating at the speed of light in

Zoetropes of zany ebullient bliss –

Event horizons quickened with a kiss!

Thanks for reading. Have a good week. Come on you Seasiders - we need the points! S ;-)

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Escapism

We all need it in some form or other. Escapism. The ability to remove oneself from reality, if only for a short while, whether to re-charge ones batteries or try to block something out. But it's a sad thing really that anyone has need to do it don't you think?

Personally, I love a good book to immerse myself in, listening to my favourite music, or even better still, create my own little world through writing poetry. I tried story writing, but after one page I lost the thread and didn't know where else to go with it. So however poor I am at poetry, I decided to stick with that instead. These days though, the only poems I write tend to be for this blog or the open mic nights, so I'm not quite as prolific as I once was. Anyway, something is usually better than nothing, so it'll have to do.

My offering this week puzzled me though. As I was composing it, I had a tune rattling around in my head simultaneously, which has resulted in a more lyrical style that I don't normally write in. But hey-ho, I went with the flow. ;-) I am also struggling to think of a title for it, so any suggestions would be welcome in the comments box below.



I dream,
I write,
In vivid colour
or black and white,
reality fading,
knowing no bounds,
melting away.

Each strike 
of a key,
every word
my pen frees,
creates new worlds,
fresh life,
a brand new day.

Imagination
my playground,
a blank canvas,
eager background,
just waiting 
for the beginning,
that first spark.

Bringing joy,
and happiness,
away from real life -
what a mess!
my escape,
my sanctuary,
my light from dark!


Thanks for reading my waffle. ;-) x

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Comfort and Joy?

No doubt about it – Christmas starts earlier each year. No, not that one – not unsleeping capitalism’s brazen attempts to part us from our festive cash as early as August – I mean real Christmas, the one people create for themselves in their own homes. Mid-December used to be the signal for trees aloft, lights ablazing. In recent years this has defaulted to 1^st December as the first decent time to decorate the house. This year it seemed as if people couldn’t wait that long to dispel the uncertainty, misery, anxiety of life that is the lot of so many and sparkly trees were quite commonplace as you walked the streets in mid-November.

It’s a very sad form of escapism, I think.  When reality is so cruel and awful, it’s very tempting to displace it by anticipating the brief (usually) interlude of Christmas. It’s a time when people are kinder to each other, smile more, seem a little more tolerant. Who wouldn’t want more of that and for a longer period? But, as it is such a special time, is there not a danger of dissipating its enjoyment and attraction by artificially prolonging it? The nature of escapism is that it provides a short-term escape from an unpalatable reality – but return to reality is inevitable. It might be better to fight to change the reality, rather than decking the halls with boughs of holly in November.

Apropos of nothing, really, here’s a piece I wrote about my childhood Christmases. On reflection, it is relevant as an instance of escapism.

The Most Magical Day of the Year

Every day of every year was the same, in hindsight. We were a poor family, like everyone we knew. There were no incidental treats at all, ever. There was hand to mouth living, waiting for payday, every week, every month, every year.

Except one day. Christmas Day.

With the considerable assistance of Provident checks, which had to be repaid over the whole of the following year, my parents somehow managed to transform our lives completely and utterly for one day of magic. I can never forget the excitement and anticipation of the run up to Christmas, which reached a crescendo on Christmas Eve. The kitchen, always full of good, tasty (but cheap) food to sustain the six of us, was groaning under the weight of the feast to come. Exciting things like mince pies had been appearing for a few days; tangerines tantalized; the smell of Christmas cakes in the oven for hours gave a hint of the glories to come; a huge turkey was resting in the larder; the clove-scented aroma of bread pudding pervaded the air; tins of sweets, Cheese Footballs and Twiglets were hidden away, to make a glorious appearance on Christmas morning; a bottle of Harveys Bristol Cream stood proudly in the larder, ready for the festivities to begin.

We four children were despatched to bed as soon as possible, for my poor exhausted parents to make the colossal preparations for the next day. Sleep was practically impossible because of the excited frenzy and was short-lived when it came. Whoever woke first edged nervously to the foot of their bed to check if He Had Been. Of course he had! Word travelled fast round our bedrooms and soon we were all up, my poor parents, who had only just gone to bed, swept along by an unstoppable tide of excitement.

Down we all went, dragging our bulging pillowcases behind us. The turkey had been left in the oven to cook overnight. The coal fire, the only source of heat in the entire house, had been banked up so that no-one had to light it on Christmas morning. And the living room soon was literally covered with wrapping paper as we ripped the covers off present after present after present. It is no exaggeration to say that we each received every single thing that we wanted, having carefully crafted long letters for Father Christmas in November, based on completely self-indulgent wish-lists. And for one day of the year, my parents were spared the misery of the hand to mouth existence they endured every other day as they basked in the delight they had created for their children.

I’ll never forget those Christmases. I can still see that room, filled with the sheer warmth and happiness of six people, enjoying together a piece of magic in their lives.

It didn’t even end the fateful year when I found out for myself that there was no Father Christmas. I was eleven and when I woke up to detect with blinking eyes the ethereal spectre of a bike at the foot of my bed, glittering in the darkness, I reasoned that Father Christmas couldn’t possibly have got down the chimney with that. Rationality triumphed over magic. I never told the others though.

Thank you for reading,

Sheilagh

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