Fragrance - In Memoriam

The mornings, a time for toast and cereal, checking homework is in satchel, P E kit if required then sending children off to school. Next would be allocating jobs to the household staff and bar staff, rotating the tasks as fairly as possible and getting stuck in herself where she was needed.

My mum, hair scraped back from her naked face, comfy flat shoes, navy slacks, fine-knit pale blue jumper with the sleeves pushed up. I remember her being busy, hands on, making sandwiches to sell at lunch time and how quickly she could butter the bread; two loaves worth of grated cheese and onion, a favourite of the regular customers.  Our pubs were ale houses, before breweries franchised into eating establishments and takings became target based. Any snacks or lunch-time sandwiches provided by my parents was separate to pub takings and the income it fetched was their own.

Later, after tea and into the early evening, my mother would transform herself into the smart, glamorous, attractive woman she was. She styled her brown hair into soft curls lifted off her face and shaped neatly over her ears. Lipstick, a hint of mascara, a dress and high heeled shoes, finished off with a subtle application of Estee Lauder Youth Dew or Chanel No5. This is how I like to remember her, looking lovely, accompanying my father downstairs in the pub, leaving a waft of her favourite fragrance behind.

She died young. For years I kept an almost empty bottle of her Estee Lauder for the comfort her fragrance gave me. Eventually, what was left completely evaporated and the bottle was discarded. I still have a box of talcum powder, not that I can smell it, if it should have any scent left at all, after all these years.

My sense of smell vanished after chemo and radiotherapy. All the fabulous fragrances are lost on me now. Perfume, lilies, home-made baking, the aroma is all left to memory and imagination. I still wear my Christian Dior which I used to love, and why not? I might be wafting memories around those who care.

I found this poem,

Fragrance

The fragrance of
Love and care

The fragrance that
Repair

The fragrance which
Always reminds of welfare

The fragrance with
The power of flare

The fragrance of mother
Is the fragrance of prayer.  

 

By Gemini Girl on All Poetry

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Winter Ghosts - Nearly Christmas

Christmas is taking shape. I’ve made the cake, bought some but not all gifts, made food plans and put the tree up. I loved the looks of delight on the faces of my two and a half year old grandson and one and a half year old granddaughter when I showed them the tree and the special things hanging on it. The baby, another grandson, is too young to take any notice yet, but I showed him everything and told him about the star, the angel and mix of baubles that all mean something. They don’t know it, but these beautiful children save me from getting too maudlin when I miss my family.

I’m fortunate to have a wonderful family round me of my own making but I miss my mum, dad, grandparents and all my extended family and friends who are no longer with us. I’m grateful to have grown up in such a family to give me strength of character and confidence to stand and grow alone when I had to. My guardian angels who picked me up when I fell, pointed me in the right direction when I took a wrong turning and stopped me from roaming a rocky path. Christmas brings them all near and even if I’m weeping yet again for what is lost, I’m joyful for the magical memories of Christmases past.

These winter ghosts gather to share in the Christmas of today, surrounding me with the love I grew up with. I hope our dinner is perfect, our company convivial and I wish, as I always do that just one more time, the family I miss could be sitting round the table. My Nanna, still with her pinny on, making sure everyone has everything they want, and my dad checking the wine. Until we meet again.

I will do my best to cook a lovely dinner. We’ll share thoughts and memories, we’ll laugh but not cry.  Someone will raise a toast to those who have passed but with us in spirit. The children will jump at the snapping of crackers and play with the contents then later mess about until they fall asleep, cheeks rosy and hearts full of love. It’s a family circle and I’m Nanna now.

I hope in years to come, my children and grandchildren will look back with fondness on memories of their own.

I have this poem in a frame and bring it out every Christmas.

Christmas Memories by Patience Strong.

Christmas memories stir the waters of the well of thought-
And reflect the best of what the passing years have brought…
Past and present mingle when we hear the Christmas chimes.
Names come back as we recall good things and happy times.
 

 

The photos are copied from my late father's colour slide collection. I apologise for the poor quality. It's a work in progress.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

The Random and the Nonsensical

This week my sister asked my three-year-old nephew what he’d like to dress-up as for Halloween; the obvious (and easy to purchase) answers would have been a ghost, a vampire or even a werewolf, but Josh (full of the randomness of youth) replied with: I’d like to be a parrot.

This ability to be random and nonsensical seems to be child’s play for children; it comes naturally, without effort, and has the power to make us older beings laugh. And for me, this is what some of the best children’s poetry does – it makes us smile and it shows to the children that read it that poetry can be silly and fun.

After searching my computer and flicking through the entire contents of my filing cabinet, I finally found a nonsensical poem that I wrote a few years ago. Therefore, I thought I would share it, and hopefully bring a little randomness to your Wednesday.

  

Poetry on Toast

It’s said poets are peculiar creatures

with a few distinctive features:

a pallid skin from lack of light,

enormous specs to fix bad sight.

They’re more elusive than a yeti

and make great sonnets with spaghetti.

I know this sounds a little odd,

but not as strange as purple cod.

Their page is lightly buttered toast;

lunch is the meal they love the most.

They find their letters in a can

and warm them in a frying pan.

They stir the thick tomato sauce,

pretend to be Inspector Morse.

Investigate the pan for clues

and down at least a dozen brews.

When bubbles start to form and pop,

they bounce like frogs, hoppity-hop.

They plonk the letters on the plate

and start to work at eager rate.

They find two As, a M, a P,

an O, an I, a broken T.

But missing Es disturb, distress

and leave the poet in a mess.

Without an E she is a pot

and every note becomes a not.

All bears are quickly turned to bars

who look at you with angry stars.

And soon all meaning slips away;

it’s packed its bags and gone astray.

It’s left the bread, it’s slammed the door.

It’s gone – the meaning is no more.

The poets soon begin to shout:

I’ve got nothing, zero, nowt.

And in great haste, and under strife,

they grab a fork, a spoon, a knife ...

They gobble words with great delight

then sneak away to think, to write.

Thank you for reading,
Lara

Read More

Love, Toast and the Little Things

I used to hate Valentine’s day. I think shy geeky girls with glasses and braces, who spend break times in the library, usually do. Because it is one of those days that, rather than affirming that someone loves you, actually confirms that you are in fact unpopular, uncool and definitely not sweet enough to warrant an overpriced card complete with a crappy hallmark poem.

But that was Upper school and that, thankfully, is like a distant planet; still orbiting my memory but no longer a place I inhabit.  Things change . You realise that life isn’t going to pan out like an animated Disney picture, and that love is about more than chocolate and expensive gifts. When you’re younger, being loved on Valentine’s day seems like the most important thing in the world, but when you get older you learn that being loved day after day is far more essential and special. For me, it’s not the big and grand gestures that say a lot, but rather the little and everyday ones.

When he brings me coffee in bed and we start the day with a proper conversation. When he holds my hand. When he sends me a thoughtful text message or tweet. When he leaves me a note. When he writes me a poem on the fridge. When he makes me toast, just as I like it. When he wipes my tears and says he still believes in me. When we read poetry to each other. When he surprises me with flowers.

These aren’t Valentine’s day gestures, they are just everyday moments that make me feel special and loved. They are moments that make me realise just how lucky I am.

I’ve found that person that you just ‘click with’. Who loves your bad bits just as much as your good bits. Who inspires you, gives you reason to smile and generally just makes you a better person.

Shaun probably doesn’t realise that he inspires me, makes me a better person and a better poet – because I’ve never taken the time to tell him. Because I get caught up in the mundane things – being annoyed about the mess he’s made, the pile of unwashed dishes, the mountain of laundry – and I sometimes forget to thank him, to acknowledge the things he has done. He really has helped to make me a better poet; my world was small, closed off and a little dark before I met Shaun, and as a consequence my poetry reflected my environment. But Shaun changed my world, turned it upside-down, added a few torches and flares and knocked down a couple of walls. He reminded me how to have fun, and most importantly taught me how to love again.

And suddenly there was so much more to write about...

I’m going to finish today’s post with a poem, a love poem that I wrote a few months ago, and which was inspired by my very wonderful Shaun.

Love

When he makes me toast
he turns the toaster down
from his ‘5’ to my ‘3’

Leaves it to cool
before spreading with butter
(scraping  the excess back onto the knife)

Cuts it into four irregular triangles –

just as my mother did when I was small.

Thank you for reading,
Lar.

Read More