Achievement

 “If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again.”

That is one of my father’s sayings that he was fond of using. I don’t think I ever thought of him as a wise person, but, of course, he was, in his quiet way. He had an easy-going, generous nature, which caused him to be taken advantage of sometimes. Everyone was worth another chance. For the summer seasons, he employed extra staff in the pub and it always included the same barman. The man was reliable, helpful, knew his job, but he was soon ‘on the fiddle’ and it would only be a matter of time before Dad had to sack him, again. I don’t think he worked a full season, which was probably May Bank Holiday until the end of the Illuminations. My dad gave him the opportunity to earn a wage with the promise of the man’s honesty and set himself up to be let down, but he always gave the man that chance.

Writing was always my thing and Dad’s encouragement never faltered. It’s sad that he passed away before I could share my published work, tiny amount but still an achievement to be proud of, and he would have loved the Haunted House in the Illuminations which included my story and poem.

Three of our grandchildren are in Beavers and Cubs, one nearly ready for Scouts and currently rehearsing for the Gang Show. My job is sewing their achievement badges onto uniform jumpers. It makes me proud to see the rewards of their interests and hard work. They can be equally proud over something they didn’t think they could do. After years of doing this for our own Cub and Brownie, then Scout and Guide, it’s nice to do it again for the next generation.

Last Saturday, our 8 year old, footballer grandson, was chosen Player of the Match and awarded a trophy. A fine achievement. Watched by his enthusiastic grandad, the pair of them came back frozen and wet, one with muddy legs. My husband thought he’d finished with junior football at pitch side nearly thirty years ago.

I was having an in-depth chat with my dad, asking for an opinion or some advice. I would have been about twenty-five, certainly under thirty, with a few things on my mind and unsure what to do, nothing to do with my writing ambition.

“Life is what you make it.”

Another of his little gems. He was right, as always. There’s usually a journey to reach an achievement. I’m still travelling.

I found this poem,

Don’t Quit

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
When the fund are low but the debts are high,
And you want to smile but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest if you must, but don’t you quit.

Life is strange with its twists and turns,
As everyone of us sometimes learns,
And many failures turn about
When we might have won had we stuck it out.
Don’t give up though the pace seems slow –
You may succeed with another blow.

Success is failure turned inside out –
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
You can never tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far;
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit –
It’s when things seem worst that you must not quit.

                                                            Edgar A. Guest 1881-1959

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Witches - The Witchiest Witch

 

‘The Lancashire Witches’

One voice for ten dragged this way once
by superstition, ignorance.
Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

Witch: female, cunning, manless, old,
daughter of such, of evil faith;
in the murk of Pendle Hill, a crone.

Here, heavy storm-clouds, ill-will brewed,
over fields, fells, farms, blighted woods.
On the wind’s breath, curse of crow and rook.

From poverty, no poetry
but weird spells, half-prayer, half-threat;
sharp pins in the little dolls of death.

At daylight’s gate, the things we fear
darken and form. That tree, that rock,
a slattern’s shape with the devil’s dog.

Something upholds us in its palm-
landscape, history, place and time-
and, above, the same old witness moon

below which Demdike, Chattox, shrieked,
like hags, unloved, an underclass,
badly fed, unwell. Their eyes were red.

But that was then – when difference
made ghouls of neighbours; child beggars,
feral, filthy, threatened in their cowls.

Grim skies, the grey remorse of rain;
sunset’s crimson shame; four seasons,
centuries, turning, in Lancashire,

away from Castle, Jury, Judge,
huge crowd, rough rope, short drop, no grave;
only future tourists who might grieve.

                                                 Carol Ann Duffy

On a pleasant, summer afternoon in 2012, we went to Barrowford, Lancashire, to visit the Pendle Heritage Centre and find out more about the Lancashire Witches. It was the 400th anniversary of their trials that year. Having previously visited Lancaster Castle and the area where some of the witches were executed by hanging, we were starting our explorations at their end and going backwards into their beginnings. I found their story fascinating, disturbing and very sad. Witches? Really? Blind, struggling, penniless old ladies being picked on for how they lived and what they looked like upset me so much and it was too late to stick up for them. I saw them as two families who didn’t get on and tried to out-wit each other. They knew plants, good and bad. They knew the properties of each and how to use them for nourishment, medicine and poison. I don’t believe they murdered anyone. I believe that they were so terrified, that they made false confessions and were consequently found guilty at their trials and executed. That’s my opinion, based on what I felt was real and dismissing what I considered to be fantasy – familiars, in the sense, or rather nonsense of a person taking on the form of an animal or non-human creature.

The stories of the Pendle Witches are well documented, but here are a few snippets from a booklet we picked up on our visit,

“Early 1600s – Two rival peasant families live on the slopes of Pendle Hill. They are led by two old women called Demdike, a.k.a. Elizabeth Southerns and Old Chattox, a.k.a. Anne Whittle. The men of their families are dead, leaving them in poverty to beg and find work where they can. Many local people live in fear of them, believing them to have special powers.”

According to the booklet, things really kick off and reach a peak in the spring of 1612,

“March 18th, 1612 – Alizon Device, grand-daughter of Demdike, is begging on the road to Colne. A pedlar refuses her some pins and she curses him. Suddenly a black dog appears and she orders it to lame the pedlar who collapses, paralysed on the left side.

March 30th, 1612 – Alizon Device is hauled before the Justice Roger Nowell and confesses to witchcraft. Forced to give an account of her family’s activities she tells how Demdike had been asked to heal a sick cow which then died. She also told Nowell that Demdike had cursed Richard Baldwin after which his daughter fell sick and died a year later. Describing her family’s feud with the Chattox family she reports how Chattox turned the ale sour at an inn at Higham and bewitched the landlord’s son to death using a clay image.

April 3rd, 1612 – Nowell sends Demdike, Alizon Device, Chattox and her daughter Ann Redfearn to Lancaster Castle to await trial for witchcraft. Demdike dies in prison before the trial.

August 17th 1612 – The trial opens at Lancaster Castle. The accused are not provided with a defence lawyer. Nowell produces nine year old Jennet Device as a witness and she gives evidence against her own family. Her mother, Elizabeth, is dragged from the court screaming at her daughter and cursing Nowell. Alizon Device faints when confronted with the pedlar she is said to have lamed and when she is revived, confesses her guilt. Chattox weeps as she hears the evidence against her and asks God for forgiveness. She pleads for mercy to be shown to her daughter, Ann. The judge finds them all guilty.

August 20th 1612 – Chattox, Ann Redfearn, Elizabeth, James and Alizon Device, Alice Nutter, Katherine Hewitt, Jane Bulcock and her son John are hanged in Lancaster in front of huge crowds.

Were they malevolent people possessed by supernatural powers, or the innocent victims of a time obsessed with the pursuit and punishment of witchcraft?”

There is much more to learn about the Lancashire witches, that was just an outline of events.

I’ve convinced my grandchildren that I have special powers and I’m not even a witch! Well, I am sometimes, usually at Hallowe’en when I transform into The Witchiest Witch and give chocolate to all the children who come to my door. These are children who know me and recognise me from school or the neighbourhood. They are often disguised beyond my best efforts to recognise them as monsters, vampires, ghosts and miniature witches.

My own poem,

The Love Potion

She visited after midnight
And I listened to what she said.
Her voice was quiet and distant
For she was seven decades dead.
Her threadbare clothes were shades of black,
Her knitted shawl, faded to grey.
Old eyes, soft in her wizened face
Still had a kind and gentle way.

I adored my great-great grandma,
Her ghostly presence brought no fear.
She always knew what I needed
And I loved to sense her so near.
She said, “I believe I can help.
I know of a very old spell.
Come sit a-while beside me
And write it all down as I tell.

“Get some milk thistle and nettle,
Buttercup, daisy and clover.
Leave it to rest in rose water
Until the petals turn over.
Slowly stir in bramble honey,
A splash of dandelion wine
And sprinkle the seeds of the poppy
While you sing ‘Oh Let Him Be Mine’.”

“You want him so much,” she whispered.
“This potion will bring him along.
He will love you as you love him
And together you will belong.
Follow instructions exactly.
Choose every item with great care
And take your time, do not hurry.
Be of glad mind as you prepare.”

Her cold, hard fingers touched my face
And I felt the warmth of her love.
The vision drifted out of sight
Carried floating somewhere above.
She’d died long before I was born,
Yet she was always there for me.
I am blessed to share the blood-line
Of a free spirit such as she.

Pamela M Winning 2012

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Rocking Chair

Call me a softy if you like, ‘The Woman in Black’ is the scariest film I’ve ever tried to watch. I’ve had a few attempts. One was at the cinema with my daughter. I think she begged me to take her, only to discover how fearful it is.

 “Tell me when it’s gone,” she whispered.

“I can’t, I’m not looking.” I had no idea what ‘it’ was.

There’s a particularly creepy scene concerning a room full of clockwork monkeys playing musical instruments and an empty rocking chair, rocking. Too spooky and reminds me of something chilling my son said when he was little.

I have my grandfather’s rocking chair, I’ve probably mentioned it before because it is special item and means a lot to me. I remember him with fondness, gently rocking as he read the paper or his book, often sharing an orange with me when I was a child. After he died, the chair was untouched in the house he’d shared with my aunt since he was widowed. My sister had children before me and I think our aunt gave her the rocking chair to nurse her first baby. When I bought my house, the chair came to me and for a while, it was the only furniture I had to sit on. It moved with me when I got married and had a special place in the back room. I don’t know if our son, a young child at the time, was teasing when he told me that he’d seen the rocking chair rocking on its own. The thought of it gave me shivers. I felt sure I would be aware if there was anything odd. Over the years, the chair began to look tatty. Covering it with a throw and a cushion wasn’t enough. I had it repaired and recovered, and moved it into my bedroom.

As for ‘The Woman in Black’, I’m told by a friend that the stage play is more scary than the film. I can’t imagine that, but I’ll accept the opinion without the need to see for myself.

Robert Service had the right idea,

My Rocking-chair

When I am old and worse for wear
I want to buy a rocking-chair,
And set it on a porch where shine
The stars of morning-glory vine;
With just beyond, a gleam of grass,
A shady street where people pass;
And some who come with time to spare,
To yarn beside my rocking-chair.
Then I will light my corn-cob pipe
And dose and dream and rarely gripe.
My morning paper on my knee
I won't allow to worry me.
For if I know the latest news
Is bad,-to read it I'll refuse,
Since I have always tried to see
The side of life that clicks with glee.

And looking back with days nigh done,
I feel I've had a heap of fun.
Of course I guess that more or less
It's you yourself make happiness
And if your needs are small and few,
Like me you may be happy too:
And end up with a hope, a prayer,
A chuckle in a rocking-chair.

Robert Service

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

The beginning was simple to mark.

I was sitting in a darkened classroom, lights off and blinds shut. This was me, taking my first Lit class. I remember being early. I remember being eager to find out about things then, having only chosen the A level on the back of a GCSE the top set were forced to take. I remember the humming of the flourescent lights. I remember the door being propped open and me trying to look excited. Then, I remember the girls coming in, one at a time in what seemed a never ending chain of potential partners. I stuck around, and not just for the hugely attractive female:male ratios. There seemed to be something interesting going on in the English department, a feel in the air that the teachers knew and loved the material, a feel of expectancy, should I say.

We're discussing favourite writers this week and, whilst that subject itself is something I am coming back to, if I was going to pick at some, I'll take two straight from those college years. Ian McEwan sits on top of my list. He sits there for the simple reason that without him, I wouldn't be writing this blog. I wouldn't have read Enduring Love and, if you'll excuse the pun, wouldn't have developed one for the subject. I certainly wouldn't have taken an English degree. I adore his attention to detail, the realism and the most tremendous tension he creates from the most mundane of situations. His book covers say 'the master of disaster', and I can't beat that for high praise.

Read More

The Mystery of the Taliban?

Okay, so my weekly confessional has come around again and I must admit, I'm a bit of a book hoarder. 

I buy all sorts of books, none of them particularly fancy but to me, for that hour or so when I first open a new book up, it is an absolute must have. I do this with all kinds of books for all kinds of reasons. I go for price, cover, review, name, recommendation- all the usual things but the one thing that can hook me in is mystery. This is half of the reason I buy poetry books. I know they aren't in fashion long enough to be going out of fashion but there is always a rush there- and nobody seems to ever stop me. I buy them for the different ideas, for the different beliefs and for the different understandings and viewings of the world, which leads me on nicely to something of a topical post. 

There has been something of a backlash this week towards news publishers Hurst & Co. are to publish a Taliban poetry collection later this month. Whilst at first this may seem an outrageous proposal, I was reluctant to jump to conclusions over this before I had actually seen a copy of the book or at least read some of the poems in it...

Read More

Micro v Macro: The Small v The Large

For any long term readers coming back here today, I want to thank you first of all. You have sustained an ego bursting at the seams, a voice of a poet wanting to break out of the box. You've probably also gathered by now that I hold strong feelings towards certain aspects of politics, that I am a vegan and that I have tried to adopt something of a 'be the change' attitude towards life. If you hadn't picked that up, maybe re-read some of my poems. 


Last week the link to our blog was tweeted by the poetry society. I have a hard on for the poetry society and for all the effort they put in to develop access and sustainability for it as a genre. My father also read my blog last week, which somehow meant more. 


As a union man, one of the things that seems to have etched its way from his mind to mine is the idea of the small, individual piece coming together as a much bigger force for the good. This is not a political blog and I don't want a debate about strike action and so on, there are plenty of sites elsewhere for that. The point is that be it in forcing action (or simply consultation), spreading the word for events or just sharing ideas and openly debating things, the force of the many together is often paramount to the success. 


The EDL attempted to form a united European league recently and were outnumbered by incredibly well mobilised anti-fascist protestors. The powers that be are pushing forwards with draconian surveillance measures that will change the lives of most UK internet users and, as sure as eggs is eggs, the Home Office website became a target for hackers over the last week- again the power of the many. 


So what does this have to do with poetry, I hear you ask. Well, I am simply putting it out there to see what you feel the world of poetry could do for people. My father was harping on to me about poetry this week, which was astonishing, and I feel I may have indoctrinated him with it sometime. A customer in the shop was asking why a conservatory tax was fair this morning. I simply mentioned to him that a tax on anything wasn't necessarily fair, but perhaps it is fairer to tax those who can afford to extend their houses than those who can only just heat it. It was, of course, a Daily Mail headline that prompted him and I think then that the message should this. If a cesspool of newpapers can influence public thought, why can't the lyrical, astute, poets amongst us. With twitter, social media and even boat races to contend with as platforms for spreading messages and ideas, perhaps now is the time for poetry to reach out. 


The musicians have had their shot at it, the papers are more than just untrusted these days and so, in times of tough support from the top, writing is as important as ever. When I think of early England, I think Beowulf. When I think of the Elizabethans, I think of Shakespeare and any knowledge I really have held onto about the Middle Ages comes from Chaucer's  characatured monks and vagrants. The past has been documented and we have held on to the best descriptions. I encourage you all then to take up your pens. Our next event is just 11 days away and with the theme of 'Jeremy Kyle' to get stuck into, I am looking forward to hearing the many various voices our window on society will inspire. Maybe, just maybe, I'll have something new to read myself there. 


Cheers for reading, 
S. 


PS I've been doing Napowrimo this month. In an attempt to broaden my horizons and material, I am going to try looking at five or six new poems or artworks every day. Just thought I'd share the method I'm taking, as a warning that there may be some different stuff on the way from me in the coming weeks and also as an alternative if Ashley's three little word scheme from Saturday runs dry. 

Read More

Strength in Numbers

Good evening readers.

This week, the theme for the blog is numbers. I decided to wait until almost 6pm, 12 hours after normal to post this, I figured more people would be home from work by now- and numbers are key.

In relating numbers to poetry then, I got to thinking just how many little sequences there actually are. Numbers are clearly a maths thing, not a words thing but when you can draw graphs of poems, label up rhyme schemes and count stanzas, stresses, syllables and such like, I think numbers certainly DO apply to poetry.

The plan for this evening was to encourage you all to write more. I feel a bit like a rebel tweeter in the middle east in asking you all to voice your opinions but, the harsh reality we face is that a silly pillock with no real grasp of everyday people’s values and the morals of a scab is charged with running the country. An even sadder fact is that a public school tosser has his hand up that man’s arse and is actually running the country- he knows the things people hold dear but frankly, couldn’t give a toss.

So, when it comes to making ourselves heard, a riot for an afternoon is tomorrow’s chip wrapper, a hashtag rant over #bbcQT or a public breakdown- complete with a shotgun and (later) a fishing rod  are probably not the ways to do anything lasting. What will be knocking around in thirty years though, is that old book of poems you wrote down and passed on. That book in the hands of your potentially unborn grandchildren will be a voice of reason in amongst historical notes about cost cutting saving or not saving the economy. That book, alongside your friend’s book and the books we go out and buy all the time- they are the truth. They are the history and what people should be remembering from these times, not the scaremongering headlines or rhetorical false promise speeches.

The emotional history of a period is, I would say, a more accurate reflection of the time and in order for that to happen, people need to write what they feel. I put it to you, dear reader, that a poet is a wild bird. We write our songs unnoticed and chirp away until our hearts are content, usually to a small audience of bystanders. Take away one of our voices, you may not notice at all. Stop all the birdsongs though, and the world is a much less spirited place.

On the flip side of that same coin,  just think of all the noise we could make if we all keep moving together.  Our regular events are nearly always standing room only for the latecomers now and, as a result, people like the mayor and library are having to notice the group. A couple of years ago, being somewhat frozen out of the Wordpool meetings, I’d have doubted that could happen. We’ve got strength in numbers people, and we need to keep our mass squawking going.

I had planned to share a poem with you all today. I took a special walk on my lunchtime to finish the thing off but, somehow being organised has let me down today- I’ve left it at work! I’m not about to do an 8 mile round trip for a first draft so, I hope you’ve enjoyed reading- that is all you’re having from me today.

Cheers for reading, S. 

Read More

Sounding Off.

When somebody tells me that poetry is boring, I can be a little dismissive.

I can also bite heads off. For me, that is like saying music is dull. All music. Ever. Dull.

Now, there are plenty of older people who can roll off some schoolday Wordsworth. I know a fair few dramatic types that love to do a bit of Shakespeare from time to time. I probably also know a few dozen teenagers that could quote, word for word, the entire album of a rapper.

Do these people get on? Probably not. They probably don't realise just how much they have in common.

Several people have told me lately (after noticing the blog) that they can't be doing with poetry and, in a quest to get to the bottom of this, I have been thinking about the way Sound (this week's theme) makes almost all things poetic more accessible.

As writers we pump poems full of imagery, cram it in, elaborate our points but, if by the end of the poem nobody is actually listening, was there really any point in tying up that metaphor in the final stanza? Trailing off is a nightmare. Standing at a microphone and losing the plot is something of a disaster and so, I like to think that over the past few years I've developed a few techniques in my writing to try and hold the attention.

I've tried writing in beats, using rhetoric, hard and soft endings, rhymes, stressed and unstressed syllables, alliteration, assonance, and even a little sibilance. None of these techniques are nessecarily the answer but, we chuck them in all the same to help move the poem along. We hope that they'll make someone hear.

From the many poetry readings I've found myself attending over the years, I can't say there is an answer. Poets pick and choose. Each individual just has to feel the poem and, with practise, just know almost.

I could go on here to produce a top five, top ten or greatest hits kind of post but we all have our own tastes - you know what sounds work for you. I will instead encourage all of you to attend a poetry reading. I keep coming across the line about the couple who attend events together; the old 'I don't like it, she does' situation. Carol Ann, our poet laureate, reckons there are always surprised faces and comments like 'I didn't think I liked poetry'. So go on, get yourself out there and have a listen. It could be the way someone uses the words, it could be the noises they are making with ideas, it could just be that you liked the concept but if you never look for things you like, you might always be that sad, closed minded fool that bands all poetry in together as boring.

It has been an interesting week. We've had general strikes and ludicrous comments from TV celebrities. I also heard yesterday that Meryl Streep is to play Margaret Thatcher in a film. So, for our cock-sure Prime Minister, for the Iron Whore and for Jeremy Clarkson- I'm dedicating you all this John Cooper Clarke classic.

Sound.

Thanks for reading, Shaun.

Read More

Namby-pamby Liberal do-gooders

As you may or may not be aware, last year I decided to go vegan. My Dad, with his ‘meat and two veg’ thinking, still calls it an eating disorder.

Whilst I don’t buy that tag, perhaps he is on to something- I am much more careful with food now and I find myself meticulously reading labels and researching brands to check whether or not they are suitable to eat. My eating disorder, apparently, is knowing what I am eating...

This brings me on nicely to a slightly off topic post for the week. Controversy is the theme for the blog this week and so, in my new role as what my Dad would call a liberal do-gooder (which I don’t believe I am) I’ve decided to share a link with you.

Here we have the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson flapping slightly on what I think could be a fairly explosive issue just as soon as the Daily Mail run with it.

Oh, Boris!

You may be wondering just what that video was put on a poetry blog for. You may also be wondering what me being vegan has to do with a poetry blog. Well, somebody at work yesterday (who knows that I am vegan) genuinely wanted me to make him a bacon sandwich. This is something I put up with all week- the smell of steaming chicken and sizzling bacon wafting across my counter but on a Sunday, when I am the only one working- no I am not going to make sandwiches I can’t eat, cook meat I disagree with and serve it all up with a smile. He seemed confused at my point blank refusal so I asked him a simple question: If a [desperate] gay chap came in, does he propose me bending over to help him out, despite it going against my personal views? Would that be acceptable? Make a bacon sandwich.... Tit!

All of this seems a little bit of a long winded way of me saying to the world,

“I WISH YOU WOULD WAKE UP!”

We are fighting wars we don’t really believe in, eating food we don’t even know the source from and taking these so called Human Rights to frankly obscene levels. I have posted a rant today- I’m aware of this. I’ve been long winded in my point, something else I am aware of.

Wouldn’t it have been so much easier to present if there was a magical style of writing that allowed for points to be made with wit, passion, rhyme even? I may have to do some research- a little birdy just told me there is something called poetry.

Sniffin’

When I trip up, will you hold me to the floor

Stick my nose to the pavements

Release my mind with toxins

And bond me to a greener future?

Thanks for reading,

S

Read More

Worthy.

I’ve spent most of the last week in Devon. I’ve spent time there pondering many things, exploring much of England’s glorious countryside and, in a moment of money saving madness, joined the National Trust.

Strangely, I feel it was quite cheap- the initial outlay- at a most reasonable £23.50 for the year (being a young person and all). If I park my car in the Lake District, I have pretty much made my money back- I consider this a win.

Some of Britain’s best loved countryside is protected ‘by my membership fees’, along with the residencies of many great writers. Hill Top (Beatrix Potter), Coleridge’s Cottage, Wordsworth’s house and Lewis Carroll’s birthplace are all places I plan to visit this year, for free, but I’d say that all of these places are only really of interest to me for the ‘celebrity value’. I love wandering around and just looking for clues as to what might have inspired them, what the thought process could have been.

As many of you know, since graduating I have continued working at the newsagents (a family business). I like it, if only for the reason that it constantly challenges my perceptions of people. After my time off, I’m looking forward to going in today. The kids are back at school so no doubt, by lunchtime, someone will have challenged me on something English related- being ‘shit and pointless’ or whatnot. This annoys the hell out of me- I always bite.

The thing is, I don’t know how many youngsters are reading today. I gather they are reading magic fiction but poetry, I really don’t know. I gave a paper lad the full rundown on approaching a poem the other day. I knew the poem he was doing and without doing his coursework for him, he should do all right from that. The trouble I find with them all is the constant resistance, even the sixth formers. Constantly the point comes up that it doesn’t matter anymore, it is time bound, irrelevant and this too, is a major bug bear.

I’ll conclude then, by questioning the actual nature of this issue, the seeing the point- the connection. We have all seen films based on Shakespeare, we have all read modern day fairytales, new takes on themes and so, if the words of the past are ‘irrelevant’, why are we still using them today? The worth of a word is not something you can rate, I would argue it is the meaning that carries the value anyway, and so is it not how we move on from the past- learn?

I’m sitting beside a pile of now redundant TV magazines- free supplements liberated from returned Sunday papers. These magazines are redundant just days after I got them so have quickly become worthless words. The pile of poetry, the bookshelf straight facing me or those words passed on in childhood- they’ll be with me again tomorrow- I’d call those kinds of things ‘Priceless’.

Thanks for reading,

S.

Read More