Always The Colour Purple

I can’t think why,* but I was asked whether I wanted to come back as a guest blogger this week.....

 

I’ve always loved the colour purple. I think it might be something to do with it becoming popular during my formative years. The richness of the different hues of red and blue, blended together, has always appealed to the artist in me.

 

When I was fourteen I got myself a Saturday job at Dakins, a local grocers. I was allowed to work four hours only, as I was under 16, but those four hours (and the 10/- wages) began to open my eyes to a whole new world. There were no uniforms - this grocer was obviously ahead of his time as the tiny shop was already being converted into a ‘self service’, unheard of in suburban London in the sixties - so I was able to hone my (slightly outrageous) fashion sense without fear of reprisal.

 

The colour purple - along with lime green and orange - was really in vogue at that time. Perhaps it was a kick back at the dull browns and beiges of the war years, but whatever the reason, those colours immediately jumped out at me and became instant staples of my Chelsea Girl wardrobe.

 

Poor Fred, the grocer, probably dreaded those Saturday mornings. I would turn up each week in some different combination of bright purples, greens and oranges, and spend much of my time ‘out the back’ supposedly filling a basket to replenish the shelves, but actually looking at my reflection in the darkened windows, adjusting the length of my mini skirt, pushing up my 30aa bust and retying my leather thong sandals, whose laces were supposed to end at my knees but frequently fell down to gather around my ankles. I apparently considered these outfits totally suitable attire for a young shop assistant, up and down ladders and bent down at low shelves.....

 

It came to the Christmas do which was to be held in a local hotel. I needed to push the boat out and catch the eye of the handsome young delivery lad who, up to that point, hadn’t given me a second glance as he dashed past on his way to the kitchen - more interested in getting the best cake than eyeing up the mad Saturday girl.

 

My mum, as always, came up trumps. She was going to make me a shift dress (oh Mary Quant, eat your heart out!) It would be purple, and it would match the flat purple Mary Janes that I’d seen in Dolcis. Coloured tights had not yet seen the light of day, so American tan would be the stocking of (very little) choice.

 

I have a black and white picture of all the Dakins staff. Fred is in the middle. I am at one side, looking shy. Handsome delivery lad is about as far away from me as he can get. When I look at the picture I remember nothing about the night apart from the conversation I’d overheard as we gathered together for the photo. Fay, my adopted grandma figure, had tried to persuade HDL to stand next to me - with a bit of a nudge nudge, wink wink - much to my embarrassment. The only part of the conversation that I heard clearly amongst the muttered response was, ‘I hate purple....’ That was the end of that little romance before it had even begun.

 

I did have a bit of a run in with the colour purple a few years ago. It was icy and I’d left the house to buy a new kettle. At the top of the five steps going down our path I slipped on a thin patch of ice and bounced down the whole flight, whacking my backside on each concrete edge, landing at the bottom with a final crack of my head and my phone flying across the garden. I crawled over to the phone and rang my husband, crying. The bruises that appeared over the next few days were spectacular - every one of those popular colours from the 1970s - and a few more thrown in. I had yellow, brown, green, orange - and of course, the inevitable purple. The bruise covered the whole of one cheek of my backside - and that’s no mean area.

 

I made the big mistake of sending a picture of this monstrosity to my daughter, who not only showed it to everyone she worked with but promptly posted it on Facebook. When I subsequently had to go up to the hospital to have it checked my daughter offered to come with me. She was about to go to work and was in her police uniform, which obviously confused the medics, who seemed to be under the impression I was a criminal being escorted. When the consultant was about to examine the bruise he asked me if I wanted the PC to leave. I told him wearily that it was fine - she was my daughter and had already made me (or rather, my behind) quite famous online....

 

*If anybody’s interested, Crazy Color Hot Purple, Crazy Color Pinkissimo..... I might be an OAP but I’m not going down without a fight....

 

 

And of course, the only poem that can possibly go with this piece is Jenny Joseph’s which I have always loved for obvious reasons.... 

When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Thanks for reading.....Jill

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The Ning Nang No?

This week's theme is loosely related to a question I've been considering lately.  I've entered a couple of poetry competitions this year.  Two of them were competitions which would result in having a collection published. 

When gathering up my scribblings I realised that my poems fall into two camps: those which I've written to entertain and those which I've written to explore the art form.  The former tend to be a hit with the majority of my audience (people who claim not to like poetry enjoy hearing or reading them) and the latter have received praise from poets whose work and opinions I respect.

In order to succeed in competitions, I always assume that the judges (respected/acclaimed poets) are looking for something which pushes the art form while recognising the tradition.  They want something smart and beautiful which has a tendency to resonate for a long time after it has been read, e.g. Olds' Stag's Leap or McCarthy's The Clothes that escaped the Great War.  These poems are mostly for the poets.  I suspect that the majority of consumers of the 'high art' poetry are poets themselves.

On the other hand, the enduring poems which win the 'nation's favourite' polls, i.e. the popular poetry, are often easier to understand, have basic metrical schemes and simple end rhymes.  They tend to express novel or virtuous philosophical ideas in simple terms, e.g. Kipling's If, Joseph's When I am Old, Eliot's Practical Cats. 

It's the popular poetry which works better for performance.  Long, wordy poems with elaborate metaphors require multiple readings whereas snappy, humorous verse is immediately pleasing.  This accounts, I think, for the success of Kate Tempest and the surge in the popularity of live poetry events. 

Poetry competitions tend to want poems for print rather than performance.  Often, competitions are run with the intention of publishing a collection or an anthology.  These books rarely sell well, which is why literary agents are allergic to poets. 

Much as I despise the term, I do think this comes down to branding.  Take Tim Key.  He made his name on programmes such as Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe, when he would read short, topical poems which were loosely related to the week's news.  His poems are funny and easily understood and yet I bought a copy of his first collection on the back of his performances.  I enjoyed reading it and shared it with my partner.  We both gained pleasure from the reading.  I don't expect I'll go back to the poems to re-read them. 

There are other books of poems which I keep because I do like to read their contents repeatedly (or at least I think that I would like to re-read them but tend not to as I'm busy reading new stuff instead).  I don't see why there shouldn't also be many books of poems which are published as entertainment rather than important tomes, weighty with words of gravity and cleverness.  Just as there is a time for jazz, the blues or classical music, so there is a time for fun, bubbly pop.  And just as there is a time for important collections of poetry, so there is also a time for the Spike Milligan, the Roald Dahl, the Dorothy Parker and the Tim Key. 

As for the poetry competitions, they tend to judge on artistic integrity over entertainment value.  So I suppose I know which poems to enter.  Or perhaps I should start my own competition?

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