Gate

Is there any finer way to spend a September day than sitting on a sandy Greek beach beneath cloudless skies, the temperature hovering around 30C, a sound of gentle waves lapping, cold beer to hand if required and the plays of Euripides as holiday reading? Don't worry, it's a rhetorical question. The answer is no, obviously.

So that's what I've been doing, not just for a day but a whole glorious week on the island of Zakynthos, and it was in Euripides' tragedy 'Medea ' that I found inspiration for this Greek-themed Gate blog, which in anticipation of National Poetry Day will view the gate as a portal, opening to a place of refuge or sanctuary.

a Greek gate

Medea was not Greek (and that's important). She came from Colchis, in what is modern-day Georgia, on the eastern  shores of the Black Sea, and thought at the time to be the land of the rising sun. What drew her into the Hellenic sphere was the fabled adventure of Jason and the Argonauts and their expedition to seize (i.e. steal) the golden fleece from King Aeëtes of Colchis, for she was the king's daughter.

The golden fleece was a symbol of authority and kingship, and Aeëtes kept in hanging in a tree in a sacred grove protected by a dragon. Jason (great-grandson of Hermes) had been promised the throne of Iolcus by Pelias (who had usurped it from Jason's father) in return for the golden fleece. Medea, famed as a sorceress, fell in love with Jason and, on a promise from him of marriage, used her powers to help him thwart the dragon and steal the fleece from her father. She then eloped with Jason to Greece on the Argo and became his wife. 

However, Pelias reneged on the promise to hand the throne of Iolcus to Jason, so Medea once again used her sorcery to trick Pelias's daughters into murdering their father, after which Jason and Medea had to flee Iolcus and sought refuge at the court of King Creon of Corinth, where Medea bore Jason fine sons.

In time however, Jason, wanting to further aggrandize himself and better provide for his sons, sought marriage to Creusa, daughter of King Creon. (Polygamy was not unknown in Ancient Greece. They gave the word to the world, after all.) Medea was expected to just quietly accept the arrangement and put up with being turfed out of the marriage bed for the greater good of her children, but she wasn't having any of it. Cue the play by Euripides. 

Observing the classical rule of unity of time and place favoured by Greek dramatists of the 5th century BC, the tragedy of 'Medea ' plays out in the royal palace at Corinth on the day of Jason's marriage to Creusa. 

Medea laments the infidelity of Jason, the man she has done so much for, the man she has cut all ties with her own family for, the man she has effectively committed murder to support. She cannot abide  being replaced in his affections by Creusa, not just for the loss of face but for having her feelings for Jason spurned in such a fashion. Her grief is passionate.

Jason tries to persuade her that his marriage to Creon's daughter will give all of them greater security but she rejects this reasoning out of hand, for Creon has been good enough to them all for years as it is.

Creon, for his part, suspecting that Medea won't take kindly to Jason marrying his daughter and being fully conversant with Medea's reputation for sorcery, gives her notice to quit Corinth before she can cause any trouble for him or his family. This incenses Medea who realises she is being cast out not just from her husband's bed but from the life she has known in Corinth. She faces an uncertain future in exile with her sons and turns to Aegeus, King of Athens (who just happens to be visiting) to beseech him to offer her - a non-Greek and an imminent exile - sanctuary in Athens, as the city state is famed for its 'open gate' policy, its generosity to strangers and its humanitarian values. Aegeus gives his promise to Medea that she will be granted refuge in Athens regardless of any crimes she may have been guilty of. 

Jason then informs Medea that he will not allow his sons to go into exile and advises her to make some propitiatory act to persuade Creon of her good will so he will allow her to stay, but she knows from her previous conversation with Creon that he is implacable in his insistence she must leave. 

So she plots the ultimate revenge. She pretends to have reconciled herself to Jason's marriage and sends her sons to deliver two presents to the new bride, a dress and a gold coronet. Creusa puts on the dress and crown, both of which are enchanted, and soon dies of their poisonous effects and Creon, in attempting to save her, is tainted with the poison and dies too. Medea then slays her own dear sons with a knife, this act being the cruellest conceivable blow she can inflict on the husband who has betrayed her so heartlessly. She flees Corinth for the promised refuge of Athens, where if she cannot find redemption she can at least find sanctuary.

Powerful stuff, you'll agree (and the title role remains a great part for any modern day actress to play).

statue of Medea with knife

For my latest poem, I've paraphrased some of the exchanges between Medea and Jason in the form of a mobile phone text conversation (hence the crafty punning title). Let me know if you think it works. I was in two minds whether or not to condense it down into text speak but for now it can stay as is. (If reading on a mobile phone, tip sideways into landscape mode for correct alignment of the poem.)

Social Medea

M: I am wronged. You were my whole life,

What misery, what wretchedness you've 

heaped on me by taking a younger wife!

                                                                                J: Calm down woman. I'm doing what's 

                                                                                best for us all. If you hadn't raged against

                                                                                the King and Princess you could have 

                                                                                stayed on quietly in Corinth's splendid

                                                                                halls but you've really queered your pitch.

M: Filthy coward. Ungrateful bastard. After

all I've done for you. This is my reward, to

be thrown over for that bitch, banished from 

your bed and worse, to be cast into exile 

through no fault of my own.

                                                                                J: You're just too dangerous when you're in 

                                                                                this mood. Your reputation is your curse. 

                                                                                That's why none of us is safe if you stay.

                                                                                But I won't see you penniless. I'll give you

                                                                                gold to go away and the sooner the better.

M: If you think you can shack up with that

whore and make her mother of our kids in

my place you'd better think again. Fuck

you Jason. I thought you were a better man

than this but you're just like all the rest.

                                                                                J: I'm not scared of you Medea. You'd best rein

                                                                                it in. Don't spurn my offer. Take this proffered 

                                                                                purse and may good luck accompany you.

M: All right! Since I cannot win, I give in.

I will play the social game. As a token of

my acceptance of the situation, I'll send the

boys with presents for your new bride.

                                                                                J: That's my girl. I'm pleased your tide of anger

                                                                                has turned. Make a fresh start. You're still a good 

                                                                                catch. It's the best way, believe me. I'm sure you'll 

                                                                                find a way to prosper by your arts.

M: Oh, but I believe in nothing anymore 

except cruel fate for which I am no match.

Still, I shall embrace my destiny with both 

hands and a blackened heart.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Dolls - Meet Janice

My lovely big doll, Janice lives in the attic. Propped up between an old filing cabinet and boxes of Christmas stuff, she manages to stay upright and fix her blue-eyed gaze through the Velux to the tops of the houses opposite, or the night sky. She is nearly sixty years old, in reasonably good shape and dressed smartly in a pale blue summer dress that used to be my daughter’s. Janice’s original dress of shiny white and royal blue has not survived the test of time.

She was given to me on my fifth birthday and we’ve always been together except for the time a few years ago when I lent her out to take part in a themed window display somewhere in Knott End.

We almost had a tragedy on Sunday. I carefully brought her down to the landing for a photo-shoot during which, our eldest grandson, being inquisitive, came looking for me. Of course, I had to introduce them to each other, grandson not quite sure if Janice, nearly the same height, was real or not, kept a safe distance. Seconds later, we took her downstairs to meet the others. I kept hold of her while our granddaughter and younger grandson looked at her. A few remarks from the so called adults of the family, like,

‘Oh that creepy doll, what’s she doing down here?’ As if she’d escaped the attic on her own.

 ‘That Janice, she’s so bleeping scary!’ There’s absolutely nothing scary about my Janice.

‘You always kept her at the end of my bed. She gave me bleeping nightmares.’ Huh? My daughter didn’t complain at the time and I’d say she comes across as a well-adjusted young mother.

I was trying not to laugh too much as I defended my beautiful doll. I explained that the poor thing has to live right upstairs in the attic room because someone who shall remain anonymous is easily spooked by her. Everyone knows who it is, so there’s much family laughter and witty banter going on when suddenly, as I altered the way I was holding Janice, both her arms dropped off and fell to the floor. What was happy laughter became an uproar, squeals, tears, aching sides and literally rolling on the floor. It was the funniest thing ever, just hilarious. The stuff that linked the arms together looked like perished rubber and it probably was. Luckily, she was soon mended with some elastic from my sewing cupboard and the expertise from ‘he who will not be spooked by a doll while he’s mending it’ who did a first class job and I am very grateful.

If our new neighbours think they’ve moved next door to a madhouse, I hope they know it’s a happy one and they are welcome to join in. Janice is back in the attic, until next time.

I found this poem by William Butler Yeats

The Dolls

A doll in the doll-maker's house
Looks at the cradle and bawls:
'That is an insult to us.’
But the oldest of all the dolls,
Who had seen, being kept for show,
Generations of his sort,
Out-screams the whole shelf: 'Although
There's not a man can report
Evil of this place,
The man and the woman bring
Hither, to our disgrace,
A noisy and filthy thing.’
Hearing him groan and stretch
The doll-maker's wife is aware
Her husband has heard the wretch,
And crouched by the arm of his chair,
She murmurs into his ear,
Head upon shoulder leant:
'My dear, my dear, O dear,
It was an accident.

W.B.Yeats  1865 - 1939

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Ye Moste Tragickal Historie of Blackpule FC

The last of our trio of Shakespeare-related themes is Tragedy. Herewith the sole surviving excerpt from a long-lost work, Ye Moste Tragickal Historie of Blackpule FC, author unknown, though experts have detected stylistic similarities with the work of Will.I.Am Shakespier and suggest that it might have been the inspiration for a more famous play. Read and weep...

Scene: night-time - a Fylde in Bloome litte by ye lighte of th'inconstant moon. Centre stage, a Football Fanne bedecked in tangerine favors stands gazing at ye Stadium from which an insubstantiall Spirrit issueth forth.

Spirrit: Mark me.
Fanne: I will.
Spirrit: The day is almost come
When I to sulph'rous and tormenting flames
Must relegate myself.
Fanne: Alas poor Spirrit.
Spirrit: Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing
To what I shall unfold.
Fanne: Speak, for I am bound to hear thee.
Spirrit: So art thou to revenge my wrongs, when thou shalt hear of them.
Fanne: What sayest thou?
Spirrit: I am the verrie spirrit of thy Blackpule clubbe,
Doomed for a certain term to blighted depths.
I could a tale unfold whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres etc etc etc
Fanne: Angels of grace defend us. But speak on.
Spirrit: Know thou then that there is something rotten in this state of Blackpule.
My vital spirrit hath been most rankly abused
By those whose seeming virtue did a darker purpose hide.
O what a falling off was there when those in power
Did shamelessly contrive to unhouse the whole enterprise
And starve it of all life and hope for their own brute selfish ends.
Fanne: O my prophetic soul. I did suspect 'twas so.
O mismanagement most foul!
They did with candied tongues make promise of great deeds
All unfulfilled.
Spirrit: When all the time they did their fortunes build
Upon my best endeavours.
Blest are those whose blood and judgement are so well co-medled
That they are not a pipe for self-serving fingers to play a devilish tune.
I fear I have been played. I am undone by a most pitiful ambition
For they have almost suck'd this Blackpule clubbe like unto an empty husk.
So am I now condemned to fail and fade unless thou act on my behalf.
Fanne: What woulds't thou have me do?
Spirrit: O reform it altogether!

That's all, folks! No poem this time as I'm too busy with the upcoming Community Protest March & Demonstration (aka Judgement Day 2) scheduled for Saturday 30th April, starting at 10:30am outside the Blue Room (originally the Stanley Arms where Blackpool FC was formed) and processing through the town and along the promenade to Bloomfield Road. Do join us if you live within striking distance.

Thanks for reading. Have a good week, S ;-)

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A Tragic Year

As Adele quite rightly pointed out yesterday, a tragedy is an event that causes suffering, destruction and/or distress.

Quite frankly, for many people, this year is turning out to be a tragic one indeed. Our "adopted" family, the people we hold in high esteem; be they musicians, actors, composers, directors, playwrights, authors, designers, philosophers, footballers ... The list of names of note that have departed this mortal coil since Christmas 2015 is quite staggering. But of all the names on that list, all much loved, there are two that hit me hardest .... Alan Rickman and Victoria Wood. I first saw Alan Rickman in Die Hard and didn't think much of it (action films are ok, but not my favourite films). However, watching him in Love Actually hurt. I mean really hurt. How could he cheat? The sense of disappointment was palpable. Then came Snape in the Harry Potter films and my heart was hardened altogether on a character who, I thought, was a bad'un .... then shattered into a gazillion pieces on finding out the truth when he died. A talented actor who could draw you in and immerse the viewer totally. As for Victoria Wood, well who couldn't love a true northern lass who was funny ... And I mean FUNNY! Lord knows, we need more laughter in this world. I loved the sketch shows, the stand up shows, but most of all, I loved Dinnerladies.

Now bearing mind that this post is written in April ... This may need updating before the year is out.

The 2016 Starlight Parade:

In December 2015, the Grim Reaper declared
All out war on "celebrity".
Enough was enough, the scales had tipped,
Burning on his scroll, too many names awaiting eternity.
He sharpened the blade of his iconic scythe
'Til it hummed and sang with each stroke of pumice stone,
Sparks spitting, sulphurous fumes emitting,
It was time to call some legends to a new home.
The first name to appear quite fittingly was
Lemmy - a hell raiser indeed!
But it was not just rockers who would fall to his blade,
But any public figure held in high esteem.
So far we have lost musicians and playwrights, 
actors, directors, conductors and more ...
Not only they ... but designers, composers,
philosophers, footballers and authors.
Individually we will remember those we held close to our hearts,
And thank them for their talent, their gift to us all,
Look to the night sky and marvel anew,
The Starlight Parade growing in a bid to enthrall.


I can't make all their names fit into this poem,  although I did try. So below in no particular order, is a list of the majority of people who have passed this year. I apologise if I missed anyone.

Lemmy, David Bowie, Alan Rickman, Victoria Wood, Terry Wogan, Ronnie Corbett, Paul Daniels, David Gest, Doris Roberts, Prince, Guy Hamilton, Actor Gareth Thomas, Sir Arnold Wesker, David Swift, Merle Haggard, Leandro "Gato" Barbieri, Patty Duke, Gary Shandling, Jim Harrison, Ken Howard, Phife Dawg, Rita Gam, Cliff Michelmore, Frank Sinatra Jr., Sylvia Anderson, Asa Briggs, Anita Brookner, Sir Peter Maxwell Davies, Keith Emmerson, Ken Adam, Sir George Martin, Michael White, Pat Conroy, Tony Dyson, Tony Warren, George Kennedy, Louise Rennison, Frank Kelly, Tony Burton, John Chilton, Johnny Murphy, Douglas Slocombe, Umberto Eco, Harper Lee, Geroge Gaynes, Daniel Gerson, Dan Hicks, Maurice White, Joe Alaskey, Initzar Hussain, Frank Finlay, Paul Kantner, Chyna, Signe Tole Anderson, Abe Vigoda, Colin Vearncombe, Jimmy Bain, Glen Frey, Dale Griffin, Clarence Reid, Dan Haggerty, Robert Stigwood, Vilmos Zsigmond, Natalie Cole, David Margulies, Richard Davalos, Johan Cruyff .... Rest In Peace all.

By losing these names, we lose a part of our youth. So, to other celebrities I say it brings to mind a poem by Dylan Thomas ... Do Not Go Gentle Into That Dark Night ...

Thanks for reading. x

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I ♥ Jeremy Kyle

by Ashley Lister

Tragic or comic? This is the poem I read at the Dead Good Poets’ event last night. I like to think it contains elements of tragedy and comedy. It is not based on true life and, whilst it doesn’t contain any truly offensive language, I’d have to say it’s not safe for young readers and the easily offended might do well to steer clear.

It’s probably best also if Jeremy Kyle gives the poem a miss.

I ♥ Jeremy Kyle

We met on the set of Jeremy Kyle,

you flashed all three teeth with your black and green smile,

You winked one lazy eye and you waved your webbed fingers

and you looked least inbred out of all that show’s mingers.

Your bum looked so yum, in your pink tracky bottoms.

I said to my chum: “She’s not scum: she’s a hot ’un.”

And I vowed I would ask for a date if I could.

I hoped your lie-detector results turned out good.

Your segment was on first – it was very exciting.

I’ve been bonking twin brothers – and now they are fighting.

Judgemental Jez Kyle claimed your libido the cause

and announced both the brothers you’d been bonking were yours.

We shagged in the green room. You said I was the best.

We then shagged whilst you took your STI test.

We had a quick bunk up in the studio lavs.

And I then met your family – all Jeremy Kyle CHAVS.

Now I like Jez Kyle and I’m happy to chat

and argue with all those who say he’s a smug twat

but some of his guests are just perfectly mental

and most have got problems well beyond orthodontal.

And your family, love, well I’m sorry to say

had a season’s worth of problems for Jezzer that day.

It was obvious there would be lots of fighting

with their Burberry gear and their six carat bling.

Your family’s so interbred that your son’s his own dad

a twelve-fingered three-thumbed giant of a lad.

He’s as ugly as sin – he could scare a scarecrow

and he looked right at home there on Jeremy’s show.

Your mother’s a slapper. She’s been in more beds than bed lice

She tried shagging Jez Kyle – she tried shagging me twice.

And your sister’s the same – any bloke can lay her.

She’s handled more balls than a snooker player.

And they found your three dads each one there as a guest.

And Jezzer’d arranged for three DNA tests.

All were excited – including my mate.

It was like they’d remade Mamma Mia on a council estate

Your cousin complained his love life was amiss

Your cousin looked sad as he stood and said this:

“Most women would love, on their birthday morn

To be woken with chocolates, by a guy with the horn

To get champagne and gifts and some sexy birthday fun

But that’s just most women – that’s not my mum.”

But romance occurred on that Jeremy Kyle show.

You stole my heart – and you got an ASBO.

You promised to forsake all those other bad geezers

as you and I both shared our social diseases.

So we both got together doing Jeremy Kyle.

He sent flowers to our wedding. That guy’s clearly got style.

We’ve named three of our kids after Jez – that’s a fact.

There’s Jeremy. There’s Kyle. And there’s Smug Little Twat.

Ashley Lister

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Our Hunger for Tragedy

This week’s theme is ‘Tragic or Comedic’(note the choice of conjunction), which I’m taking to mean (given the lack of an ‘and’) that I’m allowed to write something that is either tragic or comedic – and that I most definitely don’t need to write something that is both. So, as the dark and depressing seems to flow more naturally from my fingertips than anything with humorous value, I’ve decided to opt for the tragic...

People love disaster, if it does not touch them too nearly – as we run to see a burning house or a motor crash – and also it gives occasion for passionate speech; it is a vehicle for the poetry. ¹

The Four Stages of a Modern Tragedy

One half of the motorway is closed,

the other half has been brought to a crawl –

by our need to see past the smoke; swirling blue lights;

crumpled metal objects, like the devoured carcass of a wildebeest.

They watch, stretching their necks through turned down windows,

dropping their mouths in awe and disbelief: primal instinct taking hold

as phones are sent out into the night

to record the scene and preserve it in pixels.

Within minutes, the videos are uploaded to YouTube.

Facebook newsfeeds full of links tempt us, wave tragedy

beneath our noses like sweet, freshly-spun candyfloss – and we bite,

lick our lips and wipe the guilt from our mouths.

Millions of hits from a single crash, and somehow we forget –

lose ourselves in the blurred blue smoke.

Unable to count on our fingers: to add, calculate –

we forget that tragedy involves subtraction.

Thank you for reading,
Lar

¹ Jeffers, “Poetry, Gongorism and a Thousand Years” from Twentieth-Century American Poetics: Poets on the Art of Poetry, ed. Gioia, Mason, Schoerke (New York: McGraw-Hill, 2004), p.88  

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Tragedy or Comedy

If the newspapers are to be believed, today is officially 'Blue Monday', a term coined somewhere deep in the corridors of a Welsh University that seems to have stuck. If the post-Christmas blues are still affecting you and the winter blues are leaving you down, perhaps that is a fair point. My blogger dashboard has stepped in with a bit of hope though- this just happens to be our 200th post. Happy birthday to us then and, despite half of this week's theme being Tragedy, maybe we can all do a little to lift spirits as we look ahead. 


There are always plenty of things going on in the world all around us. Plenty of moments just crying out for a poem to be written and so, as has become my way of late (principally out of laziness and lack of prior blog research), the post this week is yet another new poem. 


On any given day of the year, there is something about Blackpool- if you look hard enough. A diversity, a very stubborn resolve to carry on and the miles of coastline on offer can get you thinking and this poem came as a direct result of that. Well, a rather selfish mixture of these factors anyway. 


The  sticking point was this: don't have any real tragedies in my life. My first thought has not been on estranged family members, global disasters or, as is the case for one blogger- dead chickens (my condolences, Lindsay). The most worrying thing in my life tends to be something me related and so the worry, as I imagine with most relationships, is argument related. 


With Lara quitting smoking and me being as nit-picky as I am, there have been flashpoints but I'll take this opportunity to say just how proud I am of her 16 days and counting. 


So where do you go to get away and think? I tend to find myself on the seafront somewhere- the loudest, quietest, angriest and most tranquil place in the town, in various measures. Oh, and I was picking up Simon Armitage's latest offering (Death of King Arthur) at the apostrophe-free Waterstones and caught the sunset last night- that in itself was reason enough to eek out a poem. 


Hope you enjoy and as always, thanks for reading. 
S. 


Idyll.
Blackpool Sunset, Jan 2012


Through my eyes I see just what I want you to see,
the coming together of the heavy gang,
a dust cloud, blown up over silver sand.


This is the light to live in, my dear
the shimmering water and the blossoming sunset
all a part of the twilight- the familiar dusk.


See there, the gentle promenading couple
Casting shadows together as long as their back story
twice both their growth, to be precise.


And in this evening, with the sun set just where it is
I find the breeze soothing red cheeks, the cloud of starlings
have dispersed and oh, the beauty of it all


wish you were here with me, for this. 

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