A Favourite Poet - Too Many to Mention

Poetry books are in abundance on my book shelves and bedside table. I love poetry. I love words, artistically shaped into meaningful phrases. I wish I had the talent to do it better and I keep trying, but I think I peaked some time ago. My head is packed with stress and nonsense which I hope will eventually spill out and evaporate, giving me back some clarity and concentration, and something to write about.

As for choosing or having a favourite poet, for me, it’s like music and depends how I feel. They all have a place.

I suppose we all start as children, learning nursery rhymes and progress into poetry from there. My first poetry book must have been A Children’s Garden of Verse by Walter de la Mare. It’s a slim, hardback, well-used and dog-eared, still knocking around my house somewhere amongst my saved children’s books. I enjoy sharing books with the children at school. I often choose something that tells the story in rhyme, like Dr Seuss and ask the class if anyone can guess what word is next. I like to make it fun. I’ve borrowed a poetry book for children by Michael Rosen which my elder grandson enjoyed. I recently introduced him to my poem about Blackpool Tower, written a few years ago. He was arguing about when it was built, how long it took and I couldn’t convince him that it was less than a hundred years, so out came the book with the poem in it. I read the poem out aloud, not letting on that I’d written it until the end, when I showed him the name. Now he knows that I’m a published poet, I might have gone up in his estimation. I’m not just Nanna, who makes delicious muffins.

When I was a child, we had to learn poems or verses off by heart. It was part of English and usually set as homework to recite to the class. No escape. Here’s a favourite,

From Home-thoughts From Abroad by Robert Browning.

Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England – now!

Later it was Shakespeare’s sonnets and Chaucer’s Wife of Bath from the Canterbury Tales.

My fondness for Dumfries & Galloway began with a visit to the birthplace of Robert Burns when we were on holiday near Ayr. Our first stay in the area was never going to be enough and over the years we may have traced his steps from Alloway to Ecclefechan and back again many times, visiting his various homes and his resting place in Dumfries. I wrote this some time ago,

You captured my heart with your words of romance,
I would have embraced you, if given the chance.
We might have been lovers and perfect soul mates,
What a shame I was born two centuries late.

John Betjeman, Simon Armitage, Maya Angelou and Lemn Sissay are all dear to me. How wonderful to see the work of Lemn Sissay displayed as artwork on the side of a Huddersfield University wall, and another in Manchester. We haven’t met, but I feel like I know him through his life story and his daily quatrains, and I want to hug him and say, “Look, at that! Look how far you’ve come!”

I have met Manchester poet, Mike Garry. His poetry still takes my breath away and I’ve seen him many times. The first time was 2012 at the Brewery Arts Centre in Kendal when he was on with John Cooper Clarke. Mike Garry, totally different to JCC, with an equal talent that blew me away. Read him, go and see him, listen to him on YouTube.

Dr John Cooper Clarke, he’s gone from strength to strength. Punk poet in the 1970s to GCSE and A-Level Curriculum inclusion now. Clever, witty and great in concert, with all his handwritten poetry on loose sheets of paper. That’s how it was in Kendal. I wonder if he ever got my Terza Rima?

When Manchester became Mad-chester.

Those of the time embraced every word,
Listening in wonder to John Cooper Clarke,
The Bard of Salford who had to be heard.

Rapid from the mouth and skinny and dark,
‘Evidently Chickentown’, effing good,
He’s magic with words, bright as any spark.

His wholesome description meant that we could
Smell the inhabitants of ‘Beezley Street’,
Rich mixture of urban decay and blood.

Life, humour and truth, a picture complete
And painted with colourful language that
Reaches all listeners not just the elite.

So thanks, JCC, I know where I’m at,
Laughing out loud at the poem called ‘Twat’.

PMW 2012

I haven’t got a definite favourite. I’ve missed lots out and there are people I know through open-mic and similar formats who write some terrific poetry and make me want to snap all my pencils.

This is a long blog, but thanks for reading, Pam x

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Quartet - The Brontes

The story of Jane Eyre was my first introduction to the Bronte family.  Charlotte’s famous novel has been serialised on television many times, and I think this would be the 1963 adaptation starring Richard Leech and Ann Bell, shown on Sunday afternoons, as that fits in with my life and being age eight or nine at the time. I was spellbound. I cried when Jane’s school friend, Helen died. I was scared by Bertha, Mr Rochester’s wife and the house fire. My mother bought me the book and encouraged my interest in the Brontes. An interest which remains. I love my visits to Haworth Parsonage.

It isn’t only the novels and poetry that mean so much to me. I’m fascinated by the family and the tragedies they endured. The author Lynne Reid Banks tells their story very well in her books, ‘Dark Quartet’ and ‘Path to the Silent Country’. Writer Sally Wainwright’s drama, ‘To Walk Invisible’ is a written work of art and I believe is as close to the truth as it is possible to be. Branwell’s downfall, Emily’s impatience with him, Charlotte’s forthright dynamics in pushing for publication for all of them and Anne, gentle mannered and sweet natured; all of them incredibly talented in their pursuits.  It is so sad that they had such short lives and they have no descendants, unless it should come to pass that Branwell actually did father a child in Kendal c.1840. It might be a rumour based on his boasting and we may never know.

Poor Branwell, a troubled soul, poet and artist. His poems are melancholic and he painted himself out of the famous painting he did of himself with his sisters.  I don’t think he felt like he was living in the shadow of his sisters, as it has been suggested.  He was equally talented, but enjoyed being ‘a lad’ a lazy one, and pushing boundaries too far. It seems he was his own worst enemy in allowing distractions to prevent him from reaching his potential success.

This quartet was once a group of six siblings. Two elder sisters, Maria and Elizabeth died aged eleven and ten, around the same time as each other, of consumption, when Charlotte was nine. Imagine, had they lived, what they might have written.

Patrick Branwell Bronte

Poet and artist, your fallen talents go to waste
And are trapped within the torment of your mind.
Forbidden love, so heavenly to taste
Now haunts and disturbs; no beauty left to find.
The call of temptation and no wish to be chaste,
But to be drunk on the perfume of bodies entwined.
Oh Branwell! Your vision clouded by opium and gin
And the burdening weight of adulterous sin…

Pamela Winning 2010

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Journey Through Time

'Journey'

Going from one place to another physically and or within the mind.

Being taken to somewhere else, travelling in such a way where things unfold

with obstacles to overcome and surprises to be encountered.

When I was growing up a mantel clock took pride of place in our kitchen. It was plain, rather ordinary, making its voice heard by chiming at regularly intervals. The timekeeper sat on a shelf commanding attention when one walked into the room. I have no idea where it came from but for as long as I can remember it had been in our family. My sister had inherited this clock and not so long ago she carefully packed it up and sent it to me. It made its own journey being jostled and bumped about on land, then carried up and through the clouds from Seattle to the Fylde Coast. It was like Christmas when I opened up the box and carefully unwrapped it. For years it had not been in good working order and therefore I had to consider what time the clock should be permanently set until it was fixed. I found the most perfect place for it settling on a shelf in the lounge, where it again could take centre stage with hands positioned to 8:20, a time forever etched in my memory.

Mantel Time and Strike Clock (c Mid-19th Century)
Manufacturer: Jerome & Co, New Haven Connecticut

8:20 was the time I would set off for school from age six. It was a 20 minute walk that gave me my first taste of independence. Sometimes it was with friends, sometimes I took this journey alone meandering along the streets of Riverside, a National Historic Landmark that was one of the first planned communities in the United States. The town was designed by the architect Frederick Law Olmsted who designed Central Park in New York City.

Riverside Map (www.olmstedsociety.org)

I remember walking through the park with some wonderfully large trees, it was all very green. There was the red brick train station, the adventure of crossing the railway tracks sometimes waiting for the commuter train to pass and then there was the formidable Water Tower. The final destination was school. I would do this same trek home for lunch with thanks to the ever reliable timekeepers, the clock and my mother. Mom was a stickler when it came to punctuality.

Punctuality and obsessions with clocks along with the concept of time has stayed with me. I am one to arrive at an airport long before the plane is due to depart. I’ve never missed a flight in all the 25 years that I’ve been going back and forth over the pond since my move to the UK.

I’ve also experienced many other types of journeys over time, but the one that has kept me the most grounded, been a constant my entire life and has gotten me through it all, has been my creativity. Being an artist and making things has been a life-long adventure into the mind, processing information and the imagining of new worlds, new constructs both past and present. As a trained visual artist, my three-dimensional object based narrative work has offered opportunities to learn about a variety of places and themes; whilst also working with different communities, exploring a multitude of identities and in doing so becoming an integral part of many stories. It has been a way of fitting into the world, creating a sense of belonging.

It's Time Proud Preston
Assemblage (Upcycled Grandfather Clock), 2021
Image credit: Jill Reidy

The biggest surprise on my creative journey has been in writing poetry. I have always enjoyed poetry and in fact I still have the first poetry book my mother gave to me when I was 14, The Family Album of Favorite Poems edited by P. Edward Ernst. However I did very little writing before moving to the UK.

Visiting places like Dove Cottage and learning about the Romantics such as Wordsworth and Coleridge inspired me. For me, writing poetry started as a bi-product to accompany my visual artwork. Then I began to write poetry to stand on its own but shared very little with others for many years feeling I was not worthy because I had not been trained in English Literature and Creative Writing.

Slowly I began to gain enough confidence to submit poetry that resulted in a handful of minor published successes. I then got the courage to begin doing the occasional reading – this was most surprising! I continue to write as part of my creative practice. I would expect sometimes it is not the most conventional writing with influences from both American and British camps – I try to use this to my advantage but sometimes must choose and change my first choice of words depending on the situation and expected audience. I do so enjoy playing and painting with words. It is the most personal of all my creative work and always try to make time for it.

The Clock

In memory in quiet sits
upon the shelf in kitchen proud,
a wooden case with portal door
reveals the cracked discoloured face,
scratched numbers ‘round the edge, two holes
that fit a key to wind for time
spring forward hits the chime by hour
to speak for moments past, life lived
to mark once present then was lost

when now she wraps it carefully
and lays it in a cardboard box
to send it tied with strings from heart
and chart its course, an airborne path
above our homeland, childhoods held
in balance nestled in the hold
within a silver plated shell,
its engines vibrate roaring loud,
its steady wings take flight through dark

and laden Nimbus cloud, make good
on sister’s promise, she to pass
the heirloom on to me and mine,
say I to unknown pilot pray
to bring it safely on to me,
to bring it safely on.

Thank you for reading. 😀

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Collage Poetry #3

If Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society still ran writing workshops, I think that  Collage Poetry  would have made an excellent theme. Regrettably it doesn't, but here's one you can all try at home.

Materials: one pair of scissors, plain backing paper, glue, a supply of surplus printed matter - I raided my Council recycling card and paper sack, which was nearly full as I only put it out once a month, (stone - optional).

Preparation: cue some suitable music (Beethoven's 7th works for me), drink a glass of wine,  and start cutting out words at random from a selection of magazines, newspapers, brochures, fliers - different fonts, colours, shapes, until you've got a sizeable pile. (How many is enough? You'll know. If you need to cut out more later, do so.) 

Process: lay all the words out, again quite randomly, on a broad, flat surface (table-top, rug, floor), drink another glass of wine and just scrutinise them all for a while. Next, summon up the spirits of the muses (Μούσες in Greek), Erato in particular (being the goddess of lyric poetry and collage-making), to inspire and direct your selection of a group of words from among the set. Try out various permutations of the selected words until they make a semblance of sense, bringing in additional words from the original set as necessary. When you are satisfied with the sequence, glue the words to the backing paper in the form of your collage poem. Thank the goddess(es), wash your hands, drink another glass of wine and marvel at the result.    

Result: I give you Paper, Scissors, Stoned...

Thanks for reading my recycled rubbish, S;-)

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Collage Poetry #1

Collage

The art of making a picture with various materials or objects…

stuck onto a larger surface.

Poetry

A piece of writing in which the words are arranged in separate lines,

often ending in rhyme, and are chosen for their sound and for the

images and ideas they suggest.

Considering these two definitions put forward by the Cambridge Dictionary, Collage Poetry to me is the art of making a piece of writing whereby words are cut out or made out of different material. These elements are then put together creating new images and meaning whilst considering visual shape and the symbolism of individual or a combination of words to evoke feeling and/or an idea. The symbols/text can be arranged on separate lines but not necessarily so.

Collage and writing poetry have both been part of my creative practice for many years. I have incorporated text into my assemblage and collage artworks i.e. from magazines and newspapers as a background. If I collage words to make a poem, I first write the poem then find words or letters that are appropriate. I’ve never created collage poetry in a somewhat random sense and thought this blog was an excellent opportunity to have a go.

I chose the BBC Wildlife Magazine, August 2006, for this exercise selecting a headline from 21 different pages.

I then chose the first word of each headline and started exploring creatively. I followed this by cutting out the last two words and had a bit of a play.

Finally I cut out all the words from the headlines and made attempts to create some writing that made some sort of sense. I didn’t put pressure on myself to use all the words. The first end result I believe was influenced by current tragic world events.

The second one turned out to be a bit of fun...

The third one, well, I'll leave that up to the reader:

I found the outcome really interesting and thought I'd have another go with the BBC Wildlife Magazine, July 2006. I carried on with the same process using 15 headlines this time.

My first attempt at making a poem yet again turned out to be seemingly influenced by events in Eastern Europe.

Since I used wildlife magazines and the given text, it's no surprise that nature-themed poems were also an outcome. 

Finally, I collected all the leftover words from both headlines, separated them out and categorised them by nouns, verbs, adverbs etc. which led me down a Google rabbit hole and revisiting lessons in grammar rediscovering words like determiners (five types), conjunctions, articles amongst others. This mess of individual words taken out of their original context and the exercise of separating them out by function highlighted what role the words had to play in making meaning. It was helping to make sense of a giant puzzle. The cut out words both inspired and directed ideas, whilst my past experience and intuition played a part in selecting, grouping and assembling. During the process the lack of certain words available also affected how the poems were constructed.

Here are the final results.

Just like fitting in that last piece to complete a challenging jigsaw, producing these poems has been very satisfying.

Thank you for reading. KEW 😀

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A Decade Of Dead Good Blogs

As birthday celebrations go, the poor old DGB's has been a bit muted this week, even something of an anti-climax, with just one blog (this one) and a quick post on the Dead Good Poets' Facebook page in commemoration. 

I personally thought it was appropriate to mark the occasion. After all, ten years of Dead Good Blogging (and views in excess of a million) is a decent achievement for any online platform, let alone one based in Blackpool and dedicated to poetry and creative writing. I figured it was only right to recognise the initiative that got it all going a decade ago and the bloggers (both regulars and guests) who have kept it rolling - but that appears to be a minority view, which makes me feel a little sad. 😞

Of course the personnel and driving forces have changed over time as is only to be expected. It got off to a rattling start in 2011, based around students and their tutors engaged in English/Creative Writing BAs and MAs at Blackpool College under the auspices of Lancaster University. It was seen as a written word extension to Blackpool's Dead Good Poets' monthly open mic nights, with a team of regular bloggers posting six days a week on a given weekly theme in a variety of styles, exploring topics of interest, examining the creative process, pouring out great posts and some amazing poetry, all with the possibility of it reaching a wide audience because of the immediacy of the internet. Within three years it had racked up 1,000 posts and had won itself an award. Thank you Ashley, Lara, Lindsay, Shaun and Vicky for giving it life and substance.

before online

The DGB hit its first serious bump in the road in 2013/4 over the issue of fracking and the fact that Blackpool college benefitted from fracking company monies. There were fallings out and resignations (all of this before I was part of the collective, so I don't know all the ins and outs but it was a divisive issue). New regular bloggers stepped up as some ex-bloggers even asked to have all their posts deleted, a request that was duly complied with. 

 

In fact none of the founding core members has contributed since 2015. I did invite them to guest blog this week for old time's sake, but there was no great enthusiasm to re-visit an old chapter of their lives. A couple of them were even surprised to learn that the DGB is still a going concern. No matter. As one of them stated back in 2014 at the time of resigning: "I hope the DGP can go from strength to strength now. I'm fairly sure the blog will continue to excel with the excellent writers who currently contribute - and the wonderful ones you'll be able to get in future." And so it has proved.

Over the decade there has been a rolling cast of of eighteen regular bloggers, who for as long as they could manage it (more often than not), have committed to writing on their given day to the weekly theme. For thirteen of the 'retired' regular blogger, their posts can be found under their names in the 'Previous Bloggers' section of the website. All the posts of the still active regular bloggers can be found under their names in the 'Current Bloggers' section, along with blogs written by a very long list of  guest bloggers and all their posts are still accessible on the website. Poignantly, two of those guest poets, Christo Heyworth and David Riley, are no longer of this earth.   

In addition to the DGB, Blackpool Dead Good Poets who morphed into Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society (not to be confused with Liverpool's excellent Dead Good Poets' Society) have continued to hold monthly open mic nights (for the last year and a half via zoom) and have published a number of themed pamphlets of writers' work (including A Poets' Guide To Blackpool, Pelts To Petticoats, Walking On Wyre and The Big One), though the Dead Good Blog remains by far both the most extensive and impressive collection of prose and poetry and it has been my pleasure to curate and promote it for the last six years, in addition to writing the Saturday Blog.

Despite the proscriptive changes and restrictive algorithms that have been introduced by both Facebook and Google in the last few years, the analytics show that the Dead Good Blog is still on the rise, with around 15,000 'views' per month over the last five years and the million views milestone passed at the end of 2020 - which continues to make it a worthwhile forum and a platform for local writers to air their workings on.

the rise of the Dead Good Blog

My only regret is that more readers of the blogs don't find the inclination or time to leave comments or feedback (less than 1% in fact).

Well okay, that's the last ten years acknowledged, appraised and celebrated. Now it's time to look forward to the next however many and whatever may come. There are currently three (more or less) regular bloggers aiming to post on their appointed day to the allocated theme each week. There are spaces for at least three more. If you think you'd like to give it a go - and believe me, it is a great catalyst/prompt to creative writing - please get in touch and ask for details. If you fancy the idea of writing just an occasional blog to see how it goes, do likewise. The list of weekly topics is available for six months in advance, which gives plenty for thinking/research time. You don't need to do anything except submit your blog in plain text or MS word format and the admin team takes care of the rest. It would be great to have some new creatives and fresh voices adding to the next phase in the DGB's life. If  you are interested, please email: deadgoodpoets@hotmail.co.uk

future proofing

I've no new poem to post this week, and the hour is getting late. If you're desperate to read something, here's a link to the most read Dead Good Blog of all: That Greek Cottage and if that doesn't satisfy you, go to the homepage of the website at www.deadgoodpoets.blogspot.com where you'll find 2,000 Dead Good blogs awaiting you.

 

Thanks for reading. Until next week, S ;-)

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Poetry Readings

My babies were fed nursery rhymes with their mother’s milk.  As toddlers they loved picture books with repetitive poems and rhymes, and as they grew older, bedtimes were sprinkled liberally with Michael Rosen or Roger McGough. 

When I was teaching Primary level I often used poems as a starting point. ‘Chocolate Cake,’ one of my all time favourites, could start off almost any topic: baking, sharing, greed, lying, families - and it got the children smiling as soon as I read the first few lines.  Storytime, the best fifteen minutes of the day, would often include the latest funny verse, regardless of the number of times it had been recited that week.  ‘There’s a Dog in the Playground’ or ‘Eddie and the Nappies’ would reduce the class to tears of laughter, time after time.

 

Poetry books would frequently be chosen over story books and I would find even the poorest readers on the carpet in a corner, turning the pages and reciting the poems, word for word. 

So what happens to those six year old brains as they develop and their owners pass through high school?  Where does that love and laughter for poetry go? Is it just that poems are deemed only for ‘geeks’? I know if I invited my adult children or grandchildren - or even my husband - to a poetry reading I’d get very short shrift. 

I’ve always loved poetry. Reading it, writing it, listening to it. I still have poems I wrote from first starting school. They weren’t exactly riveting reads - if I remember rightly they contained a lot of repetitions of one syllable words. They did, however, satisfy my need to write. As I got older I was generally the one writing the funny lines for family anniversaries and special birthdays. They certainly wouldn’t be considered great poetry - or even mediocre - but they came easily to me and they served a purpose. They were apt and they made people laugh.  

About five years ago, as my photographic career was beginning to take off I was asked to shoot an evening of poetry reading. Even I, as a poetry lover, was slightly apprehensive. I wondered whether it would be full of pretentious poets wearing black polo necks and slacks, or floaty floral numbers with scarves and beads.

Nothing like a stereotype, is there?   

I decided I would take the pictures I needed and leave at the interval.  However, as soon as the first words were uttered by the opening  performer, I was hooked. I couldn’t leave. It was just too entertaining. I was overwhelmed with admiration for these people (not one black polo neck or floaty dress in sight as far as I can remember). They spoke with confidence on such a wide range of subjects. This wasn’t poetry as I’d ever seen or heard it. It had drama, pathos, humour - sometimes all in one reading, and it was clever and entertaining. By the end of the evening I was filling my diary with the next few sessions.  

Open Mic was a pretty scary thing to contemplate.  I was used to standing up in front of a class or even a hall full of teachers and other professionals, but this was on another level. Somehow, it felt like baring one’s soul.  I decided, after that night, that I would take myself out of my comfort zone and just do it. And I did, a couple of times.  I enjoyed it but one of the events was pretty daunting. I hadn’t realised that my performance and my work would be analysed by the audience afterwards. It was all done in a kind and constructive way, and emailed to avoid any public embarrassment, but it mentioned my delivery and put a dent in my confidence.  I reassured myself that this was just an activity, something I could choose to do. Or not.  I chose ‘not’ after that, but just lately I’ve found myself being drawn back to that world of black polos and floaty dresses - except it isn’t, of course. It’s full of people who enjoy writing, love performing and are generally interesting and entertaining.  I’ve made good friends through the poetry evenings and, as I’ve just realised, I wouldn’t be sitting here now, writing this blog post if I hadn’t been invited to shoot that evening.  

Chocolate Cake by Michael Rosen

I love chocolate cake.
And when I was a boy
I loved it even more.

Sometimes we used to have it for tea
and Mum used to say,
'If there's any left over
you can have it to take to school
tomorrow to have at playtime.'
And the next day I would take it to school
wrapped up in tin foil
open it up at playtime
and sit in the corner of the playground
eating it,
you know how the icing on top
is all shiny and it cracks as you
bite into it,
and there's that other kind of icing in
the middle
and it sticks to your hands and you
can lick your fingers
and lick your lips
oh it's lovely.
yeah.

Anyway,
once we had this chocolate cake for tea
and later I went to bed
but while I was in bed
I found myself waking up
licking my lips
and smiling.
I woke up proper.
'The chocolate cake.'
It was the first thing
1 thought of.

I could almost see it
so I thought,
what if I go downstairs
and have a little nibble, yeah?

It was all dark
everyone was in bed
so it must have been really late
but I got out of bed,
crept out of the door

there's always a creaky floorboard, isn't there?

Past Mum and Dad's room,
careful not to tread on bits of broken toys
or bits of Lego
you know what it's like treading on Lego
with your bare feet,

yowwww
shhhhhhh

downstairs 
into the kitchen
open the cupboard
and there it is
all shining.

So I take it out of the cupboard
put it on the table
and I see that
there's a few crumbs lying about on the plate,
so I lick my finger and run my finger all over the crumbs
scooping them up
and put them into my mouth.

oooooooommmmmmmmm

nice.

Then
I look again
and on one side where it's been cut,
it's all crumbly.

So I take a knife
I think I'll just tidy that up a bit,
cut off the crumbly bits
scoop them all up
and into the mouth

oooooommm mmmm
nice.

Look at the cake again.

That looks a bit funny now,
one side doesn't match the other
I'll just even it up a bit, eh?

Take the knife
and slice.
This time the knife makes a little cracky noise
as it goes through that hard icing on top.

A whole slice this time,

into the mouth.

Oh the icing on top
and the icing in the middle
ohhhhhh oooo mmmmmm.

But now
I can't stop myself
Knife -
1 just take any old slice at it
and I've got this great big chunk
and I'm cramming it in
what a greedy pig
but it's so nice,

and there's another
and another and I'm squealing and I'm smacking my lips
and I'm stuffing myself with it
and
before I know
I've eaten the lot.
The whole lot.

I look at the plate.
It's all gone.

Oh no
they're bound to notice, aren't they,
a whole chocolate cake doesn't just disappear
does it?

What shall 1 do?

I know. I'll wash the plate up,
and the knife

and put them away and maybe no one
will notice, eh?

So I do that
and creep creep creep
back to bed
into bed
doze off
licking my lips
with a lovely feeling in my belly.
Mmmmrnmmmmm.

In the morning I get up,
downstairs,
have breakfast,
Mum's saying,
'Have you got your dinner money?'
and I say,
'Yes.'
'And don't forget to take some chocolate cake with you.'
I stopped breathing.

'What's the matter,' she says,
'you normally jump at chocolate cake?'

I'm still not breathing,
and she's looking at me very closely now.

She's looking at me just below my mouth.
'What's that?' she says.
'What's what?' I say.

'What's that there?'
'Where?'
'There,' she says, pointing at my chin.
'I don't know,' I say.
'It looks like chocolate,' she says.
'It's not chocolate is it?'
No answer.
'Is it?'
'I don't know.'
She goes to the cupboard
looks in, up, top, middle, bottom,
turns back to me.
'It's gone.
It's gone.
You haven't eaten it, have you?'
'I don't know.'
'You don't know. You don't know if you've eaten a whole
chocolate cake or not?
When? When did you eat it?'

So I told her,

and she said
well what could she say?
'That's the last time I give you any cake to take
to school.
Now go. Get out
no wait
not before you've washed your dirty sticky face.'
I went upstairs
looked in the mirror
and there it was,
just below my mouth,
a chocolate smudge.
The give-away.
Maybe she'll forget about it by next week.  

I make no apology for including this poem in full.  I've recited it so many times I think I probably know it off by heart. I love it for lots of reasons: it's funny, it appeals to kids and adults alike - and it's relateable.

Thanks for reading......Jill

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Spring - Hello Sunshine

At last, the long awaited hint of spring sunshine is here. I don’t care that it shows up how much my windows need cleaning or draws attention to dusty surfaces, I’m happy to have daylight into the early evening and I don’t mind the sacrifice of an hour’s sleep to get it. Spring. I can wake up, renewed as I begin to feel some energy.

 A few years ago, I recognised that I develop some symptoms of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) from November to March / April. It varies in severity, but nothing unmanageable, so far. Usually it is just the desire to hibernate brought about by fatigue and generally feeling a bit fed up. The change of scenery offered by a couple of breaks in Dumfries & Galloway works wonders and on this occasion, took my mind off other health issues that are being investigated. The SAD is lifting now.

There is cheerful new growth in the garden as plants come back to life. Spring flowers have been bursting through the borders and filling my patio pots with bright colours. I’m particularly proud of a tub of orangey tulips. It all gives a feeling of well-being after months of darkness.

Spring cleaning and sorting out is on the agenda. I’m aiming for retirement and I want to organise belongings in preparation for a possible future move. It will be a slow, meticulous process because I’m easily distracted and have to look at everything. I spent ages this afternoon going through personal memorabilia and deciding what to keep. It was good, singing along to Jack Savoretti and reading old newspaper cuttings, but it didn’t really make much of an impression on the task. There’s no rush, luckily. Tomorrow, if I feel like it, I might attempt to clean some windows and dust round. Oh and there’s a couple of cobwebs that must have been manufactured during last night and need sweeping away before one grandson in particular goes on a spider hunt.

The poem I’ve chosen is Home Thoughts from Abroad by Robert Browning. It is one of my favourites and I’ve probably featured it before but it’s worth another airing. I’m so fortunate that my secondary education included poetry and learning whole poems off by heart, this is one such poem. It's a discipline that seems to be missing now. I had wonderful, enthusiastic English teachers that introduced a world of poetry and literature of which I’m still firmly placed in.

 

Home Thoughts From Abroad

 

Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England—now!

 

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,

Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

The buttercups, the little children's dower

—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

 

Robert Browning  1812 - 1889

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

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The Romantics - So Glad I Found You

It had been a decade of uncertainty, feeling lost and out of my depth. I’d been riding an emotional roller-coaster that got faster and faster and would not stop. I jumped off, brushed myself down and wondered why I hadn’t done it sooner.

I lived alone, quietly. I had my job, my home, my car and I think I had my sanity, though others might have doubted it, I didn’t question it much. I enjoyed the silence of my own company. There had been too much noise before. I read book after book, Irwin Shaw, Colleen McCullough and Edna O'Brien amongst others. I unpacked the collection of Marshall Cavendish Mind Alive magazines that my father had subscribed to for me, which had remained untouched throughout my teens. I learned a lot from the articles that interested me and took pride in fixing the magazines into the binders that made it into an encyclopaedia.  If I wasn’t reading, I was writing. No television at this time, but I had a radio if I fancied ‘Saturday Night Theatre’ or ‘Play for Today’ and I had my record player.

My English Literature studies were far behind me, but I found myself revisiting the Bronte’s, some Dickens and my favourite stories from Joyce’s Dubliners. From somewhere into this mix came poetry and those poems familiar to me were taking on new meaning, or perhaps I’d missed something  before. It was the poets, the ones we call The Romantics and I latched on to something that I felt I belonged to.  I had (still have, my photo) The Penguin Book of Love Poetry and I read bits of it every day. It probably wasn’t the best poetry to throw myself headlong into. Death, separation and desolation were subjects perhaps best avoided, but difficult to do so when words were reaching out to me, especially those of Byron and Shelley.

I wish I could have been in the party or at least a fly on the wall in the summer of 1816 when Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft (later Shelley), and others were having fun at Villa Diodati by Lake Geneva. It must have been a tremendous storm to keep them indoors for three days, if what I read is true. They wrote horror stories to scare each other, which might have been the beginnings of Mary’s novel, Frankenstein.  I imagine that writing was not their only past-time. Their lives were forever intertwined.  I love to read about their bohemian lifestyle and their freedom, but I wonder, were they really happy?

Somewhere buried in the archives of our house, I will still have the framed poems that once adorned the walls of my house. I liked to do calligraphy, back in the day when my eyes still worked, and one of the first I made for myself was Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet XLIII, from the Portuguese.

 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!- and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 - 1861)

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Pantoum - For My Paternal Grandfather

The Pantoum - I don’t think I’ve encountered this poetry form before. I’ve played about with it during the last few days, but didn’t write anything worth sharing, and I had something in my head that I thought might work but I’m saving it for another time. Instead, my inspiration, for what it’s worth, came from my paternal grandfather’s Bible and the handwritten inscription inside, penned exactly a hundred years ago yesterday.

  

 I wonder, was it hot like today?

And was he eager, and was he keen

To get to Belgium, where he would stay

In the summer of nineteen-eighteen. 

And was he eager, and was he keen

Joining his comrades to go to war?

In the summer of nineteen-eighteen,

Manchester boys, not travelled before. 

Joining his comrades to go to war,

Weighed down with stuff and Army khaki.

Manchester boys, not travelled before

Building up some camaraderie. 

Weighed down with stuff and Army khaki,

Merriment from the back of the truck,

Building up some camaraderie.

Take care now boys, and the best of luck. 

Merriment from the back of the truck,

George Hales was with that Manchester lot.

Take care now boys, and the best of luck.

And I’m still wondering, was it hot? 

Pamela Winning 2018

 I don’t know much about his time in the First World War, only that he saw action in July and August, 1918 and returned safely home.

In 1922, he married Miss Henrietta Brearey, otherwise known as my lovely Nanna Hetty.

The Bible was given to him by Mrs Hyde, Nanna Hetty’s adoptive mother.

 

Thanks for reading, keep cool, Pam x

 

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Candlelight - Power Cuts

That’s Wimbledon over and a hope for two British champions in the same tournament is on hold.

There’s something romantic about candlelight. A warm glow that softens complexion and reflects a gentle flicker on the wine glasses in the relaxed atmosphere of a gathering of friends. If only I could travel back in time, my chosen gathering would include my dear Lord Byron, Wordsworth, Shelley, Burns and the Brownings; and if only I could hear their poetry from their own voices instead of mine.

It was my voice reciting their poetry in the candle-lit evenings of early 1974 from ‘The Penguin Book of Love Poetry’ which I had just added to my bookshelf.  Power cuts meant we sat together in our dining-room, the one room that still had an open fire-place suitable for a coal fire (go easy on the coal, shortages). The room was large enough to have a three piece suite round the fire and a dining table and chairs set out further back. Our family lived in here and our bedrooms for the duration of the crisis.  For safety reasons we used torches everywhere except the dining room and kitchen. My father, still a licensee, had an off-licence as well as his brewery work and we lived in a house instead of a pub. The silence of a private detached house was eerie after noisy pubs all of my life and now it was even creepier in the dark, but our candle-lit dining room had a cosy feel. We listened to the battery powered radio, played board games and had enough light to read to ourselves or to each other. No one seemed to miss the television. I hated being unable to play my records. Luckily, we had a gas cooker. I can’t remember how long the power cuts lasted. I know we were given the times that we would have electricity and how long it would be on. I wonder how we would manage these days.

Thinking of candlelight reminds me of the wonderful ‘Carols by Candlelight’ services we had at Raikes Parade Methodist Church when I was a Sunday School teacher. I looked after the infant age group which included one of my children. She wasn’t the most trustworthy to carefully carry a tea-light in a jar to the front of the church but filled with a sense of occasion and doing something important, she did it perfectly as did the others, and all singing ‘Shine Jesus Shine’ at the top of their voices.

My husband and I are having a weekend away soon for our wedding anniversary. It might include a romantic candle-lit dinner and a Scottish sunset.

One of my favourite poems, first encountered in 1974. I’d spent years amongst the Brontes and it was time to extend my interests.
 

Sonnet XLIII, from the Portuguese.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

                   Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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Clerihews - Just For Laughs

With thanks to Edmund Clerihew Bentley for this form of light-hearted poetry. I hope my efforts here raise a smile. They may not stick exactly to his rules, but who cares? I had fun writing them and I’m happy to share them.

 

Remember Chuck Berry,

Sing and be merry,

Salute him as you know you should

By dancing all night to Johnny B Good.

 

Wordsmith James Joyce

An ‘A’ Level choice,

Dubliners short stories a welcome break

From my un-understanding of Ulysees or Finnegan’s Wake.

 

     Who’s got it in for Ken Barlow?

Do the writers even know?

I’ve followed Corrie for years on end

But this nonsense drives me round the bend.

 

Head girl, Theresa May

Always has a lot to say

And wears heavy jewellery round her neck

Like she’s weighed down by Tory policy, oh ‘eck.

 

Oh the talented Georgie Best,

He was oodles better than all the rest.

What a magician commanding the ball.

In a short career, he had it all.

 

Centre Court with Andy Murray

Confident stride well-timed, no hurry

On top of his game, his well-earned place

First serve in, a perfect ace.

 

Give me the work of Dr John Cooper Clarke,

The Bard of Salford from Higher Broughton Park.

He’s witty and clever and I just love all that

When I’m laughing out loud at the poem called ‘Twat’.

 

That darling, Robert Peston,

Has he got a vest on?

If I were single, there is no doubt

I’d make it my business to find out.

 

Thanks for reading. Keep smiling, Pam x

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