The Romantics - So Glad I Found You

It had been a decade of uncertainty, feeling lost and out of my depth. I’d been riding an emotional roller-coaster that got faster and faster and would not stop. I jumped off, brushed myself down and wondered why I hadn’t done it sooner.

I lived alone, quietly. I had my job, my home, my car and I think I had my sanity, though others might have doubted it, I didn’t question it much. I enjoyed the silence of my own company. There had been too much noise before. I read book after book, Irwin Shaw, Colleen McCullough and Edna O'Brien amongst others. I unpacked the collection of Marshall Cavendish Mind Alive magazines that my father had subscribed to for me, which had remained untouched throughout my teens. I learned a lot from the articles that interested me and took pride in fixing the magazines into the binders that made it into an encyclopaedia.  If I wasn’t reading, I was writing. No television at this time, but I had a radio if I fancied ‘Saturday Night Theatre’ or ‘Play for Today’ and I had my record player.

My English Literature studies were far behind me, but I found myself revisiting the Bronte’s, some Dickens and my favourite stories from Joyce’s Dubliners. From somewhere into this mix came poetry and those poems familiar to me were taking on new meaning, or perhaps I’d missed something  before. It was the poets, the ones we call The Romantics and I latched on to something that I felt I belonged to.  I had (still have, my photo) The Penguin Book of Love Poetry and I read bits of it every day. It probably wasn’t the best poetry to throw myself headlong into. Death, separation and desolation were subjects perhaps best avoided, but difficult to do so when words were reaching out to me, especially those of Byron and Shelley.

I wish I could have been in the party or at least a fly on the wall in the summer of 1816 when Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft (later Shelley), and others were having fun at Villa Diodati by Lake Geneva. It must have been a tremendous storm to keep them indoors for three days, if what I read is true. They wrote horror stories to scare each other, which might have been the beginnings of Mary’s novel, Frankenstein.  I imagine that writing was not their only past-time. Their lives were forever intertwined.  I love to read about their bohemian lifestyle and their freedom, but I wonder, were they really happy?

Somewhere buried in the archives of our house, I will still have the framed poems that once adorned the walls of my house. I liked to do calligraphy, back in the day when my eyes still worked, and one of the first I made for myself was Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet XLIII, from the Portuguese.

 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!- and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 - 1861)

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Blackpool Grit

Colin has taken the decision to stop writing for the Dead Good Blog.  He wished to say goodbye and thanks for reading.  I'm sure you will agree that he has contributed many fine posts to the blog which have been a pleasure to read and his loss, along with the contributions from Ashley, will be sorely missed.

As it stands, we have two vacancies for poetry bloggers - on Monday and Saturday.  This blog is a place to discuss poetry.  Sometimes it strays into other topics such as politics.  We try to avoid upsetting anyone on this blog but sometimes opinions are not to everyone's taste.

Colin's notice regarding blogging etiquette stands.  We don't want to post anything which falls outside the law.  Comments of this variety will be removed.  If you think we have overstepped a mark, let us know and we will consider addressing the content in question.

The Lancashire Dead Good Poets are a diverse group of voices and we have produced some exceptional poetry and poetics over the years.  In the spirit of community and Blackpool grit, it is intended that this will continue to be the case, whatever our differences in the past.

Normal blogging will resume tomorrow.  We hope you will join us.

If you would like to join us on the blogging team, please drop us a line via the contact page.

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Reading: The Next Generation

Like any aspiring poet I love books. Real books. The ones with spines and pages which discolour over time. The ones given as gifts with their personalised messages. The ones carrying signatures of the writers/poets I’ve met.

Within our tiny basement flat these books own a large percentage of the available space: crammed on bookcases, double stacked on shelves, piled on top of wardrobes and tucked into nooks. There are designated areas for poetry, fiction, art and the academic; hundreds of books decorating our home and filling it with words, imagination, knowledge, beauty and inspiration.

When I was little, after visiting a National Trust property, I dreamed of a house with a library, with bookcases so tall I’d require a ladder like Belle’s (from Beauty and the Beast) to reach the upper shelves. Despite neither of these things materialising the books did. They’ve accumulated in great numbers over the years, and I can chart some of the most significant times in my life by simply looking at the books around me. Therefore, the idea of storing away future markers inside a shiny electronic ‘book’ has never really appealed.

A few years ago when e-readers started to appear, and quickly became a must-have gadget for any avid reader, I stood strong. In fact I was almost Luddite in my thoughts towards them, refusing to own one and ranting that they could never substitute a proper book. However, I’ve finally relented and now find myself in the midst of books in 21^st century format.

I wish I could say I absolutely hate my Kindle Fire, to say otherwise sort of feels like I’m cheating on the paperback. But I’ve (perhaps a little too speedily) fallen in love with this shiny rectangle. I can buy books without worrying about where to store them. I can read in the dark, and even change from white ‘paper’ to black ‘paper’. With just a single press on a word I can look up its dictionary definition, I can highlight without vandalising, make notes and store interesting quotes. I don’t need a makeshift Rizla bookmark because it remembers my page, and can even calculate my reading speed.

 I’m currently reading The Passage by Justin Cronin – in paperback form its 1008 pages means it has a 6cm spine and weighs over 700 grams, however, in e-book form this book’s difficult-to-hold size is reduced to the dimensions (186 X 128 X 9.0mm) and weight (303 grams) of my Kindle: so light and manageable I can hold it comfortably with one hand.

So, I guess you could say this traditional reader has been converted, but not completely…  I will never get rid of the books I currently own and I won’t stop purchasing real books; I’ve already vowed to only buy poetry in hardback and paperback form. And while the new way of reading has its advantages, the old way will always have its place - no amount of free e-books will ever fill me with the same excitement as a second-hand bookshop (however hard they are getting to find).

Thanking you for reading,

Lara

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Happy Anniversary!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (exclamation marks just for Vicky)

I'm going to jump down, turn around, pick a bale of cotton,

Jump down, turn around, pick a bale a day...

Yes folks, this week sees the second anniversary for the Dead Good Blog, and according to tradition that means COTTON. Though tradition states that these anniversary gift should be exclusive to marking the length of time two people, and remembering that this tradition dates back to the Roman times, made up of a man and a woman have been married.

I'm not the greatest one for tradition so I say they can be used to mark the passing of another year for anybody, and that people of the same sex can marry.

So this week we should be buying the Dead Good Bloggers gifts of Cotton. This could be t-shirts, plantations or Dot. However, in the United States things have been updated, there is a more modern, some may say relevant list. This new list includes gift like Clock, Silverware and Electrical Appliances.

This would mean that this year is the China Anniversary. Which in turn would mean more useful or wanted gifts. Taking this school of thought even further why not sell the Anniversary rights to businesses. So for the next 5 years, 10 years of marriage would be the i-Pad Anniversary or 4 years down would be the Amazon Kindle Anniversary.

This would certainly go some way to ensuring people are not disappointed by the gift their spouse has purchased to show they actually remembered.

So happy Anniversary Bloggers and Poets, here's to many more years.

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The Random and the Nonsensical

This week my sister asked my three-year-old nephew what he’d like to dress-up as for Halloween; the obvious (and easy to purchase) answers would have been a ghost, a vampire or even a werewolf, but Josh (full of the randomness of youth) replied with: I’d like to be a parrot.

This ability to be random and nonsensical seems to be child’s play for children; it comes naturally, without effort, and has the power to make us older beings laugh. And for me, this is what some of the best children’s poetry does – it makes us smile and it shows to the children that read it that poetry can be silly and fun.

After searching my computer and flicking through the entire contents of my filing cabinet, I finally found a nonsensical poem that I wrote a few years ago. Therefore, I thought I would share it, and hopefully bring a little randomness to your Wednesday.

  

Poetry on Toast

It’s said poets are peculiar creatures

with a few distinctive features:

a pallid skin from lack of light,

enormous specs to fix bad sight.

They’re more elusive than a yeti

and make great sonnets with spaghetti.

I know this sounds a little odd,

but not as strange as purple cod.

Their page is lightly buttered toast;

lunch is the meal they love the most.

They find their letters in a can

and warm them in a frying pan.

They stir the thick tomato sauce,

pretend to be Inspector Morse.

Investigate the pan for clues

and down at least a dozen brews.

When bubbles start to form and pop,

they bounce like frogs, hoppity-hop.

They plonk the letters on the plate

and start to work at eager rate.

They find two As, a M, a P,

an O, an I, a broken T.

But missing Es disturb, distress

and leave the poet in a mess.

Without an E she is a pot

and every note becomes a not.

All bears are quickly turned to bars

who look at you with angry stars.

And soon all meaning slips away;

it’s packed its bags and gone astray.

It’s left the bread, it’s slammed the door.

It’s gone – the meaning is no more.

The poets soon begin to shout:

I’ve got nothing, zero, nowt.

And in great haste, and under strife,

they grab a fork, a spoon, a knife ...

They gobble words with great delight

then sneak away to think, to write.

Thank you for reading,
Lara

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No. 005042

It’s late on Monday night. My trousers have mud-prints down each leg. My hair has started to weave itself into dreadlocks. My nails have small pieces of campsite dirt stuck in the corners. A cloth wristband – fastened with a pressed metal ring – is still attached to my left wrist. Beneath my eyes there are long, inspired days and late, inspired nights. This is the Latitude effect.

It’s left my mind impregnated with ideas. Glowing germs on a soil sky, waiting to grow into sparks. Waiting to shower and scatter onto the blank land. Scorch words into the grass. This is what matters. This is what you search for. This is what (once found) you want to keep. You want to seal it inside a Tupperware tub and freeze it. You want to tuck it at the back of your sock drawer. You want to lock it. Alarm it. Put an electric fence around it. You want it to stay. Forever.

But it leaves, forgets to close the door on the way out. A draught stirs the dust. Particles of doubt stand themselves up tall. Look menacing. Fear dots every unwritten ‘i’, crosses every unwritten ‘t’. And you wonder. You wonder if it is gone without a goodbye. Another once defined face chiselled by the water. Unrecognisable. Lost to a sea of strangers. Murky. Blue. Green. Bottles. No coastline. An expanse of bobbing corks and glass. Unread. A smudged ‘return to’ address. Everything says it shouldn’t come back...

...And when you want it to, it usually doesn’t. It plays the stroppy teenager better than Harry Enfield. It can make a game of hide-and-seek last days, even weeks. It can push invisible pins into your eyes. Cause a pen to click for an hour without pause. Force you to stare at emptiness as if it contained something profound. It’ll bring you to the ground. Have you pleading like a Lib Dem canvassing for votes. Nothing. It refuses to be bought with promises. It makes you wait. With no guarantee.

101 hours ago I walked into the poetry tent at Latitude. Found that thing you just want to keep. Packed it in my backpack. Brought it home. For the moment, at least.

Thank you for reading,
Lar

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When you forget to consider your audience...

Disclaimer: The post that follows is fictitious, and any similarity with real events or people is merely coincidental. The views presented are not necessarily shared by the writer, but have been imagined so that the piece can achieve its purpose in the most effective way.

It’s a Friday night in Blackpool, and a tucked away coffee shop is full. Poetry is everyone’s reason for being there – for braving the stormy conditions that ride in on the Irish Sea, and rattle every hoarding in the seaside town.

It’s about halfway through the evening when a man (who’s never been before) is invited up to read.

Host: Our next reader is...

The host looks puzzled (as if he’s just been asked what (304 × 105) ÷ 12 equals), he scans the running order then stares at it. But the calculation, rather than becoming simpler, becomes more challenging.

Host: ...Please welcome Gandalf to the microphone

Hands clap. Necks stretch as a man in a purple velvet suit and matching hat weaves through the audience.

Gandalf: Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about. Appreciation when I’ve done nothin’. Like the dude over there said...

He points his finger and waves it like he’s about to cast a spell.

Gandalf: ...I’m Gandalf. Well, not really, but it sounds better than John. So yeah, don’t live here anymore – thank God – just visitin’ a poor sod that does.
Wrote this poem this mornin’ on the train and thought I’d read it. Don’t know what all the fuss is about, people always complainin’ that poetry is difficult. Rubbish. Piece of piss, if you ask me.

At this point, sets of eyes begin to glaze over – like parasitic symbionts have just crawled inside the audience’s ears and implanted themselves within the frontal lobe of everyone’s brains. John (aka Gandalf) fails to notice that he’s not only losing the audience, but also offending them.

Gandalf: Yeah, so bein’ in Blackpool and all, I thought I’d write about Blackpool. Not hard to come up with ideas really, is it? Even the title was easy to come up with - just came straight to me. Like I was bein’ charged by a divine force, or somethin’. So yeah, it’s called Blackpool...

The audience begins to fidget uncomfortably in their seats. A few people turn to those sitting next to them and whisper, ‘This is going to be bad’.

Gandalf: You’re Tracey Emin’s pop-tent,
absolutely shite.
You’re full of sluts with STDs
and pissed up stags at night.

The host, who seconds earlier had taken a sip from his Americano, splutters out coffee and proceeds to choke. But John (aka Gandalf) continues undeterred, speaking his lines with the same ease as which David Cameron spins a lie.

Gandalf: You’re week-old Chinese takeaway,
better in the bin.
If London’s streets are paved in gold
then yours are lined with tin.

The normally placid audience begins to slowly revolt, fists bang on tables and a chorus of ‘OFF, OFF, OFF’ attempts to drown out the slanderous verse. However, John (aka Gandalf) chooses to ignore the audience’s request and merely increases the volume at which he’s speaking.

Gandalf: You’re Tesco Value lemonade,
cheap but lacking fizz.
You’re certainly the weakest link
in every T.V. quiz.

The coffee shop becomes like the inside of a theatre at Christmas – filled with boos and hisses.

Gandalf: You’re the ‘crap’ in every scrapheap;
a town of utter hell.
You’re the tacky Poundland reject
that no bugger can sell.

Before John (aka Gandalf) has even finished reading his poem, the host leaps from his seat and grabs the microphone.

Host: Err. Thanks Gandalf, but I’ll take it from here...

The audience cheers.

* * * * *

RULE ONE (to being a good poet or performer): ALWAYS remember to consider your reader/audience.

Thank you for reading.
Lar

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Bombing out: The difficult second post.

We’ve all been there. It has been a great idea. The most heartfelt piece you’ve ever written- and it bombs.

Tragic? Yes, for the time being but, if there is anything I have learnt from writing and regularly performing /reading aloud, it is that the audience can change. A lot. Somewhere amongst the drunks at the end of the night (which obviously, as fate would have it, is your allocated slot), great lines can go unheard. A soft spoken voice can be muffled by the clinking and if, by some miracle, it is comprehended, is that the kind of person that is going to speak up in support of your new ‘best ever poem’? No.

Yet, in following that point through with minimal disagreement, you reader, yes, I’m talking to you, have just run the risk yourself of being heckled, ignored or simply put up with by the audience... You assumed.

I’ve assumed and it isn’t nice when it all goes wrong. I’ve since started to consider just who my target audience is before getting down to writing poems. Back when I was reporting on the football, this was a given- a Scottish tabloid, not surprisingly, wanted all the juice on Mr Charlie Adam and so I wrote generally about girders, Glasgee and tough tackles amongst other things. Snippets of action and actual match facts amongst a blanket of pro-Jock hyperbole and rhetoric. Line after line of it, and they gobbled it up. The trouble I found is that, when facing the blank page, the easiest things to flow out are often the worst to read out.

With an event coming up, wit can be hard to come by and if, like I did, you are just starting out writing as a hobby, something fun can be the last thing you feel compelled to push a quill over. For a lot of people, poems aren’t the first thing to write in a moment of inspiration. They instead come at sombre times, times of importance to a person and often, with mixed feelings or in the heat of the moment. Some of the best work comes from here but also, we get these (of which I am frequently guilty):

1. Dead people- pieces from the heart, the crux of life and yet rarely all that popular at an open mic.

2. Emotions & Relationships- most notably, our old friend the sonnet. I’ve seen crowds turn faster than milk in student digs.

3. Protests- serious animal rights, contentious issues and religion. Really, I’m quite liberal. I’m bloody vegan but don’t tell me about dead bears and fur on a Friday.

In the right place, at the right time, 'proper poems' fly. I’ve had people coming up after quiet events to ask about lines (they obviously didn’t hear, did they). I’ve stood three weeks later somewhere different, read the same poem and had a room of empty faces not so much looking as facing back at me. In hindsight, visual metaphors were always going to be tough at the Blind Society but that isn’t the point.

As I’m on the first day of the theme, I’m leaving this post short of all the things I actually wanted to write about in the hope that, come Sunday, the marvellous team will have covered things like rhyme, form, meter etc but for now, I’ll just leave you with this.

We made a visit to Hodgson School on Thursday- 90 kids all high on pop and sweets and to be honest, we were fine. Interest remained strong, some even looked like they were enjoying being read to and afterwards, Lara, Vicky and myself enjoyed the rockstar treatment with teenagers queuing, yes, bloody queuing for autographs! I don’t know why I’m surprised at this though- Lar selected some of her most accessible lines, Vicky blasted in with wit and snappy haikus and I went with some tried and tested short pieces (even touching on some sentiment once they’d accepted me). All you doubters out there- we got through without a cock joke, racist slur or profanity in sight. A tough crowd it might have been- the point is, we’d simply considered it.

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Everything Starts with a 'Bang'

I could start at the beginning. There was a ‘bang’. A small, dense state that expanded rapidly. But in the shadow cast by such a creation, I’m almost certain to get lost. To be reduced to a condition of insignificance, like a single ant in a colony of millions. I would fail to communicate with you, the reader, about who I am, why and how I’m involved in this blog. And in the online scheme of things, it would seem that these are the important questions.

Words have the ability to be either crumbs or pheromones, and the writer has the potential to either create a trail that is easily erased (by hungry birds), or one that leads to a pool of raspberry jam – necessary, important and addictive.

I’ve always had a liking for words, a growing dependency to read the musings and imaginations of others, and a need – which is almost inarticulate – to place my own mind on paper. Generally, I write poetry, occasionally, I stray into prose but I always find myself wandering back to line breaks and stanzas.

In the beginning, there was a ‘bang’. A B.A. in English: Language, Literature and Writing at Blackpool & The Fylde College. A poetry group, that started in a classroom and expanded rapidly. In the end (which is actually somewhere in the middle), there was the opportunity to enrol on a Creative Writing M.A. at Lancaster University.

A year into the M.A. and I can already see a change in my poetry; a greater awareness of the reader, poems that are less opaque, less cryptic, and which seem to be moving towards something with real purpose. Hopefully, in future blog posts, I’ll be able to share some of the things that I have learnt (am learning) on the M.A., and discuss some of the issues / difficulties that I’ve encountered in my own poetry. I don’t claim to have all the answers; however, I do believe that instigating discussion allows different perspectives to be considered, and gives us the opportunity to learn something new. With six regular writers and a different guest blogger every Sunday, this blog will offer a range of opinions and insights – giving us all the chance to see poetry from a fresh angle.

At the beginning of all beginnings, there’s a ‘bang’. An explosion of imagination, and countless possibilities.

If you’d like to find out more about me, then please feel free to read my profile

Lar

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