Waking Up - Looking Out

It was the mid-1960s and we, that is, my parents, toddler sister and I had arrived. From pubs in Manchester, Lancaster, brief stay in Marton then Padfield, at last we were in Blackpool with a pub on the prom.

Waking up early in the summer mornings with the noisy seagulls and a pleasant breeze blowing on my face through the small opening at the top of the sash window is a lovely memory I will have forever. Net curtains wafted inwards, close to my sister’s cot. We shared that big, front bedroom until she was old enough for a bed and a room of her own. The view fascinated me and even more so when Nanna came and planted herself in her favourite place, the bay window of our front sitting room. We watched the world go by, Nanna, with her knitting, Park Drive cigarettes and cups of tea and me, looking out to sea, happy to be with Nanna and share her enjoyment. I was staying with Nanna when my sister was born. We were living in Lancaster then. Dad had already moved into our next pub, but Mum was close to giving birth so we were sharing a spare room in their pub, waiting for nature to take its course. And it did, in the middle of the night. Waking up alone, I remember fleeing the bedroom in tears, Nanna cuddling me and explaining that the baby was coming so my mummy had gone to hospital. My tears soon turned to joy later that day when I was told I had a baby sister. Not quite what I wanted, to be honest. I really wanted a big sister and I’d been misled into thinking I was getting a playmate and she wasn’t that, either. I got over it.

Another of my favourite relatives was Auntie Alice, my grandfather’s sister, so my great-aunt, but Auntie Al would do. When she came to stay, she shared my sea-view room. She wasn’t one for silly nonsense, but we had some fun times together. I learnt her boundaries the hard way and had great respect for this plain-speaking, strong-minded woman. One night, there was a terrific thunderstorm. It woke me up and I was very scared. The building felt like it was shaking – it probably was. She reassured me, in her no nonsense, practical way. Together, we watched the lightning coming over the sea, counting seconds to the thunderclap.

I treasure all those memories, living in that pub, my front bedroom and my sister, my auntie and others who stayed in it with me. Life changed. It changed forever. My room was taken from me.

On a happier note, nearly seven years ago I was waking up to my phone ringing at some unearthly hour, just about morning time. I remember day was breaking. It was our son, to tell us that our beautiful granddaughter, Lola-Skye was born, a little early and having special care, but all would be well and her mummy was fine. Our second grandchild, as our daughter gave birth to our grandson the year before. Two more grandchildren since then.

My Haiku poem,

Window nets wafting
Round the open sash, flapping
In the morning breeze.

Screaming seagulls, loud
And urgent, meet on the sands
Following the tide,

I breathe the mixed smells
Of the seaside and the prom,
This is our new home.

Candyfloss, donkeys
Mingled with ice-cream, burgers,
Sweet, fried onions.

Blackpool promenade,
South Pier stretches out to sea,
Central just in sight.

From the front window
The ‘Beachcomber’ amusements
Will soon come to life.

The whole world passed by
And I was fascinated,
Scenes from my window.

PMW 2023
Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

What Nonsense! The Extraordinary Mr Lear.

Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll and Dr Seuss are synonymous with the word ‘Nonsense’. They were the masters at turning the world on its head. However, my ultimate hero dubbed the Father of Nonsense by many, is Edward Lear. He has provided me with a lifetime of enjoyment and inspiration. Like a myriad of other children, I grew up with his delightful nonsensical rhymes like the Owl and the Pussycat that took me on imaginative journeys to surreal and faraway lands with conversing animals, anthropomorphic objects, funny people and other imaginary beings. My absolute favourite is the Table and the Chair. This poem has taken on new meaning as I read with fresh eyes whilst in isolation, banned from going to other people’s houses, restricted in movement and distancing whilst ‘taking the air’.

Table and the Chair Drawing - by Edward Lear

From A Book of Nonsense, Everyman’s Library Children’s Classics 

I

Said the Table to the Chair,

'You can hardly be aware,

'How I suffer from the heat,

'And from chilblains on my feet!

'If we took a little walk,

'We might have a little talk!

'Pray let us take the air!'

Said the Table to the Chair.

II

Said the Chair unto the Table,

'Now you know we are not able!

'How foolishly you talk,

'When you know we cannot walk!'

Said the Table, with a sigh,

'It can do no harm to try,

'I've as many legs as you,

Why can't we walk on two?'

III

So they both went slowly down,

And walked about the town

With a cheerful bumpy sound,

As they toddled round and round.

And everybody cried,

As they hastened to their side,

'See! the Table and the Chair

'Have come out to take the air!'
 

IV

But in going down an alley,

To a castle in a valley,

They completely lost their way,

And wandered all the day,

Till, to see them safely back,

They paid a Ducky-quack,

And a Beetle, and a Mouse,

Who took them to their house.

V

Then they whispered to each other,

'O delightful little brother!

'What a lovely walk we've taken!

'Let us dine on Beans and Bacon!'

So the Ducky, and the leetle

Browny-Mousy and the Beetle

Dined, and danced upon their heads

Till they toddled to their beds.

Table and the Chair and Animals Drawing - by Edward Lear

From A Book of Nonsense by Edward Lear, Everyman’s Library Children’s Classics

Lear however was not only a master of nonsense poetry. This extraordinary man was a gifted writer/journalist, an illustrator, musician and art teacher (he taught Queen Victoria). He was a fine landscape painter well adept in oil painting and watercolour. Poetry inspired many of his paintings, particularly works penned by his good friend Mr Tennyson. Lear and Tennyson exchanged letters and verse for many years.

Venice 13 & 16 November 1865 - by Edward Lear

Pencil, Sepia Ink, Watercolour

From The Painter Edward Lear by Vivien Noakes, David & Charles

    Mr Lear was certainly clued into Victorian reality. He travelled the world and his keen observational skills and understanding of what he saw and experienced fed his imagination. He could be found sitting and drawing within the enclosures at the London Zoo and Knowsley Hall communing with parrots or riding a camel in Albania.

 

Red and Yellow Macaw, 1830

by Edward Lear

Hand-coloured lithograph. Plate 7 in Illustrations of the Family of Psittacidae, Or Parrots, 1831.

From The Painter Edward Lear by Vivien Noakes, David & Charles

 

    He took what he saw and transformed reality juxtaposing elements in text and visuals. His amusing and humorous creations initially were intended to entertain the children and grandchildren of his patron, Edward Smith-Stanley, 13^th Earl of Derby, President of the Zoological Society and later for a world-wide public fan base of children and adults alike.

Pen and Ink Drawing - by Edward Lear

 From A Book of Nonsense by Edward Lear, Everyman’s Library Children’s Classics

There Was An Old Man - by Edward Lear

Pen and Ink

From A Book of Nonsense by Edward Lear, Everyman’s Library Children’s Classics

   The worlds created by people like Lear, Lewis Carroll and Dr Seuss may make no sense to some, but they make perfect sense to me. Fictional nonsense is a gift – it is entertaining.  These texts have hints of our world askew with lots of ridiculous thrown in, perhaps not quite understood, but that’s okay – it’s another world, not our own.

    These alternate universes however strange they seem, are a bit of fun, they inspire me to construct my own alternative universes that welcomed relief from the often relentless, nonsensical and craziness of the outside world – and that world at the minute I’m really struggling to make sense of.

    A sampling of my own nonsensical world written 2^nd May 2020

Gwinnipeg

Gwinnipeg from Winnipeg

a perfect penguin with

an extra leg

stuck out of

her head

between

the eyes

a submarine in disguise

in water the foot like a periscope

that can balance balls and bars of soap

or do clever moves like arabesque                                                      

pointing straight up – she likes it best

when swimming the leg like a handsome horn

of the most magnificent unicorn

and when on land she flips and flops

from feet to foot she hops and hops

an acrobat – she’s hard to stop

flipping flopping flipping flopping

flipping flopping

SPLASH!

 

Credits:

Lear, E. (1846). A Book of Nonsense. Everyman’s Library A Book Of Classics. Random House. Germany.
Noakes, V. (1991). The Painter Edward Lear. David & Charles. London.
https://farringford.co.uk/news-events/tennyson-poems-blog/edward-lear-and-tennyson
http://www.prescotmuseum.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/Edward-Lear.pdf

Kate Eggleston-Wirtz

Read More

Nonsense - Self-Isolation

I listened, properly. I was perched on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward, hanging on to his every word. It was important that I didn’t miss anything and that I fully understood.  It wasn’t long before I felt frustrated, “Spit it out, man, stop bumbling.” Then annoyed, “For goodness* sake, Boris.” Soon I was angry, mainly with myself for waiting most of the day ‘for enlightenment’ only to find myself wading through a sea of verbal nonsense from someone struggling to string a proper sentence together. Anyway, nothing has changed for me and I will continue to self-isolate.

Lockdown is no problem to me in so far as I love being at home. I am safe here, not stuck here. As well as doing the things I enjoy, I have taken the opportunity to spring-clean and sort out. I kept putting off doing the little room. This is the upstairs box room, which was the nursery for our children. It became the computer room, going back a bit, when monitors and processors were massive. Add a desk, chair and a printer, and one person could comfortably work in there. Later, it became the study. New desk, lap-top, wireless printer and walls lined with book cases which soon got filled. Our eldest grandson calls it our library. He likes to have a bedtime story from my children’s collection when he sleeps over. This little room has also become a dumping ground for things that are in the way but still wanted and not to be confined to the attic or the shed, well, not yet.

I made a space for myself by chucking a few things out that shouldn’t have been in there then got started on sorting out my writing. Exercise books, notepads, scribblings. Unfinished poems, opening paragraphs, some completed stuff. A couple of rejection letters, kept to keep me grounded. Plenty, and I mean a lot, of written nonsense, some made it to the bin, but a few items showing a glimmer of promise, might be worth picking up again. Published work, a thin folder, but one of which I’m proud and has a self-awarded gold star. My work-in-progress novel which hasn’t seen much progress lately. I didn’t dare to start reading that otherwise nothing else would get sorted out. It isn’t nonsense, though, it needs work. I spent two afternoons just on my writting stuff and I discovered that there’s a flicker of hope on some of those hand-written pages. I have rejection letters but I also have lots of positive feed-back and encouragement, enough to tell me to push myself out there while I still can. And with nothing to lose, I must.

So self-isolation continues. The news is scary, the outside world is too scary for me. I don’t support Boris or his party but I have to pay attention, however cross he makes me feel. I won’t return to work to mix with the public before I can see my family, that’s nonsense. I think it is too soon to lift restrictions but I was disappointed at his lack of clarification. I didn’t expect him to be specific, because he isn’t, but I hoped to hear something that I could safely interpret to mean it would be fine to have my grandchildren round and see family members, even briefly. They are worth the wait.

Here’s Spike Milligan,

Scorflufus

By a well-known National Health Victim No. 3908631

There are many diseases,

That strike people’s kneeses,

Scorflufus! Is one by name.

It comes from the East

Packed in bladders of yeast

So the Chinese must take half the blame.

There’s a case in the files

Of Sir Barrington-Pyles,

While hunting a fox one day

Shot up in the air

And remained hanging there!

While the hairs on his socks turned grey!

Aye! Scorflufus had struck!

At man, beast and duck.

And the knees of the world went Bong!

Some knees went Ping!

Other knees turned to string

From Balham to old Hong Kong.

Should you hold your life dear,

Then the remedy’s clear,

If you’re offered some yeast – don’t eat it!

Turn the offer down flat –

Don your travelling hat –

Put an egg in your boot – and beat it!

Spike Milligan  (1918 – 2002)

*Choose your own word here – mine wasn’t ‘goodness’.

Thanks for reading, take care and keep safe, Pam x

Read More

They danced by the light of the moon

Back in March I posted a few lines of poetic prose on Facebook.  Nikki Magennis and Davina Geraghty helped me to make small changes to the language, to tighten it up.  I rather enjoyed the process of the communal edit.  Here's what we did:

Version 1

Evening soaking into the trees like broth into torn bread. Thickened air, like warm breath on a cool mirror. Magpie and Crow stream from the rushes, to the scandalized cries of the corvid community.

Version 2

Evening soaks into the trees like broth into torn bread. Thickened air, like warm breath on a cool mirror. Magpie and Crow rip from the rushes to the scandalized squalls of the corvid congregation.


So, this week I would like the help of you, Lear readers, to edit a new poem I'm working on.  All suggestions considered.  I am happy with the intentions behind the poem, it's the structure, rhythm, rhyme etc that I would like your help with please.  Ideally I would like to perform this at Lancaster on Friday. And so...


Poke Lear's Monster

Joy scribbles writhe in liminal puddles
Brutal and messy; compulsory corpses
Owl succumbs to Pussy Cat's splashes

Joy scribbles menace old watermills,
Harbours, cracked runcibles;
Metamorbid with their baggage of
Comments on Neo-Conservatives, loss
Or a childish compulsion:
Scab scoffing
Sand snacking
Glue grazing


Pica.  They call it pica.
Magpie.  Mudpie.
Picah-ah-ah-
Chew.

Bless You.

Read More

Neonsense

There's a piece of music which, when it comes on the radio, often makes me pause in what I am doing and listen. It's Karl Jenkins' Adiemus which is the first track on the album Songs of Sanctuary. This album is part of a series of albums which go under the collective title of Adiemus. It's a vocal piece but doesn't contain words which you can find in a dictionary. The words were created by Jenkins to frame the voice. The words tend to end in vowels, much like the Japanese or Italian language, to allow the sound to carry rather than being cut off by the hard stop of a consonant. As there is no written conceptual framework for his language, it cannot be tied down to specific definitions. It does, however, evoke a response in the listener. Before I was aware that the language was created I believed it was in an African dialect and I imagined that the words had a joyful meaning to them. This perception is in part down to the music which accompanies the words but also in the sounds of the words themselves. The phonic qualities come with pre-loaded associations, specific to each individual hearing them and based on their cultural knowledge and understanding.

There's a poem by Charles Bernstein, A Defense of Poetry which is composed almost entirely of words which are spelt, and pronounced, incorrectly. In the poem, if I interpret it correctly, Bernstein is drawing attention to the shades of grey which exist in our interpretation of language and meaning. He says:

We have preshpas a blurrig of sense, whih
means not relying on convnetionally
methods of conveying sense but whih may
aloow for dar greater sense-smakihn

There is a differentiation, a dualistic perception of language, which creates a hierarchy of understanding. Any poet knows the power that words contain within their culture. This is why we edit. We remove words which lack sufficient value, replace them with alternatives which have greater impact or a more precise definition. The more complex and 'expensive' our language, however, the smaller the audience which will comprehend its meaning. Simplification creates a clearer picture, but might lack clarity or spectacle.

The metaphor is deemed one of the most precious commodities which a poet possesses. They are jealously guarded and, as Steve Stroud pointed out last week, collected. Metaphors are what made Shakespeare one of the most sublime writers the English language has known. In terms of lucrative words, he was a trillionaire. Metaphors are also one of the reasons many newcomers to his work find it inaccessible.

Asperger Syndrome is a condition on the Autism spectrum. One of the symptoms of Aspergers is the inability to understand metaphor which stems from the tendency to take comments literally, being unable to derive a second layer of meaning. A lack of ability with language leads to the diagnosis of a behavioural disorder. For this group, language is costly indeed. It is estimated that between 1 and 4% of people have Asperger Syndrome.

Language, like our culture, is split into the 'have's and the 'have not's. Much like the material commodities which line the pockets of the wealthy, language can be said to enrich the lives of those who enjoy it in abundance. Owning the right words, the proper accent can open doors, can raise prospects. However, that is not to say that a lack of wealth, a lack of linguistic understanding, is a signifier of poverty per se. Just as the majority of us, in this culture, get by from day to day with enough to get by and perhaps a little besides, so those with a narrow vocabulary are perfectly able to express themselves and glean value from their language. Where there is a danger is when the financial situation becomes depressed, when those who are getting by find that suddently they are failing to pay the rent. When public services which are utilised by the poorest are removed, then the hierarchy becomes a trap. When education becomes unaffordable and schools become academies which are run as businesses, able to sift out the brightest students for profit, then language and understanding become the reserve of a few rather than the pleasure of the majority.

On behalf of our children who are threatened with linguistic poverty I want to make it clear. This shall not be.

Nonsense and neologisms, slang and dialect form the base of some of the best writing. These features come from the roots. They are born from adversity and resistance.

Language is a commodity and like any commodity, its value is affected by demand. Shakespeare is valuable but it is specialised language. Some knowledge is required to open it up, to make it enjoyable. Metaphor is exquisite but it is not accessible to everyone. Nonsense is designed to be misunderstood, and so allows a variety of interpretations. New language, created for the purpose of expressing the voice is accessible by everyone.

Let's not partition our language, knowing its value and selfishly guarding it. Let's make it available to any who would own it. Leave it hanging from the lowest branches, painted on a wall, posted on a blog. Passing on the wealth of words is easy because it never diminishes the store, it only increases it. And remember, there are hidden troves of riches to be found in nonsense for those who care to dig.

Read More