Flamboyant - Acceptance

 

When thinking about the word ‘flamboyant’, certain people come to mind, Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, Oscar Wilde, Freddie Mercury, Mick Jagger and many more. They exude confidence, they can walk into a room full of people and immediately ‘own’ it without demand or arrogance. I think it is something they are born with rather than worked on. I haven’t seen the Rolling Stones live – it’s not too late, still doing it – but I’ve watched enough TV documentaries covering concerts to see that Mick Jagger takes command of every inch of a stage, every move a performance. Charisma. Maybe Flamboyant and Charismatic go hand in hand. I wouldn’t describe myself as either, but there was a time, a long time ago, when someone said I wore flamboyant clothes. They were not being friendly and the remark upset me.

At fifteen, I was uprooted from all that was mine, familiar and secure. Another pub in another town was to become home. School and friends left behind. I kicked up a fuss, but I wasn’t old enough to be listened to, apparently. Since the passing away of my mother and the swift remarriage that followed, the family dynamics were different and I’ve said before that I no longer fitted in. Throw into this toxic mix a good helping of normal, teenage angst and I’m sure you’ll still hear the screams.

Halfway through the fourth year, modern day Year 10, I started my new school – not following the same ‘O’ Level curriculum, so I had lots of catching up to do, or not. Forever the rebel, of course it was NOT. I soon discovered that I was going to find it difficult to adjust. A couple of the girls were friendly and helpful, happy to welcome the new girl and I was glad for that, but we were worlds apart in our interests. Before this major move, I’d enjoyed ice-skating on beat nights at least once a week. No ice rink here, but there was a disco dance at the town hall, on alternate Friday nights. I was invited to go.

I wore a long, summer skirt with a cheese-cloth blouse tied in a knot at the front and a pair of sandals that were getting worn out, but I wasn’t going to wear my school shoes. Instinct told me there would not be any secret cider drinking. Oh the joys I’d had to leave behind! I met my new friends, one greeting me with, “Do you always wear flamboyant clothes?” as she looked me up and down. Immediately I’d failed the ‘come out with us’ test and I didn’t dare ask what she meant, but my attire was a million miles away from their two-tone pencil skirts and checked shirts. Inside was worse. I quite like soul music these days. Years of being drip-fed Tamla Motown by various juke-boxes means that I know the words and I have favourites, but back then, it was like being forced to listen to something totally against my music religion. I liked the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac (before the girls came), Yes, and my beloved Moody Blues. Some boys in baggy jeans and boots were in a line, bouncing out a tricky dance to Dave and Ansel Collins ‘Double Barrel’. Mods, Skinheads, whatever they were was the opposite to me, but as weeks passed into a month and the girls asked me to join them again, I tried to make an effort. After all, when in Rome…

I didn’t go completely mad, not quite. I earned extra pocket money by waitressing in the pub restaurant a few nights a week. It was train fare and skating money for trips back home. I used some to buy a Ben Sherman shirt and some cheap, straight-leg jeans from the market. My flared, embroidered ones wouldn’t blend in for the town hall dance. With nail scissors, I fashioned myself a feather-cut. Not my best move, but not too shabby. Frowned upon at home, but that was just because it was me and I was used to conflict. On the plus side, I mastered the ‘Double Barrel’ skippy moves at the dance. I can probably still do it, but I’m sure you don’t need proof.

At the Whit Week half term, I was packed off to family in London. A wonderful treat. I travelled alone on the train, met by my aunt at Euston, happy to be spending time with her and my younger cousins in Roehampton. Nothing was mentioned about my appearance, be it flamboyant or otherwise. I was wearing my normal, comfortable clothes with beads and sandals. By this time, I’d had a few more snips at my hair, which was also an unattractive  yellowy blonde. The things girls do! Within days, my aunt took me to the hair salon where my colour was toned down and my home-made cutting restyled into a proper shape. Next, a new dress and sandals, and me, spoilt again by my aunt. If my dad had asked for her intervention, she was tactful enough not to tell me so. The best news came towards the end of my stay. We were moving back home.

(If ever I'm back on a stage doing open-mic, I'll try to command it like Jagger. Just joking.)

My Haiku poem,

Flamboyant

I can’t fit in here,
I’m a fish out of water
And they stare at me

While they are dancing
To Dave and Ansel Collins,
That fast, skippy thing.

I learnt to do it,
Not that I was one of them,
More like “when in Rome”

Amused by my clothes,
They thought I was flamboyant,
Cheese-cloth shirts and jeans.

To try to blend in
I bought a Ben Sherman shirt,
It was a mistake.

I snipped at my hair
Attempting a feather-cut.
What a disaster!

Half-term in London,
Back to floaty tops and beads
And leather sandals.

With thanks to Auntie,
A cotton-print maxi dress
And a hairdresser.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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I'm no Scrooge, but .....

I don't know if it's just me, but to me Christmas isn't the same anymore.  Perhaps it's because I've grown up, and lets face it, Christmas is all about the kids isn't it?  Perhaps it is because I now live in Blackpool (where someone commented the other day: "Even Santa has to take Uppers to deliver his presents to Blackpool!")?But yes, when I was a nipper, it was so much better than it is today.  In the run up to Christmas, a 4 x 4 pulling a trailer with a Sleigh on the back, would slowly drive around the village streets, with Father Christmas waving to the Children as he passed by.  His elf's or helpers, would walk alongside handing out sweets.  It also snowed nearly every year over in York. Sat in a Vale, it has some beautiful weather, whereas over here on the west coast, it rains, is always seemingly cloudy, it rains, it blows a gale, it rains and throws it down some more! Not exactly a Festive setting, right?

Of course some things about the Festive Season haven't changed.  The underlying religious message that it supposed to be about the birth of Christ, after all that is where CHRISTmas gets its name.  But coming from a family who weren't the Churchy type (due to over-zealous Priests force-feeding the Catholic message to my Mum as a youngster, and being admonished and punished by said Priests and her Parents for questioning what was being taught because it didn't make sense in places), we never really went to Church, thereby the "good message" of Christmas never particularly figured greatly in our celebrations.  I knew all about it of course, from the teachings at school (I attended the Archbishop of York C of E Junior School in Bishopthorpe, on the outskirts of York, where the Archbishop resides in his Palace. Yes you read that right, PALACE!). Since when do men of the cloth get to live in such grandeur?  Jesus was never that grand!

But getting back to my original point, my childhood was golden, although many would argue that I'm looking at it through rose tinted specs.  We weren't wealthy, had just enough to be comfortable in a simplistic way and when Christmas came around I was lucky to receive a handful of presents, usually consisting of a teddy bear, dolly, wooden bricks, or when a little older things like a Cindy doll, bike (second hand of course) or other smaller toys.  Amusingly, I would also get a small lump of coal in my Stocking, signifying the odd occasion when I had been naughty throughout the year, along with a satsuma and some chocolate coins.  I was brought up with manners and never expected anything, which obviously makes things difficult for people to buy gifts for me to this day. Hee hee. The fact that in this day and age, children are getting a mountain of toys every year makes me despair and feel bemused.  Kids don't NEED that amount of gifts, nor do they need the hugely expensive gifts. Sorry. Looking at it from the other side of the coin, I know it's easy for Parents to get carried away when buying the presents every year, or experience the feeling of guilt when not buying whatever the "in" toy is for that year, but the commercialism in our world right now is making our lives a misery by enforcing the same message that we are failures if we don't get our children that toy.

So, with my rose tinted specs perched firmly on the end of my nose, I thought I would share this with you:


Rosy Christmas:

The Winter draws near once again,
Bringing a chill and a nip in the air,
Frost encrusted ground crunches underfoot,
Natural decorations upon which we stare.
Sparkling and glittering it catches the light,
Crisply shimmering on branches and roofs,
It's too cold to snow, just for now anyway,
The wind holds its breath, nothing moves.
The Sun wraps itself in a blanket of grey,
Hibernating, barely showing its face,
Yet the picturesque scene beheld every year,
Is welcomed with cheer and good grace.
For it can only mean that the Yuletide is come,
Bringing a Season of celebration and Goodwill,
See Children's eyes twinkling with cheeks all aglow,
Anticipation of coming snow and sledging down a hill.
Christmas will come and presents will be left,
Under a tree bedecked with tinsel and bauble,
The lights glimmer softly, a comforting sight,
As a Robin sings a most beautiful warble.
And once the snow comes, in silent display,
Becoming an eiderdown of purest white,
See Snowmen appear, becoming sentinel guards,
Of their child-masters this Festive Season so bright.


Thanks for reading and Merry Christmas Everyone!! I hope you had a good one and that Father Christmas was kind to you. ;-) xxx

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Thoughts for Christmas

Here is the second post from David Riley as he covers for the Tuesday Blog

Is poetry always religious?

Is religion always influenced by the politics of the day? 

Therefore, is Christmas poetry always political? 

Do you need to understand religion before you can understand most poetry, from Beowulf to the Canterbury Tales to Eliot? 

Do you need to know the nativity story to understand Coleridge, Rossetti and Wordsworth?

How much Christmas themed poetry have you seen in the shops recently? 

Are poets making Christmas commercial?

Is there extra exposure for poetry at this time of year? 

Does it help poetry?

Are Christmas carols poetry?

Are some more Catholic than Protestant (and vice versa)?

Do they all have the same message?

Is Christmas relevant any more? Is Christmas poetry important?

Is it as saccharine as Christmas card verses?

Are these big questions? 

Happy Christmas.

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The pen is mightier...

It really does sounds quite dull; a word, just a single little word. A combination of letters which are just squiggly lines really. It’s just ink on a page. A dictionary may have been the most boring thing I remember from high school. My tutor would make us pick up the dictionary, and find words we’d never heard of and learn it every single lesson. But my gods I’m so glad she did. In my opinion words are EXTREMELY powerful. You can look at a word, ponder its sound and origin and curves yet there is so much more than that. The physicality of words, the meaning, how it’s evolved through time through tongue and paper, how many have been lost and the ones we’ve invented have influenced our actions since we learnt to talk.

The written word has influenced for centuries. Words are used to express opinion, which often over time become fact in society’s mentality. The most influential example of the written word must be religion. None in particular, they’re all pretty fierce, but religion is a good example of how the written word stirs action whether those actions are negative or positive. Words create emotion, words start action, words mean consequence, words can mean change; quite simply words are what we live by. So binding them in a book with one little definition doesn’t nearly do language justice. You can whack an individual over the head with a book will bloody hurt, but publishing the contents of a book featuring strong opinions could cause far more damage.

Words are bloody lethal. This is why I’m a writer. I hold so much respect for language and the power it holds. I’m finish with a mini-saga I wrote that was put into my creative writing portfolio. I think it’s an example of how powerful words can be in only 50 words.

“Delicate but with fiery beauty the forest nymph dances spreading life across the land, only to be praised by gnashing machines, her blood seeping and staining the earth in silent protest. Her song haunts in the wind, mingling with the soft cry of a solitary wolf roaming the dusky twilight”.

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Dear God

My name is Ashley and I’m a writer. Although, with you being omnipotent, you probably knew that already. That said, looking round the world today, I’m beginning to suspect that you’re far from omnipotent. If anything, you’re probably more short-sighted than Mr Magoo with his eyes closed and a bad case of conjunctivitis, during a fog, at night.

So, keeping that in mind, I suppose it would be best if I write this letter, rather than letting you omnipotently read my thoughts.

I have to start by saying there are many things that are working well. I like the internet, I like my BlackBerry and nature, and I thought the Harry Potter books were very good. Especially Hermione. Well done God.

But not everything is quite as good as the aforementioned pinnacles of achievement.

And, whilst there are lots of things I could whine about, because this week’s theme on the blog refers to war, I figured it would be appropriate to ask you some questions and possibly offer some advice.

Why do these wars keep happening, God? Most often they happen in your name. One group of religious tosspots will decide that they pray better than another group of religious tosspots. We’re then overwhelmed by genocide, tragedy and heartbreaking stories of dulce et decorum est. Worse still, we get news footage on the TV with all the shaky camerawork of the Blair Witch Project and all the explosions of a Michael Bay film. That’s not a good combination. These are all potential triggers for epilepsy.

Now I know that not all wars are your fault, God. I appreciate that many of the modern ones are due to certain countries wanting to steal oil from certain other countries.

But a lot of the really crap stuff in this world happens because one group of morons believes they have a God-given right to kill another sect of morons. And as so much of this is being done in your name, I think it’s time you took responsibility with the following 5 Point Plan to bring about world peace:

1. Stop creating morons who believe in God. I really don’t think it helps the situation having a slowly growing number of moronic believers filling up the planet. I don’t think there has wever been a situation where someone cries, “Quick! It’s urgent! I need a believer.” We have enough sheep. It’s time to create a few more shepherds.

2. Issue a new set of commandments that explicitly state: Thou shalt not fight in wars. You can lose one of those pointless commandments from the original list such as the stuff about honouring parents, coveting asses, or not taking Your name in vain. Personally, I think those were only there as fillers and just got carried through to the final draft as printer’s errors. In the grand scheme of things, I think it’s fair to say that not having wars would be more indicative of a good way of living rather than not coveting asses etc.

3. Smite a few of the warmongers. Nothing stops war faster than a good bout of smiting. Word would get round pretty quickly. Those world leaders involved in genocide, mass murder and the control of oil-rich countries would quickly understand that God was unhappy with their actions and I suspect they would cease and desist with surprising alacrity.

4. Don’t let good things happen to bad people. Crap like that reinforces a sense of injustice. Sit through King Lear. Read some of those news stories about lottery winners with ASBOs. Have a look at the wealth bestowed on the leaders of these warring countries and compare it to the poverty facing all those others who’ve never waged a war on anyone. Honestly, you need to get a grip on crap like that. To those of us with only a marginal interest in these things, it makes it look like you don’t know what you’re doing.

5. Ask J K Rowling to write Hermione De Jour. I appreciate that this has little to do with wars and violence, but I figured I’d mention the idea whilst we were exchanging correspondence.

Seriously, God. It’s a good planet with the internet and nature and Harry Potter books. Stop screwing it up with these unnecessary wars.

Yours sincerely,

Ashley Lister

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Years from now...

Good Afternoon folks.

This week's theme is Sci-Fi which, I'll admit, has been a struggle. Not only was I up at 5.30am today trying to write something- I realised about an hour before work that I promised you all a poem.

Until that point I had drawn a picture of the pope shooting a bazooka into the sky (with a cross and swastika on his tunic) and made a surreal news feed idea about him shooting down an American satellite. This all came from a piece I read the other day about the Church of England threatening to cut their huge investment stakes in our internet providers. In the wake of the Jo Yeates murder trial- this made the headlines in some papers and it got me thinking- do they really believe censorship is going to change people's behaviour. In the wake of all the troubles we have in the world, can they not see that there may be slightly more outside influences on us than extreme porn and some propoganda. Anyway, I thought maybe the nightmare dream of a future in which the Church calls on its power to rule was worrying enough- and the idea for my promised poem eventually surfaced.

Influenced

A poll commissioned for TV

with texts all charged at 20p

sent shudders through the soul of me

The thought of Intervention.

Was it this dystopian dream

that shook me as I slept, or screen

after screen of trailed gun fire

on an unwatched streaming news.

How paranoid must the Church be

to invest in our ISPs

to block our viewing on TV

in case we do discover,

that what goes on behind our backs

the endless terrorist attacks

are not about who's white or black

but through misinformation.

So those who claim a right divine

and see the other ivory shrines

collapse under the weight of minds

in Middle East uprisings

they seek to censor truth rebuked

to deny nudity from youth

to confiscate and take away

then masturbate upon it.

We make decisions every day

on what to hear and what to say

the violence will not go away

if we don't see more pictures.

The blind man plays no violent games

reads no news feeds of children maimed

but still won't call out Jesus' name

for fear of dark inside him.

He sees the things we do not see

and looks inside for sanctity

believes in what he knows to be

and with that feels empowered.

Thanks for reading guys. A little rushed but I couldn't let you all down- a slightly more polished version of this will be read on Friday at the event. Speak soon, S.

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