Abracadabra

 Abracadabra. I wish I had a magic wand to wave over everything that needs sorting out at home. When the time is right, it will all fall into place – I keep telling myself.

When I was eight, I really wanted a magic set. My birthday, then Christmas came and went, and still no magic set. I don’t know why I wanted one because I didn’t like magicians. David Nixon doing tricks didn’t appeal to me at all and I thought Tommy Cooper was being silly. What did I know at eight years old? I was invited to a school friend’s birthday party, which I was excited about. My mother bought a gift for me to take. A magic set. I think my reaction was to call my mum ‘a cheeky madam’. My feet didn’t touch the floor from one room into another and I was suitably chastised. Threatened with missing the party, I remained on my very best behaviour and when the day of the party arrived, I was pleased to be allowed to go.

I don’t think the lack of owning a magic set stunted me in any way. I’m still not a fan of magicians, though, regardless of their skill.

                              

I found this poem,

The Art of Illusion

Amazing crowds, just like that
Pulling rabbits from a hat
Producing coins from your ear
Making tigers disappear.
Doing card tricks for a laugh
Sawing assistants in half
It’s abracadabra presto,
The Magician’s Manifesto.

                                 Randy Freie



Here's one of mine, from a few years ago,

The Love Spell

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 ghost brought me 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 spell 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 stroked my face
And I felt the warmth of her love.
Her presence 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.

The spell worked. We’ve been married forever and a day.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Magic Has Never Dimmed

Anybody who knows me, knows how much I love the sea. Not sailing on it. That’s a totally different story. And not swimming in it unless it’s several thousand miles from Blackpool and calm and warm. No, my love for the sea stems from childhood day trips and holidays to the seaside. These days my contact with the sea is limited to viewing it from the prom as I take a walk, and photographing it as it rages against the sea wall.  I love it in all its forms - still and calm, glistening in the sunlight or wild in the winds that hit this coast.

Living in London, the nearest place to swim was Tottenham Lido, which was outdoor and freezing.  I rarely saw my dad in less than shirt and trousers, so it was quite an event if he took me and my brothers to the pool on a Sunday morning. I’m guessing my mum persuaded him so she could getting on with cooking lunch without us kids in and out of the kitchen. My dad never really showed much enthusiasm for the outing, emerging from the changing rooms in his knitted trunks, body white as snow, and reluctantly dropping into the freezing water to keep an eye on three excited children.  What I do remember, vividly, is the colour of the water - which I only realised later, was, of course, the colour of the floor and walls of the pool. That colour has stayed with me for sixty years. If I see it now I’m instantly transported back to those Sunday mornings, and the shock of the cold as I carefully descended the steps into the not so welcoming water.

Anyway, I digress. Occasionally, instead of the Lido, we would drive to Southend, where we had young cousins. I only remember once going into the sea there. My mum had taken us kids down on the train and we obviously weren’t meeting the cousins that day. The sea was brown and dirty, but that was no deterrent. Having donned the home sewn elasticated costume, I ran into the sea with my brothers, emerging later with the swimsuit drooping dramatically, weighed down by sand and pebbles and resembling a baby’s full nappy. I wasn’t happy and insisted on getting changed behind a huge towel as quickly as possible. 

Our main holidays were to Margate where we had another set of cousins, nearer our own age. I defy any child to have a better holiday than those weeks by the seaside. Like many a family, I’m sure, we kids scoured the horizon for miles before catching our first glimpse of the sea. It was utter magic. Before we even arrived at our destination my happiness was complete.  The cousins’ house was just up the road from the prom. I couldn’t believe how lucky they were to have the sea on their doorstep. They, however, were pretty blasé about it all.  I couldn’t get enough of the beach and the sea and the tacky gift shops but my cousin was much more interested in mucking out and riding her adopted horse. One year I went alone to stay, and to my horror, although the sea winked seductively at me in the sunshine, I was lent a bike and told to follow my cousin to the stables. Here she handed me a stinking brush and a large dustpan and instructed me to muck out the stable, while she went off on an exhilarating gallop across the fields.  Not only was I scared of the giant horse that eyed me suspiciously but I also felt very resentful of the whole situation, which wasn’t helped by the loud and constant passing of wind from a huge and smelly behind. The horse’s, not mine. 

When I saw the bikes coming out for a second day  I lay back on the bed and feigned illness. I remember a tearful phone call home and the sympathetic voice of my mum, but no offer to come and get me.  I never got my sea fix that week, and returned home vowing to take reinforcements with me next time.

Imagine my delight when, twenty years later - and quite by chance, the husband got a teaching job in Blackpool.  We moved to the seaside, albeit a good thirty minutes’ walk from the actual sea. Ten years after that we decided to move.  Our house sold and in a desperate attempt to find another we drove around the whole area, three young children bored and arguing in the back of the car, and spotted a huge house just off the prom.  For whatever reason, it had been on the market for a year and subsequently reduced drastically.  We bought it, we’re still here, thirty six years later, and I still marvel that we can see the sea from every window.  The magic has never dimmed.

The Island*

Hardly a ripple

Shallow waves lap silently at sand

Approach slowly and with a quiet stealth

A family, deckchairs, buckets, spades 

And no awareness

Of impending danger

Spades digging

Buckets filling 

Castle building

When all around

That silent sea

glints in the sunlight

Gives a little smile

And calmly meanders 

Around the group 

forming pools 

That join and fill 

And finally

Without a sound

The island is complete. 

*If you live in Blackpool you'll be aware of the way the sea comes in and fills in the dips on the beach.  Many times, over the years, I've seen groups of holidaymakers trapped by the tide.  The sea creeps in behind them and leaves them on an ever decreasing island.

Jill Reidy

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Magnetism - Hold Tight

 I love the way the little trains and carriages of the Brio hold on to each other, like magic. Setting it up, I’ve explained to my grandchildren that opposites attract and pull to stick together. Do it the other way round and they push away. Fascinating to me, but not to those who know how it works and just want to get on with playing. Magnetism.

“We know, Nanna.”

And of course, they do. Or at least, they did before lockdown separated us for what feels like eternity. I hope they can come back soon.
 

We’ve done the bit about magnets having north and south and it only works on metal. We’ve checked different things in my house as we’ve wandered around with Brio trains. The fridge is good, and the freezer. We already know that because my collection of picture magnets are holding the children’s art-work in place. Central heating radiators are good, but not the metal legs on the small table.

“Why?”

 “They are made of a different metal that is not magnetic. You’ll learn all about it when you’re older and have science lessons at school.”

One started school in September and is bursting to get back.  He loves it and misses it. One will start this year, if life gets back to normal and two of them will return to nursery. Luckily for them, I’m fine with science up to Key Stage One.

When I was a child, I had one of those magnet-based toys which consisted of a face and bald head beneath a thin, clear screen. At the bottom were lots of iron filings which could be carried clump by clump on a magnetic pen up to the screen, and placed to make hair, eyebrows, moustache and beard. I played with it for hours.

Science was not a core subject when I was at school. I chose the option of History in preference.  These days I would choose both.  I’ve found some interesting stuff on BBC Bitesize, electromagnetism and magnetism on KS3 Physics. We’re never too old to learn.

I found this children’s song on a primary education website. Author not credited.

It’s a magnetic world.
The Earth’s a magnetic place.
Everywhere, all around, you’ll find magnets.
In computers and t.v sets
and microphones,
They even hold doors closed around your home.

Every magnet has a north pole,
A south pole too.
Each pole has its own molecules.
They create a force,
A magnetic field,
That attracts metals like iron and steel.

Magnets, many sizes and shapes
Horseshoes, bars and cylinders
Magnetic discs large and small
Magnets working for us all.

It’s a magnetic world.
The Earth’s a magnetic place.
Put two magnets together, what can you tell?
North and south poles will attract
And like poles together will repel.

Every magnetic field if it’s strong enough
Can pass through paper, wood or plastic.

You can make a magnet with electricity
And it’s very strong, you will see.

Magnets, many sizes and shapes
Horseshoes, bars and cylinders
Magnetic discs large and small
Magnets working for us all.

It’s a magnetic world.
The Earth’s a magnetic place.
Everywhere, all around, you’ll find magnets.

Thanks for reading. Stay home and stay safe. Pam x

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The Magic of Origami

He drags his finger nail down the edge of the crease to sharpen the fold. This was more than just a paper bird. His pupils dilate as if had just seen his one true love for the first time. He starts the next fold.

A book entitled 'the Magic of Origami' lay open on the table next to the photo ID Simon used for work. Life as a number pusher for the local council had recently become a stone. No longer could he just sit there day after day, oblivious of the world's powers.

An impulse buy from The Works on Church Street. Something to do in the evening instead of vegetating to Coronation Street. A hobby. This was to occupy his mind, but it turned out to be so much more.

The first time he didn't understand, thought the feeling was pride at achieving something he had never done before. Soon he realised that in fact he was exhilarated, almost aroused by each new fold.

He began to imagine that he could put a little bit of his soul into these paper models, give them life. In that moment his two hundred and eighty sixth butterfly flapped its wings for the first time, the electricity surging through his body was akin to ejaculating twenty times in one go. Nothing had ever felt so good.

Soon he had created his own paper zoo. Each creature larger and more complicated than the one before. Each new life giving a bigger and bigger rush. This was all he wanted to do.  This was all he started to do. This was everything he did.

Now he only sleeps when his body can take no more. Eat cold foods that require no preparation to minimize the time he is away from his children, his creations.

He finishes the last fold on the latest section of his new wife's left hand. She will love him and share his world. She will understand more than these doctors.

He takes out a fresh sheet of paper and begins to fold.  He drags his finger nail down the edge of the crease to sharpen the fold. This was more than just a paper bird. His pupils dilate as if had just seen his one true love for the first time. He starts the next fold.

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Undiscovering the magic

Good afternoon folks.
This week on the blog, we've been looking at magic. On this note, I have discovered a machine that lets me turn back time- I'm going to squander it as well. I'm not meeting world leaders, not stopping bombs and I'm not revisiting my degree to hand all my work in time. No, I'm going to listen to last night's poetry show and visit Friday's event- it seems another month has gone by!
Okay, so I don't have the ability to do any of these things- just a really shocking memory and schedule. I did need something to open this blog with though, so please accept my humble, late apologies for being the worst attending poet this year. I fully intend to make an appearance and hate the fact I keep missing out on great nights. 

Until next time then, have a poem... or at least an attempt at something on the theme. 
Thanks for reading, S. 

Voyage of Undiscovery

Attempting to incant the dreams of youth
I dug out my old magic set
from the attic chest where it long since slept-
I was seeking the secrets of truth.

Amidst the dust the gig was on
the sixty four pieces unveiled
I had conned myself in honesty
never was such a tidy child.

There, from the molded plastic box
Where two of three cups sat
I unpacked the various bits of tricks-
and donned the magic hat.

I sought wonder in a tatty deck of cards
Examined coloured plastic rings
Spent an hour trying to fathom out
What to do with safety pins.

There were shoelaces, gloves and magic wands-
including one wand that only flopped over-
and had I still been a ten year old boy,
I'd have magic now to show you.

But the things I found inside that box should never have been known
The trick book, yes, but also each contorted cube of foam
for it came to me with such clarity, with the slightest sleight of hand
the straw broke that particular camel's back, the magic seemed less grand-

For I've learnt and I've tried, but can't recreate
The unexpected moment when
the coin came out from behind my ear
and I suspect I won't again.

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Modern Magic

 By Ashley Lister

According to Lost in Translation by Charlie Croker, this is a translation agency’s advertisement in The Moscow Times.

“Bet us your letter of business translation do. Every people in our staffing know English like the hand of their back. Up to the minuet wise-street phrases, don’t you know, old boy.”

Personally speaking, I would employ them.

I mention this because the magic of translation has been on my mind this week. Arthur C Clarke, in his third law, astutely observed, “Any technology sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic.” 

I had one of these technology / magic moments last week when my son showed me how to control the display of YouTube on our TV screen by using my SmartPhone.

“Bloody hell!” I told him. “I’m amazed that the technology of your alarm clock has worked like magic on this one occasion.”

But it wasn’t just the alarm clock and the miraculous magic of him being awake during daylight hours. The wireless technology of my phone controlling the TV set like a remote – only a remote with PC capabilities – struck me as being so unexpected it was magical.

Similarly, I get touched by the magic of translation software. I suppose part of my awe on these occasions comes from the fact that I have a very limited understanding of foreign languages. I’ve done a degree in English, so I’m still working on understanding that language. The idea of learning a different set of words for things I pretend to know already is somewhat daunting.

Whilst I was pondering this modern magic, I had an idea to run a foreign language poem through translation software. This is Charles Baudelaire’s ‘Au Lecteur’.

Au Lecteur

La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine. 

Charles Baudelaire

And this is that same poem in translation:

To drive

the foolishness, the error, the sin, the stinginess,

occupy our minds and work our body,

and we feed our kind remorse,

as beggars nourish their vermin.

Charles Baudelaire

Aside from the opening line, which is usually translated as ‘To the Reader’ I think this is a serviceable piece of writing and another magical facet of modern technology, allowing me to understand something from a foreign language.

Sadly, this level of efficiency in translation is going to mean we will one day lose eloquent mistranslations like this Serbian hotel room sign, which comes from the aforementioned book from Charlie Croker:

The flattening of underwear with pleasure

is the job of the chambermaid.

Turn to her straightaway.

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It sits in the middle and knows

On Saturday, we Dead Good Poets met for our monthly workshop.  After a fun word game which involved coming up with the most inventive similes (I failed but not miserably as I now have lots of stolen similes - mwah ha ha), David Riley read an excerpt from Seamus Heaney's Seeing Things (XVIII).  The excerpt was written in tercets with a little internal rhyme and, if memory serves, contained ten syllables per line.  The aspect of the poetry which we all observed was the way Heaney managed to allude to magic throughout his narrative of a visiting rope seller without ever overtly naming it.  The devil was very much in the details. 

For our main writing exercise, we set about trying to write short poems in a similar style to Heaney's, i.e. we would have a list of things to include but we should never name them, rather use the details to allude to their existence.  To this end we started by making lists.  I asked everyone to give me one fictional character, location, object and type of magic.  Here are the results:

Fictional characters

• Mr Pickwick
• Batman
• James Bond
• Raffles (the gentleman thief)
• Willy Wonka
• Mr Rochester
• Madame Bovary
• Heathcliffe
• Miss Marple

Locations

• Blackpool
• Hogwarts
• Hawaii
• Andromeda
• Canada
• Glasgow
• The Restaurant at the End of the Universe
• Coney Island
• London

Object

• Chainsaw
• Blue John Stone
• Paintbrush
• Dagger
• Football
• Cigarette Lighter
• Fish Tank
• Book
• Quill

Type of Magic

• Witchcraft
• Black Magic
• Close Up Magic
• Numerology
• Necromancy
• Conjuring
• Wizardry
• Kaballah
• Tarot

As I then distributed these in order this meant that someone had to write a poem about a gentleman thief with a dagger on Andromeda using numerology.  Someone else was forced to write a poem about James Bond in Hawaii with a paint brush and close up magic.  Everyone rose to the challenge magnificently, weaving the details in with humour (references to the insertion of a three inch Harris had us in stitches) and beauty (the blood red maple leaves in the Willy Wonka necromancy poem were especially vivid).

There was some talk that I had rigged this challenge as I ended up writing about Miss Marple in London with a quill and tarot.  It does seem a particularly favourable set when compared to Batman at Hogwarts with a piece of Blue John and black magic but the poem which that latter set instigated was so creative that I think I might have preferred something more challenging. 

As I'm not going to be at the open mic event on Friday, I thought I'd share my effort from the workshop.  If you would like to use this exercise to create some poetry, please do.  We'd love to read your work in the comments box.


Divine Mystery

In Whitechapel, hell clings to brick and stone
Grim residue like smog that never lifts
Blue populace wades, ankle deep in death

Behind a window's bubble-spotted eyes
Bone-handled orphans rest in caskets lined
With velvet.  Feathered pens and vessels, cracked.

A desk, marked deep and faded as the day
Is strewn with cups and wands, lovers and wheels
A form, ancient and present, points to change.

Her fingers at the deck, old woman smiles
Reeking of gin and smoke, wrapped tight in tweed
A body's surfaced and she knows the hand.

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My magic

My magic (a moment in my life) Colin Daives

I love magic, have done since my very earliest memory. I actually wanted to be a magician, even tried practising for our in front of a mirror. Desperately trying to palm a card, holding the nine of diamonds in my fingers while concealing it from the audience and keeping my hand looking natural.

I would watch Paul Daniels with wonder. He maybe a bit of a Barclay, but his close order magic is something to behold. The same can be said of Jerry Sadowitz. Not only did he have to ‘offend everyone’ Scotsman years before Frankie Boyle said “Oscar Pistorius sounds like a Harry Potter sell to grow someone’s legs back,” but he was, and still is, one of the finest close quarter slight of hand trickers I have ever seen.

I never got close to these giant of the UK magic industry. I thought my love for the craft and my desire to conjure would never join. That my shot of creating wonder in the hearts and minds of an audience would never happen. And I was only twelve years old.

Then something happened, I wrote a story. This was not that unusual for me at the time, amongst my peers I was know doing such thing on a regular basis however, this story was different in three ways.

Firstly it was part of a challenge. This was the early 1983, we had all watched the Horizon programme about effects of nuclear strike; we had all read Raymond Briggs ‘When the Wind blows’; we all heard the speeches from Thatcher and Regan; we were all scared.

My friend, Anthony Hamlin, suggested we write stories about nuclear war. This seemed like a great idea, and during the next free writing session we both put pen to paper and scribbled out a tale of destruction. So this was the first time I wrote based on a theme someone other than the school had suggested.

Secondly was the teacher reactions. Pete Cartlidge was our form teacher and for some reason he loved my story, so much so that he put it forward to be read out at assembly. This was high accolade indeed. Then something strange happened, the headmaster My Nunn called for the story so he could have a read. This was unusual, but off it went. The following day the news came back that he thought it was ‘too strong’ for assembly and it was withdraw, banned.

I found this utterly strange, Anthony on the other hand found it utterly hilarious. Weeks past and the story drifted from our thoughts until Mr Nunn had to go away on school business and Mr Cartlidge, being the deputy head, put the my story back on the table. I questioned this decision which got the response “when the cat’s away...” So his was the first thing I wrote that caused controversy.

Thirdly was the performance. I stood on the stage in front of the entire junior school, some three hundred and sixty children aged eight to twelve and twelve teachers. I read the piece which included the lines “I remember the cloud, looking like a mushroom. So beautiful yet so destructive.” and as the protagonist contemplated taking his own life (which was one of the rules of the story challenge) “no one to live for, but so many people to die for”

As I finished reading I was met but a stunned silence, you feel the emotions in the room. I could see one of the teachers crying. Another teacher began to clap which started a chain reaction across the room with some of the children cheering. Mr Cartlidge smiled at me as I left the stage. It was the first time I had written something that had proved an emotion response. It was the day I realised I could effect people with my writing, the day I learned to true meaning of magic, the magic of words.

This was quite a profound thing. It would be years before I realised the true deeper meaning of this event. But now I’m here, writing children’s books, poems and blogs. Conjuring up entire worlds of fanciful images. All to try and create a wonder in the eyes, hearts and minds of an audience.

I still love magic, and even though I can figure out how a lot of tricks are done, I don’t care. The skill is in the mechanics, the entertainment is in the performance, the presentation. The rules of a good magic trick are the same as a good story. To quote the film ‘The Prestige’

“Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts. The first part is called ‘The Pledge’. The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man. He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal. But of course... it probably isn't. The second act is called ‘The Turn’. The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you're looking for the secret... but you won't find it, because of course you're not really looking. You don't really want to know. You want to be fooled. But you wouldn't clap yet. Because making something disappear isn't enough; you have to bring it back. That's why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part we call ‘The Prestige’.”

Not all stories need a twist, they just need to leave the audience with an open mouth full of wonder and overflowing ideas on how you just got there. That could just be a description. I may not work for everybody, but for those you managed to connect with, well that’s magic.

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