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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The Ballad of Nick and Nigel

Good evening readers. This week the theme has been White- which reminded me somehow of the UKIP election broadcasts and the BNP website I look at now and again. Now I know, hate isn't something we normally associate with white but, in good spirits, I've written a little poem to shine light on the issue.

Hope you enjoy,
S.


The Ballad of Nick and Nigel

Herr Farage and Monsieur Griffin met in a first class carriage
They shared croissants, drank red wine and discussed a peculiar marriage
For who are they to judge, they say, the colour of Britain's skin
Whilst both men feared being overheard and accused of racism.

So Nick and Nigel pondered over how to shut the doors
Whilst deep in their office bowels, the ghost of Enoch holds the floor
Enough's enough, he tells them, there are more than ever before
(Not one of the bright sparks realise they both work on foreign shores).

But putting that aside, they keenly swap offensive views
They argue how it could be wise to keep on side the Jews
We don't want to seem too far right, Nick reiterates to Nige
Then under the cover of night they get to work on hateful signs

Britain's doors are open and they're coming for your jobs!
There's millions lining up at Dover set to clean the bogs!
They're coming in their droves to claim YOUR seventy quid a week!
Did you see the dirty rats leaving bin bags on Benefits Street!

So Nick and Nigel set a plan, "Let's tell them we're like them"
(which is really like comparing Tory Boris to Red Ken)
"We'll drink pints in city pubs", Nige says, "stuff the rules and smoke at work".
Not realising half the country are laughing at the berk

Because little do these two men know, they're as loved as they're detested
We know they're riding slapshod towards a European election
But neither man is smart enough, they just turn up, speak and smile
They're choosing all their policies based just on what's in style

This week it'll be 'stop the gays, God's tears are bringing floods'
Next week a return to calling rooms of women filthy sluts
Then on through crime and fear until they get to the expenses
Where both men claim they're playing fair whilst looking over fences

But the hero of our poem, has been lurking out of view
He's been using on board wi-fi viewing websites of the two
Enough's enough! (He's on his feet) Have you idiots forgotten
These two are feeding from the fears that make society rotten.

The last claim Nick made was to take a jolly flight to Greece
To make a speech for Golden Dawn- what a way to keep the peace.
In his tax funded office he employs an old chief of the national front
no-one else applied so, jobs for the boys, he gave his son in law a punt!

The other one is just the same, he employs his German wife
Says no one else could do the job, it must be all the strife.
His manifesto just eight pages (and that includes a poster)
With the time he's not actually in the pub, you're as well voting in a toaster

By the time the Eurostar pulled in, news had spread with quite a fuss
The speak out hero disembarked and was told "You're one of us"
Go spread the word about these two, get all the people knowing
So Chaucer like, he thought it best to stick it in a poem.

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A Single White Rose ....

For many years, flowers and their specific colours have held meanings. Back in the Victorian Era especially, certain blooms would be sent depending on what message you wanted to convey.  I had a fascinating research experience, when looking on-line for flower meanings, realising just how seriously people used this method back in the day.

To tell someone "Get Well Soon" you would send Cowslips and Garlic flowers, for "Jealousy" it would be Yellow Hyacinths, or to signify "Caution" you would send Oleander. There are myriad flowers to signal love, but you would have to look up which one to send for the specific level of affection and meaning.  Did you know the flower for "Poetry" is the Sweet-Briar Rose?

These days, those meanings are broadly lost as a way of communication, with the exception of sending either Red Roses or Red Carnations as a symbol of love, or Lily's as a sign of bereavement.

Being a tomboy growing up, I had never been that interested in flowers. That changed however in 1997, when I took a particular liking to White Roses. I find them elegant and beautiful. Understated, yet stunning. I have never been bothered for receiving Red Roses on Valentines Day, much preferring to receive my favourite white variety.

So, my poem this week is about just that.


A Single White Rose:

She sits and gazes upon it
through faraway misty eyes,
remembering.

Playing like an old silent cine film,
in her mind
flickering images dance
and smile,
wave together.
Their happiness radiates brightly
in their micro universe of two.
Presented with a single white rose
she smiles.
A solitary tear 
threatens at the corner of her eye.
The elegance and meaning of the bud,
waiting to unfurl,
blooming and stretching
towards life giving rays
is not lost on her.
Hand in hand they walk away.
The memory flashes
then fades.

Time is now her companion.
Its telling lines play about her face,
a silver crown of hair.
Standing above an open grave
her hand, now slender and wrinkled,
reaches forward
dropping a single white rose
on to the coffin below.
Its simple beauty
encapsulating love,
memories of bliss.
A symbol of purity,
secrecy, fondness.
But she knows all too well,
it represents sorrow too.
Tears flow freely from her grief dulled eyes.


I know this still needs some work. I am aiming for poignant rather than overly sentimental, so I'm still coming back to it periodically to tweak.

Thanks for reading.  ;-) x

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In White Coats

For quite a while now I've been trying to work on a collection of poems which pick and unpick at the mental health system. Below is a fragment from said collection:

I

Through squares of reinforced glass

I notice her cumbersome frame, and awkward arms.

The short cut white hair and lined face

out of time with the age of her eyes.

Don't worry, a nurse tells me, That's just Lily.

Over the next few days, she takes a liking to me,

sweeping her large, heavy hand over my hair

as if I were a doll, and rearranging my bedside table

until everything is straight and facing forwards.

At night, I lie awake listening to the lullabies

she sings to herself

                                *             *             *

I remember her licking at a red lollipop

and holding hands with a nurse.

I'm going out for the day, she said.

When she returned a couple of hours later,

she was tied to a wheelchair - her eyes empty,

her mouth stuck open as a line of strawberry saliva

travelled down her chin.

That night, the words of long ago lullabies,

were never sung. 

Sometimes, when writing poetry, the difficulty isn't in finding the idea, but rather in finding the best way to represent it. The fragment of poem above needs work when it comes to the representation of the idea - it's too prosey, the tenses aren't quite right and I'm not sure about the way in which speech has been presented. But this is one of the great challenges and pleasures of poetry, the rewriting and editing, as if the idea were a muddy gemstone plucked from the ground simply waiting to be cleaned and polished by the writing process.

Thank you for reading,

Lara

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White

This weeks theme is white. White is a colour that means a lot to me. I'd like to share a memory.

I sit with toast and tea despite my stomach's morning sickness rejection of it. Toddler giggles float through the room and calmness sits at my feet. A knock. Excited bounciness follows me down the hall to the door. A policeman in black and yellow stands at the step. "Granny!" chirps my little one to my mother as she walks up the path.  She is fidgety but in control.  They come in and I am asked to sit down. The police officer's words fly into my ears and buzz like bees into my mind. But I don't cry. I am not sad. I am not shocked. It doesn't hurt, and I don't know why. But the buzzing stays. They leave and I clear away my dishes. I can't remember his face. I don't cry but I am frightened. I go upstairs to my photograph album, but there is none of him. His face is gone. But I remember his hair, short and cleanly white. It's all I can remember. It soothes me.

Now I can remember. Time has moved and the buzzing which took my memory of him has gone. I have a part of him now. Reams of little white wires poke through the dark and they still soothe.

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Eye witness

On Saturday, Dave and I spent a peaceful hour and a half on Fleetwood Promenade staring at clouds.  My little yellow car might not be much cop when it comes to CV joints (if you know a cheap source of near-side front CV joints for a 2001 Daihatsu Cuore I've a slightly less rare unicorn to trade) but it does boast large windows which have been cleaned this year and seats that are comfortable when jackets are applied as headrests.  The pair of happy burbling bellies filled with fish, chips and mushy peas were a contributory factor to our indulgent ninety minute gaze.

Through the front window we had a view of a twist of tide, contorted and gradually bulging, like our girths, until it engulfed the long, black scratches of bladder wrack.  Buoys and men stood side by side at the water's edge so that we couldn't tell one from the other.  They were standing so still and at such a distance that we heard our neighbours in the car beside us repeat our conversation:
"Is it a man?"
"No, it's a buoy."
"I saw it move."
"No.  It's definitely a buoy.  It looks just like the other buoys."
"It definitely moved.  It's a man."
"Yep.  That's a man.  Fishing probably."

And not once did any of us suggest that it was a woman.

A three-legged spaniel flopped down beside a small boy who ran his hands through the tangled pebble-dash fur.  A sandy shiba inu ran up to the cast iron statue of a terrier and crouched before it, tail sweeping the salty air, inviting it to play.  The dog ran around to the sculpted rear and sniffed it but even this could not convince the dog that its metal counterpart was not alive.

After consulting Google Maps, we figured out which hills were Arnside and which bit of land was Walney Island. We disagreed over whether the hill, covered in wind turbines, was closer to us than Heysham Power Station, one wall of which glimmered as a golden square in the intermittent sun.  Dave remarked that it was odd to think that the other walls, facing the south, east and north respectively, would never know that much light.  It took me a minute or two to work out what he meant.

In a relaxed state, my mind picked out animals in the clouds.  Several mice became elephants as the expectant air was stretched across a backdrop of rain-grey mush.  The closer the rain clouds came, the brighter the cumulonimbus appeared, edged in charcoal grey and seemingly lit from within.  Great cauliflower masses were thinned before our eyes.  A great lion leaped at another mouse but was only a slither of amethyst minutes later.  Porridge specks and clotted cream balloons pushed in front of giants with indigo bottoms and apricot hair.

We saw what we saw, not what we knew and, let me tell you, clouds are not white.

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