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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Magpies

When I first started thinking about writing this blog on Magpies I realised that I had no idea where the name came from. My first thought was that it couldn’t be a Pie made of Mags (I once had a girlfriend of that name). But, blow me, it was. Sort of.

I looked up various etymology sites and they all agree that Mag is a nickname for Margaret and was slang English for qualities associated generally with women, especially in this case ‘idle chattering’ as in Magge tales ‘tall tales, nonsense’ in the early 15th century.

The second part, pie, was the original name of the bird in English—the earliest record there is of them comes from an Anglo-Saxon document that lists pyge as the Old English translation of pica, the Latin name for the magpie. It’s from this Latin name that the English pie eventually evolved.

In the UK and Europe they have built up a sinister reputation over the centuries. Shakespeare has them in Macbeth as ‘maggot-pies’ and there is this from 1507 ‘Whan pyes chatter vpon a house it is a sygne of ryghte euyll tydynges’.

In other parts of the world, however, they are seen as bringing good luck. There are some lovely paintings of them related to the Chinese version of Valentine’s Day.

Korea has it as their National Bird and when their children lose a tooth they throw it on the roof while singing a song for the bird. The Magpie will hear the song and bring them a new tooth. I rather like that.

From this we can see that the Magpie is a common bird around the world but I shall stick to the UK for now where the Magpie has a reputation for stealing glittery objects to line their nest, not for practical reasons but just for the look. But a study published last year in the journal Animal Cognition seems to discredit this behaviour. Researchers found no evidence magpies were attracted to shiny objects offered to them, indeed the birds shunned the gifts. Instead they had ‘neophobia’ the researchers claimed; the birds were afraid of the unfamiliar, wary of the baubles.

I found it fascinating that the magpie is one of the most intelligent birds—and one of the most intelligent animals to exist. Their brain-to-body-mass ratio is outmatched only by that of humans and equals that of aquatic mammals and great apes.

Magpies have shown the ability to make and use tools, imitate human speech, grieve, play games, and work in teams. When one of their own kind dies, a grouping will form around the body for a ‘funeral’ of squawks and cries. To portion food to their young, magpies will use self-made utensils to cut meals into proper sizes.

Magpies are also capable of passing a cognitive experiment called the ‘mirror test’ which proves an organism’s ability to recognize itself in a reflection. To perform this test, a coloured dot is placed on animals, or humans, in a place that they will be able to see only by looking into a mirror. Subjects pass if they can look at their reflection and recognize that the mark is on themselves and not another, often by attempting to reach and remove it. Passing the mirror test is a feat of intelligence that only four other animal species can accomplish.

For some reason there are many collective nouns for a group of magpies. One site I found had eleven but perhaps the most common are conventicle, gulp, mischief, tidings or tribe. I’m going for a Gulp as it is just so bizarre.

Also bizarre is the old rhyme about Magpies. I only knew the first few lines but came across the following, apparently a Lancashire version:

One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for a girl
Four for a boy
Five for silver
Six for gold
Seven for a secret
Never to be told
Eight for a wish
Nine for a kiss
Ten a surprise you should be careful not to miss
Eleven for health
Twelve for wealth
Thirteen beware it’s the devil himself.


Terry Quinn

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Magpies - One for Sorrow, Two for Joy

One for sorrow, two for joy. There they are again, on the fence, eyeing up the bird-feeders, the cheeky pair. They were going for it the other day, standing on the top of the frame from where they were able to peck at the fat-balls then stretching to the seed holders to steal from them. Stealing it is, because those feeders are for sparrows. By the time I’ve stood up from my chair, they’ve flown home to next door’s tree.

Over the weekend I was tidying the back garden and making space to plant some winter flowering pansies. For once it was quiet. Usually there’s someone nearby with a lawn-mower or strimmer, or noisy DIY going on and there’s always sirens. We are close to the hospital, the M55, the main police headquarters and a fire station. The sirens are really annoying but not as irritating as the sound of the magpies. The afternoon was pleasantly warm and the air was still. I wanted to do as much as I could before my knees and upper legs surrendered. Soon the magpies kicked off with loud, rattly chak chak chakking. It’s a horrible noise and I think they do it on purpose when they see me come outside. I did what I needed to do as quickly as I could. Next door’s tree is a well-established sycamore and I’m sure it is a housing estate for a massive conventicle of magpies or at least the overspill from the trees around nearby Lawson’s Field.

Magpies have an attractive plumage of black and white with a wide stripe of navy blue which is beautifully vibrant in sunlight. They are predators of bird’s eggs and nestlings which they will kill to feed their young. Nice looking but nasty creatures which also carry superstition. I don’t like to see just one on its own and have to mutter “Good day, Mr Magpie” and hope for another to show up. Apparently, in China they are thought to bring good luck.

In my early teens I used to enjoy ‘Magpie’, the TV show. I’ve read that it was a rival to Blue Peter. I don’t remember it being anything like Blue Peter. I found it entertaining and informative aimed at slightly older kids, which is probably what appealed to me. And it had the rhyme we all know for a signature tune. Join in.

One for sorrow
Two for joy,
Three for a girl
Four for a boy.
Five for silver
Six for gold
Seven for a secret
Never to be told.
Eight for a wish,
Nine for a kiss,
Ten for a bird
You must not miss.
Magpie.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Sounds From The Stands

So the football seasons have ended, the Play-Offs are into their second legs, the curse of Benfica continues, and the success of Arsene Wenger's season will be known after Saturday's F.A. Cup.

For those with an Ings, Nugent, Sako or Winnall there was cause to celebrate. For others, the dream of promotion or survival has faded like the colour on second-hand football seats. But through it all there have been chants - songs rising from the terraces as elation, passion, believe or protest is expelled.

*          *          *

At nine I knew I would never fall out of love with football. My Dad took me to my first Coventry game (holding my hand just a little too tightly) and there - in a seat which would become mine for the next seven years - I found my voice. For ninety minutes the shyness slipped away and football took over. When I eventually went to my first proper away game, a last-match-of-the-season at Vicarage Lane looking for our first away win, I sang like I had never sang before.

The atmosphere on away days is like no other game - 3,000 fans in one section of the ground, all standing up and belting out song after song. At Watford (to the horror of my Dad's wallet) I caught the 'away bug'...

I've jumped to my feet singing, 'Stand up if you're one nil up,' at Old Trafford. I've mocked other teams' fans with: 'Shall we sing a song for you' on cold Tuesday nights. At forty-four football grounds I've sang 'In Our Coventry Home', and I've joined in with songs which, if my mother had heard me singing, would have resulted in a soapy mouth.

*          *          *

With simple rhyme, a splash of wit, and to a well-known or in vogue tune (after Bob The Builder topped the charts with 'Can We Fix It' there was a few choruses of 'Gordon Strachan can he fix it' at Portman Road, needless to say it didn't really take off) football songs take hold of fans, stands and stadiums across the country. They have the ability to express our pride, our joy and our frustrations; they're the thing which creates atmospheres that television (whether 3D or not) will never be able to replicate. They're 'love' songs for the beautiful game and for the teams we refuse to abandon (no matter how much they hurt us).

Thank you for reading,

Lara

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The Legacy.

Earlier on this year, you’d have found me proud as anything of our Olympic games. I was positively gushing on here about how the feel good factor had swept us all away, made us all want to go out and try new things.

As we begin to wind down what has been a mammoth year, we’re told that PE at schools has made no significant gains and the number of kids getting into new sports has begun to actually decrease and slow down. Of course, we knew this was going to happen but to hear it on the radio at the same time as I was reading about the ‘nutritional poverty’ of the nation (nobody really getting 5 a day, unless Alcopops and Lollies count) made me scoff a little. Whatever happened to the legacy.

The theme this week is 'things that make you proud', so I went for a bit of patriotism. 

We’ve had two years of savage cuts and there are more to come. The kids are eating fruit and nuts and sitting on their bums. The Playstation network crashed last year and for a while we moved, but glitches fixed, it has returned and probably improved. There is new COD, no time for God, no time to teach young morals. No time to run, no time for fun they’re having online quarrels. Yes, even the fighting is done online, the fat are getting fatter. But bankers make their money too, so none of that can matter. We march the fit off, in vehicles, when old enough for war- all in the name of keeping nutty bombers from our shores. So here we are, in self-inflate mode, blowing up our own. We’re walking to the sweet shop and then getting buses home. We’re less fit than we’ve ever been, we’re living to an age obscene, the hospitals are never clean but someone’s getting rich. Yes, I’m so proud to be a Brit.

Thanks for reading, S

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