Enter The Dragon

Enter The Dragon
There be dragons here, or so the map says,
The further away from civilisation you go;
For those that go there, few ever come back
For the dragons, they say, have eaten them so.

There be wyverns there, so they have been told.
There have been tales told as far back as when
The sun had been born, and before time had begun,
When the weird, magical, fearsome beasts roamed.

From the deep the serpents thronged and tangled,
With bare instinct to guide them where or how,
There to cocoon on the right silver-black shores
So scores may die for the strongest of them to fly.

Where magic runs strong the majestic ones roam
From the foaming seas to the dark of the trees,
To the cold-crested mounts spewing ice-fire
Or way down in the earth in caves lined with gold.

Some are no more than hellish brutes from the north,
Fighting, crushing and eating, swearing with dark oaths
Bound in magic, live sacrifice and free-flowing blood;
In life and death their feet tread for the name of dark gods.

To the more enlightened wizened, kind, gentle yet strong,
To test the purest and pluck them from the throng,
To test if they have the right type of heart and mind
To lay down their lives and to protect others from harm.

Where be the unknown, the dragons are likely found,
From the shadows all round and the darkest night
They attack you in flight with bestial and magical might
And with portents of protection you must fight for right.

There be great drakes around here, they have said to me.
There are dragons, they say, still frighten them cold.
I've seen with my old eyes of silver-gold they be real
In your too-trusting eyes and the reflection of me.

Al

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A fairytale childhood shattered ....

It's always nice to think that the possibilities are endless, isn't it? That's why, as a child, I loved utilising my imagination to its fullest, taking myself on journeys and adventures encountering all manner of creatures and beasts, including Dragons. Which is why I would like you to think back to when you were 5 or 6 for a moment. What did you believe in back then? Fairies, Dragons, Ogres, Goblins, Trolls, Giants and Unicorns? The list goes on! Well, then you can probably understand my resentment of the C of E church for playing its part in taking a small part of that away from me. Popping a kids bubble just isn't nice!

Picture the scene; a child who attends a C of E Infant School sits down with the other children for assembly and as per usual, a hymn is sung. However, this is a new one that this child has never heard before, entitled "When a Knight won his spurs". The child, who loves to sing, thinks that this song sounds exciting and can't wait to join in, but .... as the song progresses the lyrics, in one easy, shattering moment, manage to destroy her belief in Giants, Dragons and Ogres. Gee thanks! Actually, I should (not) be thanking Jan Struther who wrote it in order for it to appear in the Songs of Praise Hymn Book in 1931.

Here is a link to the Hymn if you don't know it:

So, as a cheeky little get back, I thought I would share this:

Allan Ahlberg version.

When a knight won his spurs in the stories of old,
He was – ‘Face the front, David Briggs, what have you been told?’
With a shield on his arm and a lance in his – ‘Hey! 
Is that a ball I can see? Put – it – a – way.’

No charger have I and – ‘No talking back there.
You’re supposed to be singing, not combing your hair.’
Though back into storyland Giants have – ‘Roy, 
this isn’t the playground, stop pushing that boy!’

Let faith be my shield and – ‘Who’s eating sweets here?
I’m ashamed of you Marion, it’s not like you dear.’
And let me set free with – ‘Please stop that Paul King.
This is no place for whistlers, we’d rather you sing!’



Anyway, if you have this evening free, why not come and join us at the Moo Bar on Queen Street in Blackpool from 6pm for our Open Mic night. You can come along and read, or just sit back and relax and listen to others having a go. There's no theme this evening, so bring any poem you may have written and let us hear it! Other than that, have a great weekend and thanks for reading! ;-) x.

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LGBTea

On Thursday 28 February the young Ash Lister and I facilitated a workshop for the LGBTea Party at Blackpool's Town Hall.   After watching an incredibly moving short film titled Keep Taking the Tablets, focused on 'how science and technology has shaped the lives of three older LGBT people living in the North West', the poets moved into a meeting room to write. We had 18 participants which, as anyone who is familiar with poetry workshops will realise, is a huge turnout!

 

The theme for the workshop was 'Memory and the Senses'.  We used a variety of fictional characters to draw on our cultural symbols and motifs.  Among the characters to choose from were Sherlock Holmes, Jane Eyre and the Cerne Abbas Giant (the drawings which accompained the names managed to raise a few smiles - I think I can safely rule out both drawing and anatomy as potential careers).

 

By linking the attributes of the fictional characters to real memories and then imbuing these with sensory details, the participants managed to create a diverse range of poems which are a real tribute to their creative skills.  Jim, Nina and Karen have been kind enough to send me their work to share with you today. 

Del Boy

by Jim

 

Talking, laughing, shooting a line,

Flashing some dosh, he cannot decline,

The smell of money, taking the bait,

A hand full of cash, he just can’t wait!

Del-boy was buzzing, adrenaline high,

Like a buzzard encircling, high in the sky,

Swooping down fast, ensuring the kill,

Del-boy laughed at the ‘ker-ching’ of the till. 

Lady Macbeth 

by Nina

Ammonia burnt nostrils and sore stinging eyes

Harsh brush scratching flesh,  intent on disguise.

Dazzling white light  reflects on the knife

Small figure bent over, scrubbing for her life.

Frantic and desperate, wincing:  It chafes!

Rabid wolf underground, scrabbling its escape.

Rapid and darting, nails bleeding and raw,

Disinfectant stenched air scrapes her throat like a saw.

Dragon (Homage to Welsh Rugby)
by Karen

The mighty roar echoes around the valleys.
The fiery breath shoots across the sky.

The blood red colour rises slowly.
The mighty voices lift on high.

The swell of pride and passion rises.
The dragon fills the crimson night.

The creature swoops and dives, a glorious sight.
The roar of victory ends the fight.


The Dead Good Workshops continue on 30 March at Blackpool Central Library.  They run from 11am to 1pm and the next theme is Shakespeare.  The workshops are free and we'd be delighted if you would join us.

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If Not Now, then after I’ve finished messing around for another half an hour or so

 by Ashley Lister

I’ll be honest here: my schedule is replete with displacement activities, all of which I justify with psychotic vehemence.

At the start of this year I was commissioned to produce a novel about dragons. The story was based in a pre-medieval version of the UK. Consequently I was looking at sites about dragons and the fantastic. I was reading similar literature and delving into essays on Tolkien and the relationship between the complementary genres of fantasy and science fiction. I was brushing up on my pre-medieval history. I was watching movies about dragons and wizards. I was even playing PC games based on medieval battles.

Notice how, in the paragraph above there is no mention of my writing the novel.

I justified the above activities under the rubric of ‘thinking time’. In my own mind I qualify it as opportunities for research and reflection. A part of me thinks it would be more honest to call it ‘not writing time’.

But I have to wonder – are these really displacement activities or are they valid exercises in research and reflection?

The dragon book is now complete and with the publisher.

I was particularly pleased with the level of historical detail I’ve included because it’s accurate without being boring or intrusive. I couldn’t have achieved any of this without all the online research I did or the visits I made to areas of historical interest.

I was also pleased with the approach to magic in the story. Arthur C Clarke (Clarke’s Third Law) says, ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’ I’d encountered this sage piece of wisdom before I started writing the most recent opus but it was at the forefront of my mind when I encountered the writings of the 1930’s editor of Astounding Stories, John W Campbell.

Campbell dealt mainly with SF stories and advocated that those fantastic elements of the future that made SF so appealing to readers should be treated as if they were everyday objects or occurrences by the characters in the story. It’s a technique where characters perceive the marvellous as mundane.

Applied to the genre of fantasy, the magic in my story is not treated as miraculous, making it seem (I think) more credible.

All of which is my way of saying I don’t believe my displacement activities really are displacement activities: I do think they are genuine opportunities for research and reflection.

And the only thing that niggles at the back of my mind is the knowledge that I’ve spent time writing this blog post when I could have been working on outlining a sequel.   

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Small Details / Big Picture

By Ashley Lister

My current work in progress, as I constantly tell everyone who listens, is set in a pre-medieval Britain. I’m trying to be as historically accurate as I can with the world I’m building, although I have to admit there is a magical element to the content that allows me to fudge some truths when they don’t quite work within the narrative. This is sometimes called ‘artistic licence.’

However, the attention to the small things is relevant to this week’s theme. To make this particular story work I’ve realised it’s all in the details: the micro completing the macro.

The story takes place in Britain before the Middle Ages. To be (vaguely) specific I’m working in a story world that exists somewhere between 0 and 500 AD. That means I have the huge expanse of half a millennia in which to set my story. I’ve got the massive breadth of a sparsely populated British Isles in which my characters may blunder around. And I’m writing about the enormous emotions of love, lust and desire.

Yet it’s the micro details that enrich the image.

Details such as clothing and common fabrics. Details such as fiscal currencies (if they existed). Details such as lighting in any area that did not contain natural light.

In our contemporary age these matters are addressed in such a commonplace fashion it’s difficult to think of them as ever being issues. I’m writing this whilst wearing leather boots, denim jeans and a black cotton T-shirt. It’s an outfit so unremarkable it barely merits mentioning. I’ve got sterling in my pockets but there are a smattering of Euros on my desk and some dollars in my wallet. My office is lit by a single 150 watt bulb.

Each of these details is so micro in our contemporary day and age it barely merits being mentioned. Yet these small details are the points that will make the completed fiction seem credible and allow readers to maintain the suspension of disbelief as they follow the narrative.

Obviously it takes a macro amount of time to thoroughly research each of these details. But that’s another whine for another day. Below is a page from one of the opening chapters of the current work in progress. It’s surprising how much research went into these 257 words.

The deadbolt slammed home with deafening force. The clang of metal sang against metal. The sound reverberated through unyielding oak doors set in solid stone walls. Tavia knew the thick silence that came afterwards was locked in the dungeon with her. She swallowed as she studied her surroundings. She struggled not to be afraid. And she wished she hadn’t paid two gold pfennigs for this dubious privilege.

Blazing torches hung from sconces on the walls. The flames splashed shadows and a glaring orange light onto the cobbled stones of the dungeon floor. Spirals of black smoke spewed upward toward the faraway roof. Sulphuric smells and unearthly stinks crept from the shadowy corners.

“This is not a waste of time,” Tavia muttered the words like a mystical chant. “It was not a waste of money. It is not a waste of time.”

She said the words softly but with determination, trying to convince herself that they held some truth. She had entered the dungeons against the advice of her twin and without the knowledge of her father. It had cost her dearly to bribe guards and keykeepers to get this far. And she wouldn’t let herself believe that it could all be for nothing. She brushed a stray lock of blonde tresses from her brow and stepped nervously from one foot to the other. She wore wooden pattens with leather straps and the heels tripped loudly against the stone floor.

“F**k off,” a voice called. “I’ve got a hangover and I’m in no mood for visitors.”

She stiffened.

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if winter comes can spring be far behind?

By Ashley Lister

If Winter comes can Spring be far behind?

This is the final line from ‘Ode to the West Wind’ by Percy Bysshe Shelley. I came across these words the week before last as I was researching poetic forms for one of my creative writing classes.

I was surprised by this line for two reasons.

Primarily, I was surprised because I’ve heard the phrase quoted before, but I’d never previously seen the whole poem. It was a pleasure to put the phrase in context – almost like mentally completing a jigsaw.

But I was surprised by the poem for another reason.

Over the past few years I’ve taught a wide variety of poetic forms and I sometimes worry that I’ve worked with every established form of poetry that’s been recorded. I’ve worked with poetic forms from abecedaries through to Zéjels and many more in between. But it seems there are an infinite variety of poetic forms. And, whilst I was looking through records of what I’ve taught and what’s still out there waiting to be taught, I came across Shelley’s ‘Ode to the West Wind.’

Obviously, I’ve taught the concept of odes before. Technically, the ode is not a poetic form. Length, meter, rhyme scheme and structure can all vary in the ode dependent on the needs of the writer and the way the subject matter needs to be presented. But ‘Ode to the West Wind’ is written in the form of a Terza Rima and that’s a form I hadn’t previously covered in my classes.

The Terza Rima is originally an Italian form that’s been used by Milton, Shelley, Byron, Frost and Dante Alighieri. It’s written in tercets (three lined stanzas) with a rhyme scheme of aba bcb cdc (and so on) until the final stanza. The final stanza can either be a single line, relating back to the middle rhyme of the penultimate stanza, (yzy z) or it can be a concluding couplet (xyx zz).

The structure suits iambic pentameter or iambic tetrameter and the interlocking rhyme scheme presents a neat little form that is a challenge to write and a pleasure to read. This is the opening from the aforementioned poem by Shelley. The rest of it can be found through this link: (http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15693)

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,

Each like a corpse within its grave, until

Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)

With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;

Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!

And, if anyone here is up to the Saturday challenge of building a poem, let’s see if we can each contribute a tercet in the comments box below.

Which moron here chose the dragon topic

For this winter’s dead good poet’s event?

The theme’s making me feel misanthropic…

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Grandad Tom and The Dragon

by Rachel McGladdery



My childhood was difficult. I spent large tracts of it with my grandparents at times of trauma (which were frequent), not that I’m complaining. When I stayed with my grandparents, I was bathed, warm, fed and always had clean clothes to wear, this was due to the wonderful mothering I received from my grandma - granddad did the other stuff every child needs, he filled my head with rubbish... other dimensions, fairies, elves (told with such astonishing flair that I actually saw them, digging for coal in the cellar) in addition, each evening that he wasn’t ‘on nights’, granddad would tell me stories at bedtime. He would hitch up his trousers and sit with a sigh on the little chair by my bed and begin.


Each story had me as the eponymous heroine, whether fighting for Earth’s survival against aliens in ‘Rachel and the Spaceship’ or hunting for rainbow cloth in ‘Rachel and the Fairies’. But my favourite was ‘Rachel and the Dragon’. This would see me questing for gold and magic rings, looking to slay an ancient dragon and steal its hoard, but eventually panned out to a battle of wits in which me and the dragon would become firm friends and I would get a fair share of the treasure, leaving the dragon enough to see it through till old age. I swear that the man had magic. No doubt the tales were forged from a mixture of Ursula Le Guin and Tolkein with a smattering of C.S. Lewis thrown in for good measure, but the detail and the clarity not to mention the affection which he wove into them, made them as real as could be. He read a lot, complained as he was getting older that there were ‘no new stories.’


Granddad died 7 years ago, and I miss him, I mourn more for the fatherly comforting presence that my younger children are denied, I do tell the children stories in which they emerge as the heroes, I base them loosely on Enid Blyton but they aren’t a patch on granddad’s. He began telling stories to his brothers when he was a lad, carried on telling them in order to survive school and openly admitted that he made them as bloodthirsty and erotic as he could as he moved into his teens, then a hiatus for the war, before more stories with his own children and eventually his grandchildren. The last time I saw him before he took to his deathbed, he sat with my two boys then aged 7 and 8 and I went out to the backyard to watch the tableau through the window. My view was made swimmy with old glass and tears, but he leant forward, spittle on his lips, in the certain knowledge that this was his last chance, vehemently telling them tales of his childhood and the war, teaching them, through stories, how to be men.


Granddad once said when I was very young, ‘You’ll be a writer when you grow up, because you’ve had a bad childhood’. Granddad, some of it was terribly bad, but I survived, thanks to you and Grandma, and I am a writer, not because my childhood was bad, but because you made it enviable.



http://writeoutloud.net/profiles/rachelmcgladdery

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Dragons' Den

by Ashley Lister


This week’s theme is dragons which allows me to say that I get very annoyed with the TV show Dragons’ Den.

Stay with me a moment here. This does relate to writing and poetry. But it’ll be a circuitous route getting there.

Dragons’ Den doesn’t just annoy me because it promotes an ethos of capitalist greed. Admittedly, I don’t like capitalism. The idea of cultivating a Thatcherite ideal of ‘avarice over altruism’ makes me nauseous.

But that’s not the reason why the show annoys me.

I admit that I don’t care for the interrogation style format, or the fact that so many members of the regular panel on the show seem to think that it’s acceptable to call people liars, stupid, foolish or deluded. This name-calling is indicative of a mentality that suggests each panellist considers themselves to be the Simon Cowell of entrepreneurship – a distressingly bleak mindset in and of itself.
But, again, that is not the real reason why the show annoys me.

Dragons’ Den annoys me because the narrator consistently describes the obscenely rich businessmen on the programme as ‘dragons.’

Honestly - they’re not.

They’re not dragons in a mythological sense, a figurative sense or a literal sense.
Dragons are mythological creatures. Dragons are notorious for being dangerous and brilliant and exciting and wonderful. The whole concept of the dragon is a metaphor for a darkly attractive force that is powerful, splendid and almost unconquerable.
Does that really sound like an appropriate description for a handful of narcissistic business owners who are motivated solely by the goal of personal profit?

I say ‘narcissistic’ because they’re all sitting in front of TV cameras, looking freshly groomed and brimming with expressions of smug self-satisfaction. They stroke their fingers over compensating piles of money and could not look more self-satisfied if they were smoking post-coital cigarettes.

And I say ‘business owners’ because the adjectival phrase ‘greedy twunts’ is potentially libellous.

I don’t have a problem with all of the title. The word DEN fits because of its other connotations. You can have a den of iniquity or a den of thieves or a dirty den. With those connotations I can see the word DEN being appropriate for all the regular ‘business owners’ who appear on the programme.

But the word ‘dragon’ just doesn’t seem to fit

As writers, each time we select a word, we have to be specific in our choice. We pick the word that’s most appropriate for the circumstances – the word that will convey our exact meaning to a reader or audience.

I’m about to start writing a story that contains a dragon and you can rest assured, the creature will be dangerous and brilliant and exciting and wonderful. The dragon will be a metaphor for a darkly attractive force that is powerful, splendid and almost unconquerable.

It won’t be some smug ‘business owner’ greedily protecting its own wealth.

That sort of dragon would just be annoying.

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Nightmares Before Christmas

My creative brain is currently dormant; like a sleeping dragon it is producing no sparks or fire. It is stressed, overworked, exhausted and stuck in practical mode.

I have to-do lists in my notebook instead of poems:

• Make an 80th birthday cake for my Nan's birthday on Saturday
• Clean flats for visiting family members
• Organise a buffet
• Buy Christmas presents
• Buy, write & send Christmas cards
  
• Put up Christmas tree (ideally before Christmas Day)
• Write something for poetry event on Friday
• Get my car radio decoded

And, as is always the case when you have a lot to do, things continue to go wrong.

My car radio was meant to be ready for me to collect yesterday lunchtime, but apparently it is "proving difficult to decode". So, I now have a gaping hole instead of a radio and still no music. And if this doesn't seem like a big enough nightmare, I have a section of our basement flat covered in towels because of all the rain. I can safely say, if the rain continues, I'll be living in a swimming pool...

I will stop listing, moaning and depressing readers of this blog, and move onto my actual post.

An Amazon Dragon

Knights like to fight giant lizards and dragons

so give them the opportunity


.

The above is a 'found poem' that I found on Amazon (click here)

Thank you for reading,
Lar

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I believe.

Are you ever tempted just to believe in something, go along with it and see where the moment takes you. I am. I was almost stopped dead in the shop the other day after a mother revealed what she called 'the truth about Christmas' to her son. Well, actually, she told her version of the truth, probably told to her by an ill spirited relative on her eighth birthday. The still devastated child didn't seem to appreciate the re-telling of this "I told him", moment and they both left- one delighting in the new found Scrooge appeal (that parents buy gifts and money doesn't grow on trees), the other a little teary.

My Nana, as she always does, pitched right in with a "What do you mean?". Complete with her strong Yorkshire spirit (with which she knocked on my girlfriend's Dad's door yesterday and asked to use the car park- they've never even met before- I wasn't in) and determined to sprinkle festive fairy dust she appeased the lad somewhat. Over egged the pudding on the Santa front a little maybe. I can't help wondering if, either way, the kid will ever be the same again.

When thinking about the theme for this week I completely ignored the 'On this Day' fact. The Order of the Dragon was conjoured up by the seemingly blood thirsty King of Hungary. From a quick Wiki check he seemed a bit of a dragon himself- the kind of endeering rogue that for all his faults, got a fair bit done. But, as I said, I've ignored that titbit from 1408 and think really, as it is becoming increasingly festive around here, it is time to start thinking Santa. Well, believing in things at least.

We've had some new bookshelves in the flat and as such, I can now see a load of books. Flicking through this collection I came across the eponymous poem Dragons. Matthew Francis takes his reader on a journey through the imagination of his narrator in this poem. He dissects each dragony detail and builds a great picture, if nothing else, of childhood and belief. The poem goes much further and deeper than that, as you may expect from an opening poem but I'll leave you to discover that on your own. It comes recommended.

Believing though, is a very big thing at this time of the year. Imaginations are captured and in many ways it is the only time of the year when you can reasonably be as excited as a child. We suspend normality, find our television sets peppered by wand waving schoolkids, longboats and mythical creatures- legends retold and retold and retold. We lap it up. We will all eagerly await the showing of Miracle on 34th Street and all tire of it by the New Year but, as with all popular Christmas stories, you just have to go with the flow sometimes.

I like the thought that something magical could happen. I like the idea that someone could do something for someone else just once and, on top of that, I quite like all the smiling that goes on. Of course, there are those that don't believe in Christmas, there are those that get swept under by the throbbing high street and there are those that just can't cope. But, with so many things coming to mind just by thinking about Dragons, it really is the season to believe- at least in your own ideas. There is plenty of inspiration about- I suggest we all make a little time in our lives to get some thoughts on paper.

Keep on writing, S

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