10.30 Coffee Time, A Very Simple Pleasure

When my dad reached his three score years and ten he must have decided that he might not have many years left, and wrote an essay on the things that gave him pleasure in life.  I can’t remember all the details but I do know I wasn’t really surprised by any of his choices.  Family, food, coffee, maths, chess, books, nature, cars, crosswords, and - the word I skimmed past very quickly - sex.  

My dad loved food - any food.  Although my mum tried to keep him under control he could frequently be found in the kitchen eating chunks of cheese on thickly buttered bread (Camembert a particular favourite - the smellier the better) As my mum had no sense of smell it was left to the rest of us to complain loudly as we entered the house and were confronted by a strong cheesy stench.  Eventually, the Camembert was double wrapped in foil and clingfilm and banished to the lean-to. 

As it happened, my dad had another twenty three years to enjoy those simple pleasures, and enjoy them he did. Every night at 9 o’clock my mum and dad would each have a Cornetto.  If I was staying, and refused one, he would tell me how delicious it was.  Boxes of chocolates couldn’t be left out if dad was in the room.  He had been diagnosed as diabetic, but never took it as seriously as he should have.  Biscuits and cakes disappeared mysteriously with nobody knowing a thing about it. Looking back, I wish I hadn’t nagged him when I was there.  I was concerned for his health, but maybe he’d got it right: his enjoyment outweighed any risk. 

Seafood and, in particular, lobsters, became a firm favourite.  He found that Lidl sold them and asked for a constant supply, panicking if he ran out.  I can still see him with a knife and hammer, cracking the shells, his mouth watering at the prospect of the meal ahead.  Although lobsters were a bit of an extravagance, not all his simple pleasures were expensive.  Most cost nothing at all.  Trips to the library were frequent and regular.  He enjoyed a wide range of genres, from whodunnits and biographies to intellectual books on philosophy and religion.  

My dad was a life long learner, who had missed out on a university education due to his family's lack of finances, and his father's desire to have his son join him in his one man optical business.  Dad would have been an ideal university student, but sadly it wasn’t to be.  Instead, he continued to educate himself, enrolling for Open University courses and thriving on discussion and debate. Most subjects interested him, but particularly philosophy, religion (he was an atheist), and maths.  He would sit at the computer for hours, reading and composing emails to his fellow students.  I think this was dad’s way of validating himself.  He would never admit it but I’m sure his lack of university education was a huge regret to him, especially as his best friend, my mum’s brother, John, was sent off to get his degree (my grandma working three jobs to pay for it) and then follow it with lecturing for many years at Kings College London.

Although I am no intellectual, I can relate to many of dad’s simple pleasures.  I love reading, and guess that came from growing up in a houseful of books, with both parents being avid readers. Food goes without saying, and I also love to learn - but not such intensive and deep subjects as those that consumed my dad.  One thing we had in common was a morning coffee.  It’s not just the drinking of it, it’s the whole ritual of boiling the kettle, heating the cafetière, grinding the beans, making the coffee, heating the milk…….It’s a very special pleasure, and one that I still love.  As the smell of the coffee hits me I think of my dad.

The night before Spamhead suddenly died (yes, that was his nickname for obvious food related reasons), my brother phoned to speak to my mum.  In the background dad called out proudly, “I finished the Telegraph crossword by 10 this morning, and I’m just cooking sausages!”  That summed him up in one sentence. It makes me very happy to think he was still enjoying his simple pleasures right up to the end.

10.30 Coffee Time

Scoop beans

Rich and black

With oily sheen

Pour into hopper

Grind fine 

Savour smell

Freshly ground Continental 

Two large spoons full 

Into heated cafetière

Water boiled

Wait a second

Tip kettle

Gently pour 

Into pot

Stare dreamily 

Through rising steam 

Sniff in sniff in 

Full force of brewing coffee

Lid on

Careful, don’t plunge yet

Meanwhile

Choose favourite mug

Just for coffee 

Not for tea

Pour in milk 

Heat thirty seconds 

Dream of treat to come 

Five minutes

Time to plunge!  

Inhale smell

Coffee brewed

Pour slowly slowly 

Onto milk in mug

Watch as bubbles rise

Let cool for seconds

Before that first delicious sip...

10.30 Coffee Time 

Thanks for reading.......Jill

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If Only I'd Known

'If only I'd known.....'

It sounds so poignant, so full of longing and regrets.  And yet I think life should be lived with as few regrets as possible. After all, every experience, good or bad, makes us what we are.  Would we have done things differently if 'we'd known'? Maybe we do regret choices we've made, but then it's up to us to learn from those mistakes.  They're all part of life's rich tapestry. 

I'm not into religion or psychic phenomena or paranormal practices, but I've always been a big believer in fate, in terms of how one event might be the catalyst for a further string of happenings.

If only I'd known….

……when I hid round the back of that building to avoid a first date with a new boyfriend, that he would wander round that way, without thinking, link my arm and lead me, smiling and chatting, into the coffee bar - and still be by my side forty five years later, would I have done anything differently? Would I have hidden more carefully? Covered my tracks? Unlinked my arm? It's unthinkable now that our lives might have veered off in different directions.  I didn't know, but now I do.

We made it....

If only I'd known….

….last year, that using Dave's car to nip to Cleveleys and pick up a few bits for our weekend away would result in a severely broken arm and two operations (for him), a missed wedding and a cancelled holiday.  Would I have been more organised and had everything ready, so no last minute trip was necessary? Would I have left the car and jumped on a tram? Would I have warned him not to hang a carrier bag from the handlebars of his bike? If only I'd known.....but I didn't. The experience was tough but we got through it and I'd like to think it made us both stronger.

If only I'd known….

…..when we booked our joint 60th birthdays celebration trip to Cuba that the husband was about to injure himself skiing, Cuba would be postponed, and having left insurance till the last minute we wouldn't get a penny back. If only I'd known......but I didn't. We went later in the year and met some lovely people, I took some interesting pictures and that led to my first exhibition.  My first exhibition led to meeting more lovely people, gaining in confidence, becoming part of the Blackpool creative set, getting commissions and starting a new career at the grand old age of sixty.  Things really do happen for a reason.  Or is it that we make the reasons after the event?

If only I'd known.......

…..when I thought I had food poisoning that I was actually in labour, and only an hour from giving birth; that there is always light at the end of the tunnel, however distant it seems; that sometimes being good enough is all that's needed; that my babies wouldn't always be tiny and cute; that teenagers grow into adults; and that, even if they don't tell you so often, your children do still love you; that dieting for fifty years wouldn't make me thinner, just hungry and miserable; that people are unreliable; that things aren't always black or white; that failure is as important as success; that marriage isn’t always easy, but it sure is worth battling on; and that family, friends and, above all, love are all that matter.

But I did know that, yes, I really did know that.

If only I'd known by Jill Reidy

That dress did nothing for me

My hair was so brash

The shoes far too high

The rum and coke was a bad idea

He was as nervous as I was

He wasn't worth it

He didn't love me

My tears would eventually dry

My dad was right

In the grand scheme of things

None of it

None of it

Not one little bit of it

Mattered at all

Thanks for reading         Jill

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What you seek is seeking you.

There's a strange circularity to learning and teaching.  Just as my daughter discovered that she would retain more information for her pending exams by teaching that information to someone else, I feel that I have learned more about poetry through teaching it to others.  It's as if there's a survival mechanism built into knowledge that ensures it will exist beyond a single mind.  In order to retain details in the long term we must, ironically, give them away.

With this in mind, I have decided to teach you about something because it's something I'd like to learn.  I have chosen Ecstatic Poetry.

The Greek ekstasis, from which the word ecstasy is derived, translated as 'standing outside oneself'.  This, to me, means that when you enter an ecstatic state, you step outside your normal framework and experience and are transported to a state which is separate from that state of mind, however temporarily.  This needn't be as extreme as a Bacchanalian frenzy, or a drug-induced stupor.  It can be that small shift in pace coupled with a flash of perspective which forces you to pause and re-read that last line, while your world moves a fraction to the left.

Bacchanale by Lovis Corinth (1896)

Paul Valery, in Edward Hirsch's How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love with Poetry, is quoted as saying, "A poet's function- do no be startled by this remark- is not to experience the poetic state: that is a private affair. His function is to create it in others."  There are a range of poetic effects at our fingertips to invoke this ecstatic state in our readers.  These tools are similar to those used in traditional prayer and hymn: the incantation of a poem in its rhythm and music, the momentary pause brought about by paradox, or the displacement of words, their rearrangement, that gives a fresh reading to a familar phrase. 

The Sufi Poets are perhaps the best known of the ecstatic poets.  And of the Sufi poets, Rumi is perhaps the most famous.  His work has a transcendental, mystic quality to it but it is grounded in nature.  In 2007, he was named the 'most popular poet in America,' - not bad for someone who was writing in the 13th century on the other side of the world. 

Having done a little research now, I find I am quite fond of Daniel Ladinsky's interpretation of Rumi's The Way Things Should (2002).  You can read the full poem online here.  Here is the part of the poem which I find induces a feeling of ecstasy in me:

Love so needs to love
that it will endure almost anything, even abuse,
just to flicker for a moment. But the sky’s mouth is kind,
its song will never hurt you, for I sing those words.

What will our children do in the morning
if they do not see us
fly?

The shift, for me, from a traditional, inspiring verse to something which is ecstatic comes with the words 'the sky's mouth'.  The words sink in up to that point but at this moment I pause.  The voice becomes not that of the poet, but of a universal humanity.  It's an invocation of universal love, or God.  In that moment, when I sense the shift from the poet's voice to something bigger, that attempt to channel the universe, I feel my own heart lift.  It's as if the poet's intention has travelled those 800 years to find me, right where I am, and remind me that I am loved.  The directness of the intention directly affects my emotional state.  This is Rumi.  This is ecstatic poetry.  I stand outside myself.
 

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A Slice of Poetry Pie

Evie the Cow from Poetry Pie

There is a single word that causes me to grimace. It is capable of creating a similar reaction to the one that results when Shaun opens a bottle of beer with his teeth. 

Closed eyes. Tense and shrugged shoulders. A sharp inhale of breath.

My two-year-old nephew hunts for the TV remote while chanting, "Beebies, Lala. Beebies, Lala. Beebies, Lala." I feel myself wanting to curl into foetal position at the mere mention of the children's TV channel, and on the rare occasion when I've given into Josh's demands, I've decided that colliding with a brick wall would probably cause less pain.

However, a few weeks ago the insanity-inducing channel redeemed itself (slightly)...  And surprisingly, CBeebies' saving grace was poetry.

Yes, initially I was worried, concerned, fearful and panicky. But then I noted a name that soothed like a Radox bubble bath, Roger McGough.

"Poetry Pie vividly brings to life the incredible poems of well-known contemporary poets specially written for CBeebies, with an animated cast of creatures who act, dance and sing the words of the poems." (Source, BBC.)  

Each episode of poetry pie is kept short (about 3 minutes) which allows young children to remain focused and entertained. The bright colours, music and fun characters work well with the nonsensical verses. But, quite importantly, it doesn't make me want to rip out my hair or prise my fingernails off with a pair of pliers. However, the best thing about Poetry Pie is that it shows that language can be fun. It introduces children to English in an exciting and creative way, and confidently says, "Poetry is not outdated".

Poetry Pie, Episode 01 - WATCH 

Thank you for reading,
Lar

  

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