Imprinting - Twilight

I was unfamiliar with the term ‘imprinting’ when I read the Twilight series of novels by Stephenie Meyer. I understood it to be a strong infatuation, but it was more than that in the story setting of a supernatural fantasy world. I wanted to know what the teenaged and young adults were reading and raving about. This was a long time ago, when my daughter was fourteen or fifteen years old. The film versions quickly hit the cinema and helped to raise the profile of lead actor, Robert Pattinson. He was an attractive vampire.

Quoting from online information,

“In Twilight, imprinting is a supernatural, involuntary soulmate bond that occurs exclusively among the Quileute shape-shifters. Where a wolf first phases, they may instantly imprint on someone, completely overriding their own free will and severing previous attachments.”

Character Jacob, a wolf, attempts to explain imprinting to character, Bella, wife of vampire. He has previously been in love with Bella, but now is imprinting on her new born daughter, Renesmee,

“It’s not like love at first sight, really it’s more like…gravity moves…suddenly. It’s not the earth holding you here anymore. She does. You become whatever she needs you to be, whether that’s a protector, or a lover, or a friend.”

 The books gave me an insight into what some impressionable teenagers were reading and watching. As usual with me, I preferred the novels to the films. Imprinting, up to now, isn’t a word in my regular use.

I thought of imprinting as being a family likeness, the way we take after our parents in looks and traits. I met a little girl years ago when I first worked in a school. She was four or five years old and an absolute carbon copy of a girl I had known when I was a child in another town. Many years passed and the little girl was grown up when I discovered that her mother was the girl from my childhood.

I found this poem,

 Imprinting Stare

I sit upon the earthen floor,
Staring up at my first vision.
My true emotion revealed.
But as I imprint,
I am torn away
My delicate eyes burnt beyond the
Purpose of pain.

I am the butterfly,
Waiting to pervade the shell of my cocoon.
I am the spider,
Waiting with omnipotent patience,
To drink my fill.
I am the serpent,
Cursed with the destiny to slide among
The lowest beings.

But most of all,
I am Human,
Blessed with emotion, Cursed with Heartache,
I learn, live and love.
I am Man.
And I shall arise again.

Stuart Logan.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Hag Stone Charms

According to the dictionary, charm can mean a quality that makes you like or feel attracted to someone or something. For instance, “she was a woman of great charm” or “I don’t trust that easy charm of his”. A charm can also be deemed to have magical powers, to ward off evil spirits such as an amulet like a rabbit’s foot (not so lucky for the rabbit). Charms can also be imbued with supernatural powers and magic to protect the wearer.

Historically, charms can found way back in time in natural things such as rocks, stones or pebbles and these charms are to be found all over Britain. One such example of these is a hag stone or witch stone, fairy stone or holy (sacred) stone, and it is a small piece of rock/stone with a naturally occurring hole in it caused by water erosion whether by a river or the sea. The stone has also been rounded by the actions of water.

Image of a collection of Hag Stones

In folklore, hag stones are believed to possess potent protective powers. Their associations with witches and the supernatural stem from the belief that the hole in the stone acts as a portal, a window through which harmful magic or evil spirits can be warded off. Placing a hag stone above a doorway or tying it to a key ring was thought to prevent witches from entering the home or causing harm. Farmers would attach them to their barns to protect livestock, while sailors carried them for luck and safe passage across treacherous waters. The hag stone’s reputation as a talisman was widespread, and stories of its powers abound in local legends.

Image of Hag Stone as lucky charm to be placed over a house doorway

One of the most fascinating aspects of hag stones is their ability to reveal the unseen. Tradition holds that peering through the hole of a hag stone allows one to glimpse into the realm of fairies, spirits, or other supernatural beings. This belief is rooted in the idea that the hag stone’s aperture acts as a lens, transforming the ordinary landscape into a magical vista. The stone became a tool for divination and discovery, a bridge between worlds.

The name ‘hag stone’ itself is evocative, conjuring images of witches and wise women. In some traditions, these stones were said to offer protection against the ‘hag’—a term once used for witches or malevolent spirits. The adder stone, as it’s sometimes called, links the object to serpents and ancient Druidic practices. The intertwining of pagan rituals and later Christian beliefs ensured that hag stones retained their mystique, even as the nature of their magic was debated and reinterpreted.

Today, hag stones are often collected as souvenirs or displayed as decorative items. Beachcombers and enthusiasts delight in finding them, recognising their rarity and the folklore attached. The stones are sometimes incorporated into jewellery, hung in gardens, or placed on altars, maintaining a link to the ancient traditions and superstitions that once governed rural life.

Image of Hag Stone jewellery by John Smith

Hag stones are much more than mere rocks with holes. They are embodiments of cultural history, symbols of protection, and gateways to the imagination. Whether seen as magical artefacts or geological curiosities, their presence on a beach or in a collection speaks to a deep human desire to find meaning and mystery in the world around us. To discover a hag stone is to stumble upon a story, one that stretches across time and continues to enchant those who seek the extraordinary in the ordinary.

Hag Stones

Ambling along the beach
absent minded yet looking
for clues

in amongst the driftwood
and sea holly there
you were

unassuming, not shouting your
presence despite the wind,
rain, sea’s restless churning

the world can be traced with
your eye, protection descends
from celestial power

ancient reminder of time’s
endless line and an echo
reframing the past.

Dermot.

Read More

Winging it

I have been a performer  since I was seven, dancing in ballroom dancing competitions all over the UK and overseas. Often during a round of a contest, another couple might get in the way of a routine and we would have to improvise - winging it! Once , my Dad accompanied us to the International Championships at The Royal Albert Hall. He was enamoured by a diminutive amateur couple, Roy Smith and Susan Pedvin, In the final, they were dancing a quickstep when Susan lost a high heel shoe. Dad was thrilled that despite the disadvantage, they continued and completed the dance. He thought she was superb. 

Some of my most thrilling encounters have been with birds. Driving home one early evening I pulled off the motorway onto a country road. Suddenly a white ghostly shape appeared alongside my driver's-side window. It was a wonderful barn owl and it continued along the hedgerow for at least a minute. 

One day I pulled unto a friend's driveway in the countryside only to be confronted by a Peregrine Falcon on the ground, feasting on a felled pigeon. What a magnificent creature it was and how lucky was I to be in the right place at the right moment.

I have had many more surprising encounters during lockdown on my frequent walks through Stanley Park, Blackpool. Recently I saw a Great Spotted Woodpecker. I heard it first, strumming on a tree trunk and followed a flash of colour until it alighted on a another trunk. One especially cold, sunny day. there were two Goldcrests in a fir tree close to the lake, They are really tiny and hard to spot - only their constant chirping gives them away. 

A couple of days ago, my companion and I had close encounters with two pairs of Nuthatches. They are remarkably streamlined birds with very long beaks, Their terracotta and turquoise plumage is stunning and they seem happiest inverted clinging to a tree trunk. 

Bird watching is a delightful way to pass an hour or two and  as I do every January. I will venture out this weekend to record my sightings for The Big Garden Bird Watch. Anyone can join in, all you need is one hour, a pencil and a little patience. Details are available on the RSPB web site.

Supernatural

An almost indistinguishable moment,
A flicker in the blinking of an eye,
Frozen in the seconds in between,
The red'ning and the blackness of the sky. 

In that special space in time that hovers,
Where the setting of the sun absorbs the light,
Before the backdrop curtain starts to sparkle.
Begins the wakening of creatures of the night. 

Furry things in burrows start to ruffle,
Ears and noses poke above the ground, 
Twilight fliers surge from attic rafters, 
bat-wing shadows swoop and switch around. 

As the sky is filled with eerie softness, 
The gentle ghost goes searching for his prey, 
Whiter than the pure first snow of winter, 
The barn owl shakes the daytime sleep away. 

Silently he brushes past the hedgerow
Eyeing tiny movements on the ground, 
A helpless death-cry pierces through the silence 
and peaceful dusk is shattered by the sound. 

In the darkest part of twilight, you may see him, 
slaloming among the bales of hay, 
where he maintains his silent, secret vigil,
in-between the darkness and the day. 

I have posted this poem before but have yet to write about the Nuthatch. Anyway, thanks for reading. Adele.  

Read More

Crepuscular

Well I am back - after  a sustained absence. I had to take time out to look after number one. I have been quite poorly but more than that - I simply haven't been motivated to write but the new blog themes are out  - so here I go again. 

I have to admit that I had to look up the meaning of 'crepuscular'. I have a reasonably good vocabulary but this is a new one. Once I knew that it is actually twilight I began to recall some lovely memories. I was immediately transported to Tarn Hows in the Lake District where the quality of light at the end of a long summer day was surreal. A pink glow that reflected off the water and imbued a magical quality onto the landscape. 

I think of my previous garden at the end of a spring day when a lone pipistrelle bat darted around my head in response to my shrill, toothy whistle. It was wonderful to interact with a wild creature in such a way. Later in the summer, the bat would remerge from roosting with her baby and I would enjoy their twilight sojourns before they left in the autumn. 

Close encounters with nature often occur in the short time between night and day. I have seen urban foxes leaping over garden walls in busy roads and sometimes have been lucky enough to see barn owl when driving at the close of day. I have written about my close encounter with a magical hare on a country lane near Esprick: All these incidents help to reinforce that twilight is my favourite time of day.   

Last week, driving home from a 'Spooky Men' concert in Clitheroe, the mid-summer night sky was still blue-white and Venus was highly visible, glittering like a silver button. For a while, I thought that it was an aeroplane but it remained glued to the spot as my journey progressed. It is a beautiful sight. There is one twilight encounter that I value more than any other: Every now and then I see a ghostly creature

Supernatural

An almost indistinguishable moment,
A flicker in the blinking of an eye,
Frozen in the seconds in between,
The red'ning and the blackness of the sky. 

In that special space in time that hovers,
Where the setting of the sun absorbs the light,
Before the backdrop curtain starts to sparkle.
Begins the wakening of creatures of the night. 

Furry things in burrows start to ruffle,
Ears and noses poke above the ground, 
Twilight flies surge from attic rafters, 
bat-wing shadows swoop and switch around. 

As the sky is filled with eerie softness, 
The gentle ghost goes searching for his prey, 
Whiter than the pure first snow of winter, 
The barn owl shakes the daytime sleep away. 

Silently he brushes past the hedgerow
Eyeing tiny movements on the ground, 
A helpless death-cry pierces through the silence 
and peaceful dusk is shattered by the sound. 

In the darkest part of twilight, you may see him, 
slaloming among the bales of hay, 
where he maintains his silent, secret vigil,
in-between the darkness and the day. 

Glad to be back. Thanks for reading. Adele 

Read More

So long lives this and this gives life to thee

Do you see my spectacles with their heavy rims?  Perhaps you noticed my quiet, unassuming nature?  You must be aware of my absence at times of literary intrigue?  Yes, it's true.  I am Olive, the plain-clothed bus conductor of 1970s sitcome fame.  What the writers of the TV series failed to explore was Olive's alter ego, Sunflower, so named for her love of chasing the sun.

So, Sunflower is my alter, alter ego and I'm beginning to think this introduction is a little over-contrived.  Sunflowers follow the sun.  I follow poets, like a dog follows the smell of crotch (to add another helpful layer to this catastrophic conceit).  What I most enjoy at present is gathering an awkwardness of poets into a small, quiet room and throwing short writing exercises at them until they a) throw something heavy in my direction or b) write something amazing.  Fortunately for me the crotches, which is to say poets, that I have followed so far have opted exclusively for option b.  

This Saturday, conjunctivitis allowing, I will be herding the awkward crotches into a small quiet room at Central Library.  If, after two hours, I am still conscious, the world will know a new collection of sonnets.  And that is the real super power.  

It's a power I developed after a hair from Ashley R Lister's beard fell into my coffee.  I'm not complaining.  He can't have the hair back.  Facilitating the creation of poetry is akin to a super power.  It certainly feels supernatural.  I yabber on for two hours and BAM! a curdle of new poetry is born.  A curdle which other poets will take with their own cups of coffee which will, in turn, inspire other more curdled poems until the ultimate miracle happens...Cheese.

So, if you have followed the nonsense above, congratulations on your powers of tolerance.  Please find below a sonnet which I created while testing Saturday's workshop.  I do hope you'll join us at the library and I'm sorry for calling you a crotch.


To the Mourners

In February wet clay clads the day 

Dawn’s meagre prayers wrapped tight in dismal clods 

To you this clinging sadness I convey   

Dug fresh from river bed for you to hold

Exhaustion is a cliff edge slick with mud 

I tremble in tired grass before the drop

Then April’s buds bunch close on ruddy wood   

Late morning’s blood burns tracks through sleepy sods   

You see excitement written in the leaves   

Like secrets burst from lips pressed tight too long

A giddiness of bubbles, scales release 

This trembling, root to tip, I would prolong   

Though sadness fills your pockets up with stones

Attention transforms granite into foam

Read More