Tenson - Troubabours

I usually know roughly which direction I’m going in when I write my blog. This is an exception. I’ve really had to dig deep and I’ve spent lots of time getting carried away with Dante and his contemporaries, and had to drag myself back to the theme of ‘tenson’. After a couple of false starts, an almost abandonment and a rewrite, this is where the challenge, and it became very challenging took me. Forgive me if I’ve fallen off topic too much.

From Encylopaedia Britannica:

“tenson. (Old Provencal: ‘dispute’ or ‘quarrel’) also called tenso or tenzon, a lyric poem of dispute or personal abuse composed by Provencal troubadours in which two opponents speak alternate stanzas, lines, or groups of lines usually identical in structure. In some cases these debates were imaginary, and both sides of the issue were composed by the same person. The tenson was a specific form of debate, a kind of medieval poetic contest. The form later spread to Italy, where it became popular among the poets of the dolce stil nuovo, including Dante. Compare partimen.”

Searching into this sent me on a fascinating journey back to The Classics and to people I’d never heard of or forgotten about. I chose the following as an example, Cercamon and Guilhalmi from the 12^th century.

Cercamon

« Car vei finir a tot dia [L'amor], lo joy e·l deport, E no·m socor la clerzia, Non puesc mudar no·m cofort Co fay, can conois sa mort, Lo signes, que bray e cria E·n mou son sonet per fort, Que·l cove fenir sa via, E plus no·i a de conort. » – « Maïstre, si Dieus me valha, Ben dizetz so que cove; Mas ja d'aisso no vos calha Car li clerc no vos fan be; Car lo bos temps ve, so cre, Que auretz aital guazalha Que vos dara palafre O renda que mais vos valha, Car lo coms de Peitieus ve. » – « Guilhalmi, non pretz mealha So que·m dizes, per ma fe; Mais volria una calha Estreg tener en mon se No faria un polhe Qu'estes en autrui sarralha, C'atendes la lor merce: Car soven, so cug, badalha Qui s'aten a l'autrui be. » – « Maïstre, gran benanansa Podetz aver si softretz. » – « Guilhalmi, vostra vanansa Non crei, si com vos dizetz. » – « Maistre, car no·m crezetz? Gran be vos venra de Fransa Si atendre lo voletz. » – « Guilhalmi, tal esperansa Vos don Dieus com vos m'ufretz. » – « Maïstre, n'ajatz coratge D'efan ni d'ome leugier. » – « Guilhalmi, sobre bon guatge Vos creyria volontier. » – « Maïstre, man bon destrier An li ome de paratge Per sufertar al derrier. » – « Guilhalmi, fort e salvatge ............................... » – « Maïstre, josca la brosta Vos pareisa·l teit novel. » – « Guilhalmi, ben pauc vos costa Lo mieus ostals del castel. » – « Maïstre, conte novel Aurem nos a Pantacosta Que·us pagara ben e bel. » – « Guilhalmi, fols qui·eus escota: Vos pagatz d'autrui borcel. «

– Since I see, every day, love, joy and pleasure end, and the clergy doesn't help me, I don't know where to turn, aside from comforting myself as does, when it knows of its death, the swan, who laments and cries and forcefully emits sounds when it's time for its life to end and it doesn't have hope anymore. – Mentor, may god help me, you certainly say fitting things; still, let it not bother you that the clergy doesn't do you any good; for a favourable time comes, I believe, in which you'll have an associate such as will give you a steed or an income worth even more to you, for the count of Poitiers is coming. – Guilhalmi, I don't care a thread for what you say, by my troth; I'd rather have a quail held tightly in my breast than an entire aviary which someone else keeps locked while I wait for mercy: for often, I find, one yawns while waiting for someone else's goods. – Mentor, you can have a great good, if you are patient. – Guilhalmi, I don't believe the vain words you say. – Mentor, why don't you believe me? A great good will come to you from France, if you care to wait for it. – Guilhalmi, may god give you a hope such as the one you offer me. – Mentor, don't have the heart of a child or of a fickle man. – Guilhalmi, with a good pawn I would gladly believe you. – Mentor, prominent men have many a good steed for being patient to the end – Guilhalmi, strong and wild ............................... – Mentor, near the foliage may your new roof appear – Guilhalmi, hosting me in the castle costs you very little. – Mentor, at Lent we'll have a new count who will pay you nice and good. – Guilhalmi, he's fool who listens to you: you pay out of other people's purse.

 

Looking for something modern, I found this short quarrelsome poem by D/H. Lawrence. I like his wit. It made me laugh.

Intimates

Don’t you care for my love? She said bitterly.
I handed her the mirror, and said:
Please address these questions to the proper person!
Please make all requests to head-quarters!
In all matters of emotional importance
Please approach the supreme authority direct!-
So I handed her the mirror.
And she would have broken it over my head,
But she caught sight of her own reflection
And that held her spellbound for two seconds
While I fled.

                          D.H.Lawrence (1885-1930)

Now then, shall I return to Dante et al, or is my brain scrambled enough for now? I think I’ve found another world that I’ve previously encountered very briefly.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Poetry Readings - A Night at the Brewery Arts Centre

 

The first time I stood at the microphone to share my own poem I was scared to death. At my request I was given an early slot before nerves might get the better of me. I’d spent a couple of days worrying, wishing I hadn’t committed myself, but there I was, in a café full of proper poets with a proper message and a witty way with words. I was the imposter with a few rhymes, persuaded into the spotlight despite my ‘better on page than on stage’ plea. At the time, my comfort zone was ‘Going on a Bear Hunt’ with twenty-five or thereabouts Year 1 infants, all of us doing the actions and having fun. Now I had adults looking at me with anticipation of how I might entertain them. I was amongst friends yet it felt like my appearance was being scrutinised before any words came out. I know I was blushing and my voice, when I found it, lacked my classroom authority.  I heard giggles in the right places, which was comforting, and applause at the end. My ‘daft rhyme’ was well received and I was happy to sit down, switch to ‘relax’ and enjoy the rest of the evening. I’ve done it lots of times since and I’m always nervous. As much as I love performance poets I don’t want to be one.

I was so excited to see John Cooper Clarke at the Brewery Arts Centre in Kendal. We had a pizza first in one of the restaurants there before taking our front seats in the theatre.  Yep, front seats and John Cooper Clarke, what a night!

It was an even more incredible night than I imagined because supporting JCC was a poet I’d never heard of (shame on me) who absolutely blew me away and I’ve followed his work ever since. Mike Garry, check him out, comes from the same place in Manchester as my family. His poetry illustrates places I know, people I’ve heard of and the way they relate to each other. His grandad had a pub on Fairfield Street when my dad had The Star and Garter. Our families might have known each other. Mike’s poetry is very different to JCC’s but they complement each other so well. I don’t know if it’s the Manchester / Salford thing or just Northern but as well as being excellent stand-alone poets, they certainly gel on the same bill. It was great to chat with him at the interval and buy a signed copy of ‘God Is A Manc’. There’s stuff in there that made me cry and still touches me.

John Cooper Clarke, still recovering from pneumonia at the time, kept going and going beyond his finishing time, turning pages of hand-written poetry and delivering words in his trademark pistol-shot speed. Poems I’d known for years came to life with the poet’s own voice, and he was right in front of me.

Here is the first poem of mine I dared to share,

There’s really nothing wrong with you…

 

 The dentist thinks you’re going mental,

Your funny taste is nothing dental

But you can’t convince the GP’s nurse

That all your ailments are getting worse.

She says your temperature’s fine at 37,

Twelve stone is good for 5’11”.

You should be glad that you’re so fit

You horrible, hypochondriac twit.

You don’t need extra Vitamin C

For occasional twinges in your knee

And stop that over-acted limp

You whinging, wailing, wussy wimp.

Bin the smelly cream for sweaty toes,

And menthol spray for your bunged-up nose,

The pots of Vick for respiratory congestion

And the Milk of Magnesia to ease your digestion.

Whizz that strong inhaler for chesty wheeze

And the K Y Jelly for personal ease.

Peculiar feelings in your tum

Means another camera up your bum,

But there’s never anything to find,

It’s not up there, it’s in your mind.

Oh take your special magic pill,

The one that stops you feeling ill.

It’s just a placebo, so let’s pretend

You’re feeling better and on the mend.

Now then, by your own admission

That phantom cancer is in remission

It’s just a headache, not a tumour.

Time you found a sense of humour

And stopped bringing your worries and distress

To the attention of the NHS.

PMW

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well. Pam x

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The Sea - My Bit of Blackpool

 When my parent's wish for a pub on Blackpool promenade was granted, I had the joy of having a front bedroom facing the sea. I was fascinated by the view. The summer season was just starting, people were strolling past and each day seemed busier than the last one. Trams rumbled by, horses clopped along pulling landaus, bells rang out from the donkeys taking their place on the beach and squeals of delight or screams of fear came from the nearby Pleasure Beach. These new sounds were exciting but nothing compared to the noises of the sea. On a still and quiet day, with hardly a ripple on the incoming tide, there might by a gentle splash as the last wave met the sand. On a breezy day, the sea was louder and the tide came in with lively, white waves. One of my first memories of that room is of a sunny morning, the curtains half open and the nets billowing into the room on the fresh, salty breeze. In those early days, I shared the room with my little sister who was still in a cot and I would wake up properly to hear her calling my name and holding her arms up to be lifted out. I think she was two years old, which would put me at nine, nearly ten. I don’t know when she moved into a room of her own, though at some point she did.

My grandparents were regular visitors, leaving their pub to oversee ours – it was a family joke. Grandad would go and take an interest in the cellar lay-out and everything behind the bars. Nanna planted herself in the bay window of our private lounge and watched the world go by, tutting at some of the sights and loving the view of the sea. She would smoke her Park Drive and drink tea. Her knitting would remain untouched as the outside goings on captivated her.  I expected to be part of those goings on when I was old enough. I wasn’t, well, not quite.

We spent hours watching the illuminated trams when Blackpool Lights shone. We could see for miles up and down the promenade. My sister and I would be taken out by Dad in the car to enjoy a proper look and see the fabulous tableaux towards Bispham. Many years later, a story and a poem of mine featured along there, amongst others. Who could have known?

When the Illuminations end, Blackpool hibernates. The view from my window is dominated by the sea with no distractions. Trams, less frequent, thunder along but the horses and donkeys have gone. Gale force winds and high tides send waves crashing over the sea wall on to the tram tracks, into the road and often into our cellar. It wasn’t flooded completely, but Dad would need his wellingtons on. I watched the sea with my mum, from the comfort of our lounge. The noise of the sea would frighten me, roaring, pounding and fierce, rising at its most scary like some great water monster. It still scares me. I like to watch without being too close.

I loved that bedroom. Our family changed after my mother passed away and my bedroom was promised to another. I moved to a back room. I should have refused. That’s life.

During the full lockdown, I wished I lived close enough to the promenade to have a walk and a look at the sea. Suddenly, I missed it, everything, the sounds and the taste of salt on my lips. There was one very hot, sticky day during the summer when there was only one way to cool off. After tea, my husband and I drove to Anchorsholme and found a quiet spot. We had a short walk then stood by the railings, looking at the sea that was right out on the horizon. A gentle breeze was pleasantly cooling, swirling my summer skirt and loose-fitting top. We stood for an hour enjoying the fresh air, watching seagulls and the people in the distance. The Blackpool I like is the vast coast-line and the changing of the sea.

My chosen poem, a favourite from John Cooper Clarke, with a nod to John Masefield. It brings to mind the Golden Mile, 

i mustn't go down to the sea again

Sunken yachtsmen
Sinking yards
Drunken Scotsmen
Drinking hard
Every lunatic and his friend
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

The ocean drags
Its drowning men
Emotions flag
Me down again
Tell tracy babs and gwen
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

The rain whips
The promenade
It drips on chips
They turn to lard
I’d send a card if I had a pen
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

A string of pearls
From the bingo bar
For a girl
Who looks like Ringo Starr
She’s mad about married men
I mustn’t go down to the sea again

The clumsy kiss
That ends in tears
How I wish
I wasn’t here
Tell tony mike and len
I mustn’t go down to the sea again.

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well, Pam x

Photo from Blackpool Gazette

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Tanka - Just A Few



I'm away at the moment, yes, again. I know I've only just returned home long enough to do the laundry and re-pack the case, but here I am, in the wonderful Dumfries & Galloway countryside, comfortable in a hidden-away lodge that I've already written so much about.

This week's theme being Tanka - five line poem based on a 5-7-5-7-7 syllable, I've had a try.

Not only have I managed to write a few Tankas, I've found a wifi connection. One of the attractions about being here was the seclusion, no signal, etc., but hey ho, things move with the times and we don't have to use what we don't want. Anyway, to my own advantage today, so here goes. They are written randomly.

Lonely roads so dark,
Driving back from Kilwinning.
Two hour journey
On the A seven-one-three
And it's creepy and scary.

List'ning to John Lodge
On his live 'B Yond' cd
Some old tunes remixed
And some new ones blended in,
Salute the Moody Blues man.

Watching the robins
Bossing round the bird feeders.
Claiming ownership,
Puffing out a proud red breast
Homing in on the fat balls.

A drive to the hills
Then all stops for 'Popmaster'
Wherever we are.
Some questions are too modern
And correct answers are few.


Thanks for reading, Pam x

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End to End: A Brazilian Round Up Poem

This week the dead good bloggers have been looking at anecdotes. I haven't, I've been watching the football. A world cup full packed full of end to end football, have a go heroes and stoic performances has come to an end and, after a surprisingly cagey final, the world of football now offers its congratulations to Germany, who have given nothing short of a masterclass!

With that said then, I'm happy to  share with you the product of my evening- and given that the whistle went only moments ago, this is probably the first world cup round up poem posted anywhere in the world. You're welcome...

End to End

The vanishing foam and a swandive
That efficient first German win
The tweeting of Barack Obama
Then Spain sent home by Chileans
The swerving first left foot of Messi
The fresh Costa Rican surprise
A wave of delight from the Mexican bench
Then the striker that had too much bite
Football struck back- James chests, turns and volleys
Before diving, a shamed Arjen Robben admits
The US went crazy for Howard's heroics
Then Zuniga left Neymar in bits.
The Krulest of penalty mindgames,
Ein Siebening to forget for the hosts
Before Argentina's spot kick win
Launched a two day invasion by coach.
Then the final, an anxious encounter in Rio
Saw the prize lifted high by a great German team
The passion, the pain and the end to end football
With the eyes of the world- what a reason to dream.



Thanks for reading,
S

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In Complete Refreshment

Ironically, a poem about finding refreshment and inspiration is proving hard to finish.

Thanks for stopping by though,

S

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Salvations

When it comes to performing poetry, the space and the venue that you're in certainly makes a difference. At the start of the month, I found myself at Poulton Gala with a poem I'd written just the night before. As it happened, I had been notified that the back up plan was to use the church in case of rain so, I suppose coupled with the Brazilian carnival theme of the Gala I was swayed into my decision over what to write about.
You'll be surprised to hear that I managed to focus on football and religion for my poem and so, when the rain did indeed come down heavy, I ended up reading my piece in a packed St John's- straight after the Gala Queens and Dignitaries had been awarded- no pressure!
In any case, both Joy and Al read superbly well so as part of our little 'representative team' it felt great- I just wonder how much I had been influenced by the knowledge of where I'd be reading the piece during the 'creative' process.
Here it is though, out of carnival day context and up before it's out of date. Hope you enjoy.

Salvations.

On the hunchback Corcovado mountain
Cristo Redentor stands, arms raised.
He watches over each favella,
every high rise, every stage.

Around him, in the evening twilight
lit up with a purple hue
fans of many different nations
gather, taking in the view.

And from this vantage point, he watches-
waiting for the game to start:
Arms half way to celebration
Half way to catch each falling heart.

One whistle cuts straight through the samba.
One ball watched around the world.
Streamers fly around the terrace
as passionate songs are unfurled.

And nearby in the cramped favella
locals swell round one TV,
the gunshots stop for ninety minutes
and passion lifts the great city.

They feast on sweet Bolo de Rolo
sticky, like the evening heat
but it's hard to watch the world cup football
not thinking of bustling streets.

Of Rocky, in his homemade shelter
a one man ambulance of the hill.
He raises sick above his shoulders
to bear his share of Rio's ills.

Of mothers, fearful for the children

growing into the wrong scene-
not quite lucky, not quite out yet
struggling to hold their dreams.

But set in soapstone, towering over
Christ's redeeming pose holds strong.
Four weeks of idol celebration
then the gaze of the world is moving on.



Thanks for reading,
S

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Preserving Memories

Floating

I imagine you sitting on a pool of mercury

Like Styrofoam on water

You do not sink

The faces of your family and friends

Dark shadows cast on the light

That now holds you

Somewhere beneath the surface

Memories are suspended

in glass storage jars

Like catching smoke

I struggle to remember the details

Blurred with time

Until one rises from the haze

Sharp and clear

Perfectly preserved

Like an ammonite in sedimentary rock

It places you in this world

Still here.

(In memory of Laila Antoun)

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Beacon

Good evening readers. This week on the blog we've been considering writing spaces. For me, the best writing spaces are the places where poetry almost finds itself- the brilliant countryside, the breathtaking views, the cross-country journeys are just some of my favourite places of inspiration. I always remember Lara telling me how her tutor Paul Farley loved to write on trains- and given the abundance of train poems out there, I would say that he is not alone in his poetic rail loving.
We all know of the great poets based in the Lake District and there have been many great observational poems written from cafes and bars, which leads me to deduce that the only key factor in a 'writing space' is the chance to ponder and to breathe for yourself- that it is somewhere with the ability to be secluded and allow the thoughts to dance.
On that note, this Wednesday I will be taking a workshop for the Walking on Wyre project at Rossall Point in Fleetwood. I took a stroll out there yesterday and as always, was amazed by the serenity of the sea. It made me think of journeys, of holidays, of mythical creatures and of childhood. I like places like that, and there is a wonderful, over-leaning building from which we'll be writing so, if that is your bag or you like free tea and coffee, I'll see you in the week.
Until then, I'd like to share a brief poem with you that was inspired by a recent Beacon Fell visit with Lara. It really is a cracking place to sit, eat and think so if you get the chance, it is well worth a visit.

Hillside view from Beacon Fell, May 2014

Beacon

A hilltop view out to the coast
as the sun sinks in the sky
provides a chance for looking on
as birds below us fly.

The cattle graze on buttercups
a chewing sound serene
that's permeated now and then
by a two-stroke farm machine.

And as we picnic on that hill
set in oranges and greens
it's not just trees casting long shadows
but nights stretched out like these.


Thanks for reading,
S.

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Interruptions & Love

Dear Boy Poet,

Last night, after you'd returned from work, you dropped your backpack

in the middle of my writing space. You pulled off your shoes,

and began to retell your day with a loudness I'm still not used to.

The ideas and half-formed lines (from an afternoon of silence)

fell like glass marbles.

Later, on the computer, you typed a new poem. I listen

to the speed of the tapping and know you've found that zone

which so often seems to evade me.

And, for a moment, I am jealous and resenting...   

This morning, I eased myself away from your warmth, quietly

made black coffee and settled back into thinking.

At seven your alarm began to cycle through those sounds

(specifically chosen to force you from our bed).

By half past, you've pressed the snooze button six times

and I'm forced to leave my thoughts behind

to wake you.

Our differences sometimes cause us to clash,

but our similarities always bring resolution.

For every time you have made a picnic, coaxed me

into the car and taken me to a place that allows my mind

to breath - I thank you.

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Cut and Paste

This week on the blog we've been looking at music. I used to think that music had a lot in common with poetry because, at the end of the day, they both have lyrics set to a rhythm but, in trying to piece together the blog today I've noticed that there has always been a lot to learn from music- and that I've always enjoyed learning it, even if I hadn't realised. 

If I told a class of children that poetic analysis might have a lot in common with a club remix, they'd try and eat me alive. I wouldn't get a chance to explain that by unpicking the piece you can work out just what the key parts are and that, given the proper care, they can be highlighted further with an edit. They would probably gawp at me if I asked them whether words have quite the same meaning when not accompanied by a guitar solo, a powerslide or a saxophone. Do these elements of performance translate to poetry and without them, do the lyrics hold true at all or can they be reshaped and take on different values? 

Thinking on these lines led me to compile the kind of list I haven't made since my early twenties. I assembled all the 'influential bands' I could remember, flicked through my records and picked out some of my absolute could not live without artists. Below then, is a compilation of lyrics and words taken from some of my favourite artists- all out of context, all lacking riffs and kicks and all reformed into some kind of cut and paste found, stolen and salvaged poem. 

There are 27 artists in all, with two of them having an extra lyric. I've been nice in alternating the colours when the performer changes so with that in mind, have a go at unpicking the piece below- and don't be using google!

Cut and Paste

I'm so happy 'cause today

I've found my friends ...

They're in my head

Slowly walking down the hall

Faster than a cannon ball

We smoked the last one

An hour ago

I'm pushing an elephant up the stairs

I'm tossing up punchlines that were never there

Get up, stand up

That's how it goes

Everybody knows.

Well, it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe

We gotta move these colour TV's

Smoke some fags and play some pool, 

Pretend you never went to school

We don't need no thought control

The beautiful people

The beautiful people.

Like a drunk in a midnight choir

I've seen fire and I've seen rain

I could be one of your kids, white America

Don't let it go to waste

I love it but I hate the taste

Commencing countdown, engines on.

I don't need your civil war

It feeds the rich while it buries the poor

So if I can shoot rabbits

Then I can shoot fascists

An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth

And anyway I told the truth

This is what you get when you mess with us

He's got morning glory, life's a different story

Everything's going jackanory

They call it paradise, I don't know why

You call someplace paradise, kiss it goodbye

And you realise then that it's finally the time

To walk back past ten thousand eyes in the line

I'll show you a picture 

A picture of tomorrow

Paradise put up a parking lot

This is our destiny calling now

Smashing up the woodwork tools

Don't think twice, it's alright

Say you stand by your man.

Thanks for reading, S

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Last Day Nerves.

The football season has reached its climax and by the time you read this, it will likely all be done. The final day of the year never fails to excite and ignite us as supporters, whatever end of the table you're looking at.
Today, it happens to be the top as anything but a West Ham victory (with Andy Carroll surely the man to do it) will see Manchester City crowned victors at the expense of the long suffering Liverpool fans. For them, the hangover from the bank holiday looks set to be a memorable one.
I'm a fence sitter as to which way I want it to go, I'll admit but, given that I support a football league club rather than the top flight behemoth, I've had a very different experience this year.
As it happens,  the mighty Blackpool got out of jail by accident and after a decade of promotions and 'best trips we've ever been on' to quote the song, it was a massively tense encounter. So for Bristol Rovers' sunken pirates, Birmingham's escapees, the wandering Wycombers and everyone else whose beloved side had a last day twitcher- this poem is for you.

Last Day Nerves

The scarves are on for one last time,
silent prayers made not to be beaten
as we gather in the turnstile lines
for the last game of the season.

The tables checked and checked again;
each contender for relegation.
When the whistle goes at three o'clock
we know every permutation.

This scene played out across the land
from the South West to North East.
It might be in other people's hands
on this day of destiny.

The ups and downs at various grounds
bring updates with every goal.
Hellish minutes as rumours spread around
and you're reaching the end of the road.

So for chewed fingernails and tearful grown men
next year, please start out as you ought to.
These sleepless long nights and taunting from friends
are just pain for the football supporter.



Thanks for reading,
S.

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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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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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Lost love in Blackpool.

Good afternoon readers.
This week I saw a sign for a girl at side of the road. A please call notice for a lost love from 50 years ago- with a mobile number on to contact. Once upon a time I'd have probably called it for a laugh, being a bit of an idiot but, these days I'm a much more romantic and mellow person- I write poetry and things. 
The sign inspired my poem for the theme of Anonymity- in that I found it quite sad to think that for half a century someone had harboured an idea of a woman, a perfect snapshot that moves and talks and dances- both ever and never disappointed. Anyway, I've written the poem below as a result- hope you enjoy reading it.


Taking the Chances

I didn't catch your name in '62
But we danced under the Tower, me and you
Until the last tram home
And then I never managed call
And I wonder, are you free now
Did you get to see the world?

I've imagined how your ringlets waved
From Tokyo's snapshots and NYC
How your flowered dress and dancing shoes
Have turned heads across each world city
How your blue eyes still might search the sky
How I hope you found your perfect guy

But, girl from the Tower, June '62
If you've still not found love- it's been looking for you.

Thanks for stopping by, S.

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What's your name?

Because I thought it was Wednesday (and not Thursday) today's post is both late and short.

There was a time about 10 years ago when I returned home to my London flat and felt guilty for not properly acknowledging someone. On realising I couldn't even describe him, despite only passing thirty minutes earlier, I wrote this:

Homeless

I passed you on Blackfriars Bridge,

dropped some change in a polystyrene cup,

and said - you're welcome.

Your sign said you were hungry,

I thought money would be enough

to fill the gap,

But how could it?

I should have stopped,

asked your name, and allowed you for minute

to be someone again.

Thank you for reading,

Lara

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From the silence.

This weekend, football grounds across the country have fallen silent to mark the anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster.
On the car radio today, I listened to the names of all 96 supporters being read out before the Liverpool game and found myself, in the middle of Tesco car park with tears across my cheeks.
It is an emotive thing football. It brings entire communities out in uproar and drives hard divides between rival towns yet, once a year, all that tribal behaviour is put aside as we look back and remember the 96 fallen supporters.
Every year, I try to write some kind of poem about the event. Things that move me on the news and continue to move me for so many years later, I feel deserve to have poems written about them. Every year though, I fail at writing something I am happy with. I'm conscious that I have no real right to the subject matter other than the fact I'm a football fan and so, every year I move aside, leaving it to someone who can better capture the emotion of it all.
This year though, marks 25 years since the disaster and finally, after a huge wave of public support, things have started to move in the right direction- that is peace for the families and importantly, justice for the 96.
With all this in mind, and with the inquest getting under way then- I've decided to post my effort from this year. It clearly needs some sharpening up but, given that I've spent the last week trying to work out how to read Hamlet's soliloquy for an upcoming event- I've simply not had the clarity of mind to tackle such weighty tweaks.

Thanks for reading, and here's (enjoy is the wrong word) the poem.


A Warrington Inquiry

Has finally come around it seems
the slurs and poisons of two dozen years
the anguish. All the lies.
It is a mere dream that truth will out
So much evidence has little clout
Due to testiments from undrunk yobs
All suited still to uniform jobs -
(some writing for The Sun).
But hold this inquest- it is due
Not for us, not for them but for people who
Could have easily been in that Leppings End
If their team had made it happen.
If we'd put our passion there that day
The news would hone in on our family ways
We'd be freshly slurred and left in a haze
The terror. The bloody carnage.
But a warzone this was not- no way
Two teams the country loved watch play
In a neutral ground for their own safety
Just to watch it gives me shivers.
It's emotion running up my spine
from my deepest guts through my heart to mind
Every time- the tears well in my eyes
So, yes, justice must be seen.
Because every week I support my team
And whether in red, bright blue or green
It seems everyone's feeling the same.
There's no reason for it. No fan blame.
Whispered, cold faced decisions with no-ones name
Those on duty there daren't recall that game
When their memories differ from statements.
This is not just law its protection rackets
It's a cover up that had Margaret flapping
It's a bloody disgrace that they've still not cracked it
This is England's public shame.
We've had twenty five years of hard nosed scandal
Honest folk pursued as vandals,
Hooligans, thieving drunken
Animals. It just simply wasn't true.
For them and their loved ones, memorial's due
There's a plinth in Trafalgar Square would do
For they've fought and they've fought
and they've fought the law
They've put petitions in the PMs front door
They've been knocked back and hushed up and still
they've sought more. There's no number of red chiselled bricks
Can make up for the 96.
But in their name football understands
In the front rooms all across the land
Whether Cockney or Manc, whether Red or true Blue
Supporters seek truth. Only justice will do.

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Readdressing Creative Processes

At times I think it can be helpful to have several mediums in which to express creativity. That way, when one outlet fails or becomes too stressful, there is always another. For me, I quite like the rewards of baking, the extra spoonful of love that seems to be included with a handmade card, the sense of 'achievement' that comes with building an Andy Warhol Campbell's soup can on Minecraft, or taking a photograph which manages to capture how you see the world / feel about it. The latter is something I've always had a liking for, and yet is one I've never really taken beyond my 'click and point' camera.

Over the years, I've been absorbed and inspired by many wonderful photography exhibitions (one of the luxuries of having lived in London) and I enjoy flicking through books of photographs for those images that make me think 'wow'.

Anyway, as a result of my writing being slow (and slightly painful at times) I decided to make an effort to take more photographs. To learn more about the technical side of photography. To teach myself something new. To have a different creative hobby which might in turn release the poetry from my head. To take images without the pressure there seems to be to write a line or stanza.

Below is one of the photographs that resulted from an early morning Sunday walk on the beach...

...and below is the poem which resulted from the above photograph.

Re- Focus

I slowed the shutter speed, increased the ISO.

By the time the image appeared on the camera's display

there was nothing left - a world bleached into obscurity.

The receding tide, wet sand and resting gulls

now lost in a thick, glaring white.

A whiteness like that I imagine in death, in the middle ground,

in the space between this place and the next.

Later, when I downloaded the photographs, they looked like errors:

The missing subjects, the lack of colour and contrast.

But as I began to edit, dragging the 'brightness' slider

backwards into negative figures,

I watched as a faded grey structure pulled itself from the absence,

sharpening, gradually becoming darker - its iron legs

lifting from the fog, as if refusing to disappear.  

Thank you for reading,

Lara

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The Family Business.

The family business.

A bastard child from Nick and Dave
Will rise one day to centre stage
For that's the way it works these days
In the land of hope and Tory.

Perhaps it's how it has always been
Just to be believed it must be seen
The takings still rife it would seem
Though that's another story.

But on the day he rises up
From a private school with swelling books
The kind where coke's the only cut
Don't just let him take the glory.

With his perfect health and his gleaming teeth
Vaccinations, check-ups twice a week
Spending fiddled cash on posh retreats
Life for him is hunky dory.

For it is true money makes worlds turn
Ensures salaries we'd never earn
In investment jobs with cash to burn
Before someone finds a jury.

Is that the world we live in now
With jobs for the boys that can milk the cow
There's a ladder, sure, but it stops somehow
Half way up the multi-storey.

So before he grows to take the stage
Let's remind his folks we're still enraged
It's more cuts and costs. It's have's, have not's
It's still us and them, Oh Lordy!

We must spread the message far and wide
That we'll not keep being taken for a ride
There's no growth here, it's just daily lies
In the land of hope and Tory.

Thanks for reading,
S.

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When Shops Didn't Open On Sundays

I spent half of my childhood growing up in a city, and although I love nature and beautiful places, that city (and my parents) taught me how to seek out these things when they aren't offered to you in abundance. Whether it was my Nan showing me the dewdrops gathered on a spider's web or Sunday afternoon walks down a disused railway line - we found pockets of wildness to excite our young minds.

The Sundays of my childhood, the ones before shops started opening, were about family. Drives out to the Cotswolds to clamber and collect crab apples, walks around the closed city centre and visits to my grandparents. These days were full of simplicity. They were inexpensive, and yet they are perhaps some of the most memorable days.

Many of my childhood memories include my sister - with her only being eleven months younger than I am, I don't remember life without her. And despite us almost being polar opposites of each other, I'm glad I had a friend to explore the world with.

Pocket Money

On Sundays, my sister and I would walk
around Coventry’s concrete city centre.

Shop shutters down and locked for the day.

Her trainers would flash red at the heel
as she skipped in front while my eyes shifted
like a magpie, looking for the glint of something shiny.

With two Safeway carrier bags and a magnet
we collected aluminium cans, clattered
and clunked through the empty precinct.

In a supermarket car park on a Saturday
our efforts would be weighed and costed:
one type of metal for another.

My sister would spend hers: buy penny sweets

counted into a white paper bag;  a 10p Freddo
if she was feeling reckless.

While I would slip my coins into a ceramic pig,
saving bronze and copper-nickel,

until loose change became a paperback book.

Thank you for reading,

Lara

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