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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This Writing Game - Where Does It Start?

I’ve always had ‘this writing thing’, ever since I could hold a pencil and form letters, which was long before I started school. My mother taught me the alphabet in upper and lower case, how to write the letters and the different sounds they made, called 'phonics' now.  I was lucky to have my mother at home to do this sort of thing with me, and, although I was almost constantly the new girl at various schools due to frequently moving pubs with my father’s work, I had a good education. There was a lot of emphasis on producing good handwriting in my primary schools. An entire lesson could be spent practising until each letter was perfect and sat correctly placed along the lines in the writing book. I took pride in this, so much pride that my personal signature flourishes were frowned upon and deemed completely unnecessary. Individuality was not encouraged.

Books were a thing, too. My mother was an avid reader and she read my books to me. I was determined to read for myself and proved to be a quick learner when I started school. I’m from the ‘Janet and John’ era of the late ‘50s. I don’t think the ‘h’ in John ever gave me or my classmates a problem. We accepted what we were told, John says John. I remember being ready for my next reading book then having to wait longer because I kept mistaking ‘clothes’ for ‘cloths’. The things I still carry round in my head sixty-odd years after the event! No wonder I’m a bit bonkers. Anyway, I was moved up and continued going from strength to strength.

I was aged seven and in my last year of infant school when I was introduced to Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven and The Rilloby Fair Mystery by some books that were given to me. I reached the end of the book and would go straight back to the beginning and read it again. I couldn’t get enough of Enid Blyton but her books were discouraged by schools. Both parents bought me books regularly. I must have been so indulged, but I was always reading and the more I read, the more I wanted to write. The seed was sown. It took a long time to grow.

I lost my main mentor when my mother passed away. Things can be ‘meant to be’, though, and upon leaving secondary school I was encouraged by my English teacher to keep writing, so I did. Life takes unexpected turns and leads us down unfamiliar paths, mistakes are made, lessons are learned and we move on. That makes it sound simple and straightforward when, as we all know, it very much isn’t.  Personal ambition was never far away. The writing game, it’s just there, we have to do it, even if it is something for ourselves, like a journal, it’s compelling. I hope someone reading this understands and agrees with me. I’m sure I’m not alone.

Creative writing continues to be my passion. I might get round to finishing ‘that novel’ or it might stay as it is, half of it on a shelf, the rest in my laptop. I loved writing it. I loved seeing a published short story in print. If that’s as good as it gets, I’m happy. It happened.

My poem, a tongue-in-cheek look at the future of education.  I’m glad that my grandchildren are learning handwriting and basic skills that I can relate to.

An Alternative Education

The 3 Rs soon to be redundant
Computer-led kids will be abundant
With all information mega-quick
It only takes a scroll down and click
No need for any conversation
Included in their education.

Last year’s reception class have all gone
And taken a leap up to Year One
To drag sticky fingers on iPad screens
And work out what technology means.
Will this be their basic foundation
Instead of formal education?

Numeracy, or let’s call it Maths
Has rules to follow specific paths
Beginning with learning how to count
Then adding up and sharing out.
One click away from calculation
Takes away their education.

The infants are learning to use a pen
It’s not a skill they’ll need again
For a future spent staring on-line,
Social activity in decline
With hardly any interaction,
So they won’t need our education.

When did this digital preference start?
Oh why no poetry learnt by heart?
‘Spell check’ becomes their favourite teacher
With ‘Grammar check’ an added feature.
The only future expectation,
A self-taught on-line education.

PMW 2015

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Glittering Prize - Meaningful Things

I have some works of art in my house. Some are on display, others are stored for safe keeping. They are items made by my children and grandchildren, presented to me with love and received with great delight. Some are glittery and shiny, others are not, but to me these special gifts are treasured prizes which fill me with joy. Being a grandparent is a little easier than being a parent, I have found, as the grandchildren usually – not always – go home, and I don’t have full responsibility for making important decisions about them. My glittering prizes are the children themselves, though if there is something precious, it is the teaspoon fashioned from tinfoil by my son when we forgot to take one on a picnic. It has a space in my display cabinet of meaningful things.

I was watching and listening to Sir Keir Starmer’s speech on TV at the recent Labour party conference. I was horrified to see someone get to him and pour gloopy looking glitter over his head and shoulders. Luckily, it was harmless, but how on earth did he get through security? He could have had a knife, a gun, anything. For one tiny moment, as the person was removed and Sir Keir removed his jacket, I wondered if the whole thing had been staged. I soon dismissed that thought. Not a glittering prize but a worrying moment.

One of my favourite modern day poet / writers is Lemn Sissay, MBE, former Chancellor of Manchester University. In 2021 he was appointed OBE for services to literature and charity. Last year he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. He is a trustee of the Foundlings Museum. Not bad going for someone who grew up in the care system, was treated unfairly by a family and repeated let down badly by social workers and social services at the time. He got justice eventually, but nothing could possibly compensate enough for his early life. Reading his memoir, ‘My Name Is Why’, broke my heart and I will salute his strength of character for evermore. He founded the charity Gold From the Stone Foundation which supports care leavers and every year provides Christmas dinners. His glittering prize is doing what he can to help others. Here is one of his quatrains,

‘How do you do it?’ said night.

‘How do you wake and shine?’

‘I keep it simple,’ said light.

‘One day at a time.’

Lemn Sissay  OBE, FRSL

  

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Suffrage - Northern Grit

Goodness me, that was a quick holiday. One moment I was sunning myself in the unexpected warmth of glorious South Uist and in the next blink I’m home at my desk. The bit in the middle was filled with breath-taking scenery, meeting interesting friendly people and learning about the Hebrides. We notched up 1700 miles exploring and travelling.  So here I am and before I get cracking on planning a trip to the Orkneys and Shetland Isles, my blog page beckons.

 

I was delighted to learn that a statue of Emmeline Pankhurst is to be erected in her home city of Manchester, at last.  The first time I saw sculptor Helen Reeves’ model of ‘Rise Up Women’ I felt emotional. The pose is perfect, exactly as I imagined Mrs Pankhurst to be, standing on a chair addressing a crowd. She is remembered as the leader of the British suffragettes, but she was much more than that.  She was a political activist and social reformer in the late 1800s.  She founded the Women’s Franchise League which fought to allow married women to vote in local elections, and later the Women’s Social and Political Union, a women’s suffrage organisation separate from any recognised political party. It became the Women’s Party, promoting equal rights for women.  It was an important start to a fight that was still on-going a century later. Equal pay is something that has only happened during my working life.

Emmeline was refused membership to the Independent Labour Party because of her gender. I wish I’d been a fly on the wall when that happened. I don’t imagine anger or shouting, I think of her as fastening her coat, putting a pin through her hat and saying, “Well, I’ll show ‘em. Watch this.” 

Living at this time in Chorlton-on-Medlock, this strong, determined woman from Moss Side, as forceful and as capable as they come, involved herself in everything she could to make the right sort of changes. She was constantly busy fighting for what she believed in and at the same time raising her own family of five. Her daughters, Christabel and Sylvia fought the cause with her as they reached adulthood.  She supported her barrister husband, Richard, with his causes including education reform. He also advocated women’s suffrage.

My family, on my father’s side from many generations come from Chorlton-on-Medlock. They would have been living there at the same time as the Pankhursts. I’m proud to come from a long line of those northern women who might have known or met Emmeline and her family. I wish I’d inherited half their grit and strength. I might have suffrage campaigners in my ancestry.  I wonder if any of my lot chained themselves to railings or were subjected to horrific abuse being force fed in prison. It is something to look into.

 Votes for married women over the age of 30 were granted in 1918.

All women were given the same voting rights as men, which was voting at age 21, in 1928, shortly after Emmeline’s death.

I will remember the suffragettes when I cast my vote on Thursday.

 

Emmeline Pankhurst’s Manchester statue, ‘Rise Up Women’ will be unveiled in St Peter’s Square on 8^th March, 2019 to mark International Women’s Day.

The photo is from the Manchester Evening News.

 

I found this poem, Coming by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860-1935).

 

Because the time is ripe, the age is ready,
Because the world her woman's help demands,
Out of the long subjection and seclusion
Come to our field of warfare and confusion
The mother's heart and hands.

 

Long has she stood aside, endured and waited,
While man swung forward, toiling on alone;
Now, for the weary man, so long ill-mated,
Now, for the world for which she was created,
Comes woman to her own.

 

Not for herself! though sweet the air of freedom;
Not for herself, though dear the new-born power;
But for the child, who needs a nobler mother,
For the whole people, needing one another,
Comes woman to her hour.

 

 

Charlotte Perkins Gilman

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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