Arboreal - A Wild Night

 

The Friendly Tree

I’ve found a place beside a friendly tree,
Where I’ll hide my face when the world hurts me,
For the tree will never hurt; I shall love it to the end;
It shall have a dear, dear name:
“My true and silent friend.”
                                                                    Annette Wynne

The weather had been pleasant for a few days. There was a hint of warmth in the weak sun when it crept between the clouds and the temperature was a constant 17 degrees centigrade. We set off for a short break in our caravan, to an unfamiliar site just north of Garstang. Rural and surrounded by trees was the main appeal, besides the practical requirement for us, fully serviced pitches. A pub with restaurant was only a five minute drive away. Handy for dinner. Luckily, we’d finished setting everything up before the rain came, the weather breaking as we expected. By nightfall the wind had increased. The trees took on a loud wildness, branches swaying, leaves rustling. Psithurism. Almost stormy, certainly scary. Tucked up in my sleeping bag, worrying about the possibility of being crushed by a falling tree, something brought to mind stories from my childhood, in my Enid Blyton era. The Enchanted Wood, The Magic Faraway Tree and all of those books which captured my imagination. I wanted to live in one of those tiny houses at the top of the tree. I think I still do. By morning, the wind had lessened to a breeze and the rain continued. We didn’t get to sit outside, but it was a nice break.

Galloway Forest Park is perfect for a stroll or a drive, with lots of woodland wildlife, hidden from view. Some areas are dense with pine trees. It is interesting to go off track and just listen to nature. It’s somewhere we like to visit on our regular trips, though we need to stay on the road and in the car these days. I’ve never seen a red squirrel, but live in hope.

Lots of grey squirrels live in my neighbourhood. There’s a regular, well-fed visitor to my garden and I’ll often find buried monkey nuts, which I try not to disturb too much. I think they come from tree-lined East Park Drive, or the trees on the local field.

I love this poem,

Poplar Trees are Happiest

Poplar trees are laughing trees,
With lilting silver call.
Willow trees droop weepingly
And never laugh at all.
Maple trees are gorgeous trees
In crimson silks and gold;
Pine trees are but sober trees,
Aloof and very old.
Black-oak trees walk sturdily,
And live oaks eager run;
The sycamores stand lazily
Beneath the summer sun.
But poplar trees are laughing trees
Wherever they may grow –
The poplar trees are happiest
Of all the trees I know.

                                  John Russell McCarthy.


Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Wonderland - My Happy Place

I’m privileged to be in my happy place in this season of Winter Wonderland and witness again the splendour of the Dumfries and Galloway countryside. An ice-cream in August by the Solway Firth seems like a million moons ago to me now. Lush green has given way to shades of copper and rust in hedgerows and woodland and every view is simply stunning. It is nature at its best.

I was nine years old when my family and I moved into our pub on south promenade. During that first summer of settling in and exploring, we went to the Pleasure Beach. Candyfloss, rock, hot-dogs, fried onions, burgers and seafood. Imagine all these strong scents mingled together and this is the all-round smell I grew up with, including beer and tobacco closer to home, but this was my first impression of the Pleasure Beach. I remember going on the Alice in Wonderland ride and being scared. It was the falling down the rabbit hole bit. Very effective nearly sixty years ago and I can’t say if any changes have been made as I haven’t returned. In those days, there was no charge to walk round the Pleasure Beach and no such thing as wristbands. Rides were paid for individually. The current way of doing things and the costs prevent me from taking my grandchildren any time soon.

Snug in a cosy lodge, outside white with frost, I’ll make the most of the rest of our stay. I’ll top up the bird-feeders every day and enjoy watching them being emptied. Red kites are fascinating and entertaining, gracefully circling, looking for prey. This unspoilt simple life is my chosen wonderland.

My Haiku

Surrounded by trees,
A cosy and peaceful lodge
Is my wonderland.

Beyond evergreens,
Rhododendrons, firs and pines,
Acres of farmland

Glisten in the frost
Of early winter morning,
Waiting for the sun

To rise above hills.
Gentle clouds streak a blue sky.
Beautiful daybreak.

Admiring red kites,
Gracefully soaring above,
A roost of hundreds

Watching and waiting
Whistling their high pitched shrill call,
Then swooping to feed.

A short drive away,
The quiet of the forest
Brings tranquillity.

PMW 2023

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Silence - It's Not Always Golden

Like most people I guess I’m a bit of a mixture when it comes to silence. Some might say I have no idea what the word means. I’m rarely quiet for very long when in company. I’ve seen my companions’ eyes glaze over as I enter the tenth minute of a story that should have been completed in seconds. In fact, even my daughter, who I thought relished my tales, admitted recently that she can’t listen to anybody for more than a couple of minutes: she becomes irritated and restless. That got me told, and also explained a lot about her school reports. But I digress. I love to chat, I also love to hear other people’s tales. I’m curious - sit me down, give me a brew and then tell me everything about yourself.  Don’t pause though, or I’ll fill that void. Silences in conversation make me anxious, and I just can’t let that happen. Feel free to interrupt and continue. Hesitate and the floor’s all mine. 

I was thinking about this chatting lark. I know exactly where it came from: my grandma, who could talk for England. Her favourite subject was, ‘The Aunts at Yarmouth,’ who were her sisters. Two nasty, selfish, mean old spinsters, according to grandma. She could reel off a long list of ways in which she had been slighted by them over the years. My uncle once got her onto the subject and recorded the diatribe, whist my granddad tried desperately to steer the conversation away from the aunts. I still have the recording and it continues to make me laugh. As she got older and her hearing and health began to deteriorate, she became much quieter, just sitting on the sofa and looking rather puzzled as conversations swirled around her. 

I said I’m a bit of a mixture where silence is concerned. There are specific situations where I relish the silence and others where I can’t bear it, not just within conversations, but also inside the home. I’ve suffered with depression for many years and when it was at its worst I couldn’t bear a silent house. Maybe it was the fact that I had three young children and constant noise was the result, but if I was ever in alone at home the first thing I did was switch on the radio. I still do it now. I also realised, quite recently, that I hum and whistle constantly, my mum and dad did the same.  I think it’s just another way of filling that void and blocking out the silence.

However, when my children were babies I craved peace from their crying, shouting, screaming and whiny demands. With my first born I was obsessed with silence when he went to bed.  Woe betide anybody knocking at the door or phoning on the big loud landline.  By the time it got to baby number three I was much more relaxed.  They'd have to sleep through dinner parties (which were all the rage in the 80s), loud music, frantic hoovering, and food mixers going full blast. They either slept through or I didn't hear them due to the above.  Either way, we all survived.

Alone in nature, silence is my preference.  No music, no audiobooks, no distractions, just tiny natural noises in the background; birds, trees, gentle seas, a light breeze. Just perfect.  Everything slows down, my heart beat, my breathing, my thoughts.  It's just one way to recharge the batteries - a cliche, but true.

Silence - In Its Place  by Jill Reidy

Silence is golden 

So they say

But when you have a head 

Full of buzzing

Of thoughts that swirl and repeat 

And do it all again  

Bore into your brain

To tell you things to you didn’t want to hear

Then chase them out

With mindless music

Numbing News 

And puerile comments 

From presenters who know 

Nothing of your pain 

But will fill your head with noise 

And solve the problem for a while.

Emerge from that, and venture out

Where you have to strain your ears 

To hear the slightest sound

Nature, pure and simple

Gentle cooing of a pair of birds

Leaves like butterflies in a lazy breeze

Slow the heart and soothe the soul

And sometimes, not often

Total Silence

Bliss

Thanks for reading.....Jill 

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Who You Gonna Call? - Not a Local M.P.

Who you gonna call?  Best friend? Tradesman?  I suppose it depends on the nature of the crisis, what anger needs venting or what message needs to be passed on, but it won’t be my local MP, that’s for sure.

I miss seeing my close friend. Isolating through this pandemic has prevented us from our usual stuff of meeting up, having train-trip days out and being ladies who lunch. Our lengthy phone calls have saved my sanity as we’ve discussed our families,  put the world to rights and talked about what we might do and where we might go when we can taste freedom.

We need our friends and we need our help network of doctor, dentist, RAC or similar and tradesmen. It’s good to have the numbers of known, reliable or well-recommended people to count on in times of need.

One morning we woke up to discover the bathroom floor awash. At some time since four a.m. – the time could be pin-pointed because it was fine when one of us nipped to the loo – the bracket holding the concealed toilet cistern had broken. The cistern dropped below the ballcock, so water continued to run. The wet bathroom was nothing compared to the room below, where water streamed down the wall, dripped along the ceiling and gushed from the light-fitting. The new carpet was sodden and the wallpaper had taken on a bubble effect.  Hearing the voice of our regular plumber on the other end of the phone was bliss. Within the hour he had diagnosed the problem, fetched parts and fixed it, our hero. The Vax worked wonders on the carpet and the wall, ceiling and light were left to dry out.

Another time, we had an electrical problem. It is going back a bit to when both kids were at home. Everyone could smell something horrid in the hallway. Everyone except me – I have no sense of smell. The meter cupboard is there and was thought to be the culprit, except that everything was fine, nothing felt hot, no sign of a problem, no dead rat. The smell was described as fishy and strong. I remembered that sort of smell coming from a plug socket in one of the places I’d lived, which turned out to be a problem with the wiring and nearly caused a fire. We sent for the electrician. The problem, for indeed there was one, turned out to be wrong wiring for the electric shower. We hadn’t made the connection of the smell being apparent when the shower was in use. It needed a higher current cable. Having it replaced led to us having a modern fuse box installed. The expense was worth the peace of mind.

Sometimes, it isn’t a professional we need, it’s the comforting voice of a family member or friend, especially if there’s a bit of news worth sharing, or wanting someone else’s opinion on something. I’ve been feeling angry the last few days. I’m not alone. I have a strong dislike, even hatred for my local MP, well, perhaps that’s unfair because I don’t know the man, but I hate everything he stands for and the party he belongs to. He’s wound me up previously on a work-related matter that I can’t share – I wish I could – but this time he’s gone for broke. He should be aware of his constituency and therefore the extent of needy families in this town. I’m furious because he voted against free meals for children during school holidays.

I definitely need to call my friend. She’ll understand.

My poem, A Question to a Local Conservative MP

Perhaps I should phone you

But what would I say

Without extreme fury

Getting in the way?

 

I don’t want to be a troll

Swiping out at you.

I want to know the reasons

Behind what you do.

 

Some fam’lies in this town

Need a helping hand.

They are your constituents,

Don’t you understand?

 

Don’t you want to help the kids?

Tell me, are you blind?

I’m aware of the hardship

Made worse by your kind.

 

Take a good look at yourself.

Liking what you see?

Misguided by the Tories

Is how you look to me.

 

PMW 2020

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

  

 

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My thoughts are the antlers

Sorry it's a late one today.  As the sun sets on another day of salty underarms, burned lawns and panting dogs, here is an exercise (#3 to be precise) from one of my poetry workshops. 

In touch with nature

Stories and poems which include strong visual imagery are more likely to be retained by the reader.  Use visualisation to put yourself in a scene and make it vivid for yourself.  If you can see what you’re describing you’re more likely to be able to make it clear for the readers.

Exercise 3:

Write down an emotion:

 e.g. worry

Think of an animal to represent that emotion:

e.g. sparrow

Think of a scene for that animal to exist in:

e.g. garden path

Think of an action for that animal to carry out:

e.g. watching

Create your example of metaphorical nature-based imagery:

e.g. She paces at the window

       a sparrow on the garden path

       restless

       eyes searching the trees

       for the ill-fitting shadow

        

And here are some examples of superlative nature-based poetry which should inspire you to look at the details around you and capture them for your own nefarious poetic means.  Enjoy!

The moment Echo saw Narcissus

She was in love.  She followed him

Like a starving wolf

Following a stag too strong to be tackled.

And like a cat in winter at a fire

She could not edge close enough

To what singed her, and would burn her.

Ted Hughes, from Tales from Ovid (1997)

You know me as a turbulent ocean

clouded with thunder and drama.

Carolyn Kizer, from In the First Stanza

 

I’ll chatter metaphysics with a chimpanzee, now

                        my thoughts are the antlers of the Irish elk,

                                                the wings of flightless birds, peptides

                                                spelling out the phrase

                                                very like a whale

Brook Emery, from Very like a Whale

No lik the past which lies

Strewn around.  Nor sudden death.

No like a lover we’ll ken

An connect wi forever.

The hem of its goin drags across the sky.

Kathleen Jamie, from Skeins o Geese

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Resilience

I love Spring. Not too hot, not too cold, it brings hope, beauty and the Sun, which in turn gives us some much needed Vitamin D after months of harsh and gloomy weather. The air itself is fresher and it is all I can do sometimes to restrain myself and not make a complete spectacle by standing and enjoying the weather and taking in a big, deep, over dramatic breath.  Although, if there's no-one around, I do that anyway. I feel happier, and my smile is wider for it.

Believe it or not, one of the best places to appreciate Spring is in a Graveyard or Crematorium. On my visits to Carleton Crematorium it is absolutely stunning, so a while ago now I penned a poem about it.  Over time, I have re-visited that same poem and edited and expanded upon it.  It now sounds like this:


My Tranquil Haven
 
A warm embrace from the Sun up above,
Bringing life to nature abound,
Flowers stretching, shaking off Winters Cold,
A rainbow sea all around.
 
Purples and Pinks, Whites and Reds,
Yellows, Oranges and Blues,
Offerings marking affection and respect,
Differing plants in all manner of hues.

Tree's standing sentinel offer a welcome shade,
Diffusing and dappling the Sun,
Cascading catkins veil and bow low,
Cherry Blossom petals dance, not to be outdone. 

The verdant grass and leaves whisper softly,
Caressed by a tender breeze,
Birds aloft sing their sweetest of songs,
The World seemingly at ease.

New life burgeoning above the earth,
Below, our ancestors, in natural shroud, 
In harmony together, just like our love,  
I recall fondly, it was emblazoned so proud. 

So calm and serene, a place to reflect
To remember someone so dear
Tranquillity reigns in the Cemetery
I visit without any fear.



I realise that some may find that a little morbid, but it wasn't intended that way at all. I'm sure it will perhaps change again before I am completely happy with it.

Any-hoo, thanks for reading. x

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A Poet Marches On Their Stomach

*Don't panic! It is Monday and not Tuesday. Shaun anad I have switched days because I'm more organised than he is :)

This week’s theme is a pun, a play on words, ‘March is on its stomach’, which relates to the idiom an army marches on its stomach. It suggests that to be effective, an army relies on good and plentiful food, which made me ask myself: what ‘food’ does a poet require in order to be effective?

Personally, I can think of quite a few things that help me to write – be that in the short-term or the long-term – and which in some small way help me to be a better poet, or rather a more inspired one. However, I won't bore you with a long list, instead, I will mention three 'food' (re)sources that I've enjoyed over the last couple of days.

BOOKS, specifically poetry books, fuel my mind. They offer a chance to see how it is done, to learn, to be inspired, to escape, to feel and to discover what you like and what you don't like. I'm almost certain that if I didn't read poetry, then I definitely wouldn't be writing it.

I've currently been reading Michael Donaghy's Collected Poems, as well as Memory Tray by Deryn Rees-Jones, New Collected Poems by Tomas Transtrӧmer and Profit and Loss by Leontia Flynn. All of which have made either an excellent snack or meal, and have successfully managed to prevent my mind from starving. 

COFFEE & BISCUITS. Before January 1st, the biscuits would have been cigarettes. A single poem would have resulted in a lot of smoke and ash but now, since quitting, there is just a lot of crumbs.

Anyway, I like to sit down to write with a mug of black coffee and a couple of biscuits. It's like a reward for being brave enough to face the blank page... 

Small sips and tiny nibbles that feel reassuring as you attempt to find the first line.

NATURE. There is nothing like a genourous serving of the outside world. Be it rural or urban, there are thousands of ideas hiding, flitting and just waiting to be caught.

On Saturday, Shaun and I went for a walk around Brock Valley. Trees, mud, water, wild garlic and dishevelled farms is enough to satisify my poetic appetite and cause my mind to start thinking of potential first lines, titles, ends. 

So, on this indifferent Monday morning, why not treat yourself to something that makes you feel better, that inspires you, that makes you smile, that makes you feel freer, that makes you more effective.

Thank you for reading,
Lara

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