Palm - A Shiny Shilling

 “Cross my palm with silver and I’ll tell your fortune. Cross my palm with gold and it will certainly come to be. Cross my palm with iron and you won’t live to see daybreak.”

Mara Amberly – Her Gypsy Promise

Blackpool is well-known for fortune tellers. For as many years as the Golden Mile has stretched between the piers, clairvoyants have worked from inside curtained cabins advertising their gift of seeing into the future. A visit to the promenade or piers would include a palm reading or a studied gaze into a crystal ball for anyone eager to find out if something important is about to happen to them. It’s part of traditional Blackpool fun.

Crossing the palm of a new baby with silver was seen as a way of wishing them wealth, good health and the best possible start it life. I watched as my baby sister had a shiny shilling put into her tiny hand by a well-meaning person, a stranger to me. I was seven and a half. Anne could keep the shilling, but I really coveted the lovely plush bunny she was given by the same person. Nothing for me. I expect she received gifts from lots of people who didn’t acknowledge me, but that’s the one I remember. I could probably go to the exact spot where it happened, in the lounge bar of the Boar’s Head on Preston Old Road, Blackpool. I was a proud big sister. I still am. This was one of those moments that stays in the memory forever, so I’ve always given something to an older sibling, not just the baby.

The Psychic’s Dilemma

I’m a psychic, true, with visions grand,
But rent’s due, and I need a hand.
Cross my palm with silver, yes, it’s true,
I’ll conjure love for you, and a new shoe!

No gold for romance, no, that’s not the deal,
Just enough for groceries, a more practical appeal.
So if your heart yearns for a love connection,
Bring silver, and I’ll give you a pre-packaged affection!

Anon.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Seashore - Beside the Sea

                                                    Isle of Vatersay, Outer Hebrides

I was so fortunate, as a child, to have a wonderful sea view from my bedroom window. My father had his wish granted, to run a pub on Blackpool promenade and the family had landed in paradise. It was the beginning of summer and I remember it as blue skies and a sun that turned orange and slipped into a shimmering sea. We went on the beach, a lot. My sister and I played there, all day sometimes.  I went out for walks on the shoreline at dusk with my mum. It was our time on a calm evening, quiet, thoughtful, listening to the gentle waves. We strolled between South Pier and Waterloo Road, not far, just in front of where we lived. We would look for creatures in the tangle of seaweed that marked the tideline, but we only found bits of dead crab. It was our mother-daughter bonding. Moments that became special memories to treasure. Even now, many years later, I still think of that stretch of beach as mine.

Although born inland, I’ve always been drawn to the coast. Any coast will do. When our children were young we had family holidays in Pembrokeshire where every seashore is stunning. There are lots of sandy beaches to play on, also the fun of finding a way over the boulders to poke about in rock pools at Wiseman’s Bridge, or skimming stones at Amroth. We covered the English East Coast between Redcar and Withernsea, where the North Sea claims a bit more of the land each year. On a returning visit to Skipsea we were shocked to discover how much land had broken away, including a road that we had used.

The Scottish seashores are breath-taking. I could spend all day looking at Ailsa Craig from the Ayrshire coast. We stayed in a caravan at Embo on the Scottish North East coast where we stepped out directly on to the beach and walked along the shoreline every day. It is somewhere I hope to return to. The most stunning seashores I have found so far are in the Outer Hebrides. At South Uist, the sand shines silver and white, shells are bleached white with the sun – I brought some home and keep them in a jar.

I’ll be on my travels again soon. It’s time to breathe some Scottish air.

Here is Simon Armitage,

 

 

The Stone Beach

 

A walk, not more than a mile

along the barricade of land

between the ocean and the grey lagoon.

Six of us, hand in hand,

 

connected by blood. Underfoot

a billion stones and pebbles-

new potatoes, mint imperials,

the eggs of birds-

 

each rock more infinitely formed

than anything we own.

Spoilt for choice - which one to throw,

which to pocket and take home.

 

The present tense, although

some angle of the sun, some slant of light

back-dates us thirty years.

Home-movie. Super 8.

 

Seaweed in ropes and rags.

The weightless, empty armour

of a crab. A jawbone, bleached

and blasted, manages a smile.

 

Long-shore-drift,

the ocean sorts and sifts

giving with this, getting back

with the next.

 

A sailboat thinks itself

across the bay.

Susan, nursing a thought of her own

unthreads and threads

 

the middle button of her coat.

Disturbed,

a colony of nesting terns

makes one full circle of the world

 

then drops.

But the beach, full of itself,

each round of rock

no smaller than a bottle top,

 

no bigger than a nephew's fist.

One minute more, as Jonathan, three, autistic,

hypnotised by flight and fall,

picks one more shape

 

and under-arms the last wish of the day -

look, like a stone - into the next wave.

 

Simon Armitage

 

 

 

                                                       South Uist, Outer Hebrides

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Forget silver bells ....

Happy New Year!!! Welcome to 2015 on the Dead Good Blog! I hope you had a wonderful Festive period.

Firstly, I would like to apologise for my absence for the last 2 weeks. I haven't been very well. And over Christmas to boot! How rude! Anyway .... I'M BAAAAAACK!

So, this weeks' topic is roots. As Sheilagh has already covered the vegetation variety, I thought I would take a different tack.

In late November / early December, it was pointed out to me by an unexpected source, that I seriously needed to colour my hair. It was all I could do to not let my jaw hit the floor. I think it probably affected me more because of that unexpected source, namely my Uncle Ian. Don't get me wrong, I knew that I had a few greys and it had crossed my mind, more than once in recent weeks, that I needed to do something about it. But .... come on! Really?! Taking a long hard look in the mirror once I had the first opportunity, I SAW what everyone else could already see. Oh dear. Oh deary, deary me. Humph!

 

Those silver lines ...

Amid lustrous brown locks,

silver strands taunt,

adding years to youth

before their time.

Softly shimmering

beneath natural light,

or glaring boldly

under man-made

incandescence,

they creep,

multiplying stealthily,

unnoticed ....

for a while.

I found my first at 24,

within moments

discovering others.

An unwanted

hereditary "hair"-loom.

So now they stand proud,

streaking brashly

across a fading

dark mop.

My New Years' Resolution

at the age of 39?

To colour my hair,

stay on top of the roots

and cling on to my youth 

as long as I can!

Now what will it be?

PURPLE or RED?

Well, in for a penny ...... !

Thanks for reading. ;-) x

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Daedalean Exchange

There's been some great advice on the blog this week.  I can get behind everything the smarty-pants on here have shared, especially the merits of enjoying your audience and memorising the words.  In addition, I have a few tips for performance which I have picked up at workshops, from fellow poets and through practice:

• Walk through your poem - pace as you read it in practice.  This will allow you to find the natural breaks and rhythm of the piece. (courtesy of Sarah Hymas)
• Ensure that you are well hydrated (beer works) before you read.  There's nowt worse than spitting feathers and struggling to get the words out.  This happened to me in January and I looked rather strange constantly licking my lips in a vain attempt to lure my salivary glands into action.
• Visualise the images in your poem and make sure those images are clear for the audience.  These will act as hooks for the minds of your audience when they try to understand and remember what you said. (courtesy of Ann the Poet)
• Slow down.  Don't be afraid to be.  When you appear behind the microphone the air is heavy with expectation.   Allow that moment to hang.  Use it to collect yourself, to consider what you are about to perform.  Feel your way into the poem.  Let the emotive thread unfurl naturally.  Deliver every sound from your lips with love.  These are your word, painstakingly crafted, meaningful, exquisite.  Push them out into the room with confidence.  Bring them to life in your voice in the same way they live for you on the page.  
• Love the audience.  Respect the relationship you have with that room full of people in that moment.  They are giving you a small portion of their life in the hope that you will fill it with a little piece of your own filtrations.  This is a valuable gift.  Look into the faces of your fellow poetry lovers and thank them for opening up to your words.  The easiest way to do this is by speaking your truth in your way and unashamedly.  Audiences don't want what's gone before, they want you.  They want your truth.  Respect them.  Give them that truth.

 The theme for this Friday's event at the No 5 cafe in Blackpool is 'Games'.  I am yet to write a word.  It should be noted that the advice above is only useful if you do, in fact, have a poem to read at a poetry event.  In the words of Alice in Wonderland (Disney), "I give myself very good advice but I very seldom follow it." 

Pinch of salt and all that. 

By the by - I'm taking my daughter and her friends to a comic convention on Saturday.  We are all dressing up. Raven will be Lacie from Pandora Hearts. I'll be going as American McGee's Alice. I feel like the proverbial duck waddling into an arena full of Cosplay fans.  If anyone knows of any top tips for surviving at these things I would be most grateful if you'd post them below.  Thank you.

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