Heatwave - Staying Cool!

 

We spend the chilly, dreary, dark days of winter hoping we get a decent summer, and then when it comes it can be too much. Luckily, here in the North West, the temperature touched about 32 degrees centigrade, which I think is slightly more comfortable than the hotter southern areas. Small mercies. Is it safe to say the heatwave has gone yet? I’m fine with the warm 22 degrees today offers, along with a fresh, gentle breeze. I’d had enough of feeling sticky and having streams of perspiration running down my back. Anyone wearing glasses may relate to the annoyance of them sliding down their nose, frames sticking to their cheeks and being a thorough nuisance. I would take mine off except that I can’t see a thing without them.

The garden has had it for this season. Vibrant colour of vital blooms looks parched and neglected for all my efforts of conserving water from the kitchen to use outside. Being away for two separate holidays with only one week at home in between is the cause of ruin. Normally we might expect two days of sunshine to be counter-balanced with three days of constant rain. Not this time, no rain for ages and what came wasn’t enough to stop the damage. Within the next few days I will attempt to tidy out the dead stuff and make an effort for autumn and spring. I can live with whatever happens in my small garden. I feel sad for the farmers who are trying to make a living. Some counties have declared a drought. Not us, though, yet.

I think I was the only person carrying a cardigan into Bloomfield Road football stadium at the last home match. It was an incredibly hot day and I was in shorts, sandals and my team shirt, but we sit in the shady and cool west stand so I anticipated shivering. Shady it was, as always, but cool, certainly not. It was roasting, not a breath of air. Away fans in the sunny rows of the east stand must have been melting.

The heatwave of 1976 was widely mentioned in the media as a comparison. I remember the warm sunshine day after day, seemingly forever and walking up and down Blackpool promenade in platform sandals, flared jeans and cheesecloth shirt knotted at the midriff. Oh I was at the height of fashion in those halcyon times.

With global warming, summer heatwaves are to be expected. It is up to all of us to do what we can to lessen the effect, and to look after ourselves and each other when the temperature rises beyond comfortable.

I found this on PoemHunter.com,

A Wail of the Heat Wave

The usual thing it used to be
Our summers to decry,
Because they were too wet, you see,—
We longed to have them dry.
But now for months, from morn till night,
We've basked in Sol's bright rays ;
Yet few you'll find who show delight,
Or speak in terms of praise
Of these aggravating, irritating,
Half-cremating, wrath-creating,
Mercury-raising, semi-blazing, scorching summer days.

One feels much like a jelly-fish,
Or limpet washed ashore ;
If this is getting what we wish,
We'll crave for it no more.
Each man you meet reviles the heat
In none-too-classic phrase ;
To be polite, one cannot write
Exactly what he says
Of these hot, oppressive, fierce, aggressive,
Sweat-producing, fat-reducing,
Liquid-yearning, throttle-burning, parching summer days.

O, for a trip to either pole,
With Peary, or with Scott!
Where icebergs rear their white forms tall,
And heat waves trouble not.
A month or so 'mid Arctic snow
Our drooping hearts would raise ;
And soften down the angry frown
Which everyone displays
These roasting, boiling, toasting, broiling,
Record-breaking, sweltering, baking,
Ultra-torrid, beastly horrid, melting summer days.

William Baron,   October, 2010

Thanks for reading. Stay cool. Pam,x

Read More

Snow - Fun in Padfield

It snowed yesterday. Just a tiny bit. Enough for my grandson to notice and tell me and sure enough, there was a flurry. We watched through the back room window, taking a break – I should say another break – from my efforts to home school him. Some snowflakes were big, but they didn’t hang around. The sun came out again, the sky was blue, and the last snowflake melted on the window and rolled down like a big tear-drop.  My grandson isn’t bothered. They’re not used to snow. He didn’t want to go out in it the other day when we had a depth of half a centimetre. He’d rather stay in and keep warm, but as he had walked round in his wellies I thought he might be hopeful of us quickly fashioning a tiny snow person in my back garden.

We hardly ever get proper snow here on the coast. I think it was 1981 when I trudged home from a nearby friend’s house in borrowed wellies which just about protected me, so deep was the snowfall that took us all by surprise when we opened the door. Luckily, as we were planning on staying in, I had walked. Usually I would take my car expecting us to be going off somewhere. The snow lasted a few days. Telephones were not working. I couldn’t get a message to work, but it didn’t matter, no one else made it in. There were a couple of times in the ‘90s when school was closed due to snow and my children played out in it. Very rare. It’s different further inland.

Padfield School 

During my childhood, for a short time we lived in Padfield, a village near Glossop in the Peak District. My parents were managing the local pub / small hotel, The Peels Arms, still there and it’s a great place, by the way. I made lots of friends at the village school and had a party for my ninth birthday in the hotel dining room. It was a very quiet neighbourhood and not many cars in those days. We had previously lived in pubs on busy streets or in town centres so being allowed out to play was a first for me and I loved it. Once, and it was only ever the once for reasons you’ll understand, I was allowed to take my toddler sister out in her pushchair. I took her to the nearby playground where she watched me play on the swings and roundabout with my friends. I must have got distracted. I don’t know the length of time involved, but at some point back at home, someone asked, ‘Where’s Anne?’ and the realisation hit me. I’d left her at the park.  She was still there, safe and well and I expect she was happy that someone came to rescue her. I was in the biggest trouble.

It snowed that winter, as it does every winter up there, and we were cut off. It must have been after Christmas because I remember sitting  by the fire in the ‘snug’ bar making the baskets from the gift of a basket weaving set I had received. No one could get in or out of Padfield.  Everything carried on as normal. The school had four classes with three teachers. Standard One and Standard Two shared a classroom with one teacher and all the staff lived locally. Snowy schooldays were fun, messing about all the way there and all the way back. The problem was that deliveries couldn’t get in, so provisions at the shop ran low or eventually ran out. I remember my mother helping out with food from the hotel to whoever needed it.

If the travel news on the radio gives information about the Snake Pass or Woodhead Road being closed due to snow, I know that Padfield and possibly Hadfield are cut off. I think back on my time there with fondness – apart from the incident with my sister – some great memories.

Padfield in the Snow
A snowman stood by every gate
Watching us marching down to school.
“Hurry up, we’re gonna be late,
Last one in is Mrs Swift’s fool!”

It’s hard to rush in such deep snow
With a blizzard freezing your face,
Making snowballs ready to throw
At some mates, nearly keeping pace.

Mrs Swift is standing, waiting,
About to close the classroom door,
Watching us dripping, creating
The puddles on the wooden floor.

Her eyes are narrow, looking cross.
Above her glasses, angry frown,
No doubt to nine-year olds who’s boss,
“Come in quickly and settle down!”

Prayers, assembly and work to do.
Writing and reading and hard sums,
Then we’re painting in shades of blue.
At home time, some letters for mums.

More snowball fighting up the street,
Climb the hill, laughing and falling,
Icy fingers and frozen feet,
“Pamela, your mum is calling!”


PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well, Pam x

The photo is Padfield School, not mine.

Read More

Winter

Pick up any book or poem by one of the Bronte family and more often than not, there will be a winter scene described or winter weather referred to. Strong, icy winds blew through the parsonage, constantly chilling the inhabitants deep into their delicate bones from autumn until spring. Great, sash windows overlooked the church and the graveyard, framing a cold, grey, unwelcoming aspect. It was bleak, to say the least, more bleak than ‘Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone’ in Christina Rossetti’s ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’. Warm, summer sunshine must have been a rare happening in 19^th century Haworth and surrounding areas.

I grew up fascinated by the lives and works of the Bronte family. It began with my mother’s copy of Jane Eyre, the first book in her glass-fronted bookcase. She would read it to me. When I was a little older, she bought me the Dean’s Classics for Children version. Later, it was Wuthering Heights that became my favourite and remains so, despite ‘picking it to the bones’ in the name of study many years ago.

I don’t like the cold, but I have fond memories of winter, long past. I was cosy in the large, high-backed easy chair beside the roaring fire, with my feet tucked beneath me and my head pressed into a winged corner. I flicked ash from a Benson & Hedges into the hearth and turned a well-thumbed page of ‘Wuthering Heights’, for the umpteenth time. I made a few notes as I attempted to dissect characters and crossed out a selection of possible opening sentences. This was back in the day when I studied English, rather than enjoyed it and found the whole process a boring, tedious chore.  (Oh, I got where I was going in the end, but it would have been so much better with the teachers of today.) Distracted, I left the chair for a moment to watch the blizzard. The house stood alone, not in the Yorkshire Moors immortalised by Emily Bronte, but hidden in the hills of North Lancashire, not far from Ingleton. I leaned my elbows on the deep window sill as the world turned white and the wind whistled round the house and howled down the chimney. I wiggled my toes in sheepskin slippers and smoothed down the over-sized Fair Isle sweater I’d borrowed.

The afternoon sky was an eerie hue of beige, pink and grey. Snowflakes grew fatter and stuck to the window. I watched until the lane completely disappeared and only the tips of the tallest privet poked through where the drifts hadn’t yet reached.

The others came back just before the power failed. It was a common occurrence, apparently. We spent the evening playing cards by candlelight and cooking food on the fire. The generator, when someone got it working, was to keep the fridge and freezer ticking over.

At some point during the following few days, I completed my work. Looking back I’d probably given up, decided it would do and gone out to join in the snowball fight. Whatever, I haven’t suffered for it and I’m still in awe of the Bronte family.

The Night is Darkening Round Me

The night is darkening round me,

The wild winds coldly blow;

But a tyrant spell has bound me

And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending

Their bare boughs weighed with snow,

The storm is fast descending

And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,

Wastes beyond wastes below;

But nothing drear can move me

I will not, cannot go.

Emily Bronte 1818 – 1848

Thank you for reading, Pamela Winning.

Read More

Winter - Baby it's cold outside.

I have prepared for Winter. They say this year is going to be very cold.  Although I love the colours in  Autumn and when working in Tenerife, truly missed the changing seasons, I am arthritic in my hands, neck and shoulders, so much prefer crisper colder days to wet and windy weather.

We rarely get heavy snowfall here on the Fylde Coast but when we do it cripples the road network. I don't think that the area actually owns a snow-plough, so when the bad weather does hit, we are marooned.  I live in a cul-de-sac that has been snowed up for weeks on two occasions, so I am not taking any chances.

My check-list begins;

• remove all sub-tropical plants indoors
• bubble-wrap other vulnerable plants
• put terracotta planters in shed wrapped in blankets
• stock pile all the windfall apples for blackbirds 
• insulate the bird-box
• fill bird feeders
• refill the hedgehog house with dry leaves
• check the external lights
• fill car boot with shovel, wellies and blankets.
• buy extra windscreen wash, de-icer and rock-salt
• stock my shed with Heinz Tomato Soup, Fray Bentos pies and loo rolls.
• buy hot chocolate, Ovaltine and Horlicks
• check footwear soles in case of leaks. 

Once all the cold weather boxes are ticked, I can confidently cope with whatever Winter sends my way.  I usually act as the taxi and shopping service for an elderly neighbour, then there is Mum who  just can't go out if the pavements are slippery.  There is always plenty to do during the few daylight hours. At night, I snuggle down and if I am really cold, pour a small snifter of brandy. But when the moon is bright , I become the ... 

 

 

 

 

Stargazer

 

In the smallest hours

as icy talons draw the frosted curtain
over saturated lawn,
the  brightness of still moonlight
pulls me into woollens, gloves and sock-filled boots   
to gaze with craning neck
upon my private piece of sky. 

Across vast, infinite blackness,

awash with crystal constellations

ringing clearly as a chime,

I begin my journey backwards
to the farthest point in time.

Spectral gems set in dark matter
guide me to creation’s mystery.
I see Orion’s belted three
and Betelgeuse’s glow.
Russet red: set to blow,   
bulging with impatience to explode in Supernova,
To give to us a second sun
that we may ponder over.

Jupiter, the juggler,

deftly holds four moons aloft.
Ganymede, Calisto,
Europa and fair Io.
Differing shapes and sizes,
shimmering colours, diverse orbits,
Sometimes two are visible,
this evening I spy three.

Now seeking pale blue Venus,

I am gripped by searing cold,
numb toes and fumbling fingers,
icy stalactites on my nose.

So back inside with warming cup,

I climb the wooden hill,
as iridescent moon
glows gently on my windowsill.
I snuggle in to hibernate
with drapes left open wide.
To sleep,
to dream of heavenly bodies
adrift in endless time. 


Thank you for reading. Wrap up warm folks. Adele   

Read More

In a Stew

Winter has long been my favourite season of the year, bringing as it does, ideally, those cold, crisp, sunny days when it is a pleasure to walk in a healthy atmosphere, hot breath colliding with frosty air to form life-confirming puffs of steam. Winter also brings the enchantment of Christmas, cosy nights in, hatches batoned, cocoa, jumpers, scarves and gloves, sherry, port, football (hmm, maybe not this season), hot toddies, furry boot slippers. And root vegetables – lots of them.

Parsnips, carrots, swedes, turnips, Jerusalem artichokes, celeriac, beetroots, ginger, sweet potatoes – these gnarled and unlovely jewels of the earth add depth and nutrition to our winter diet. Parsnip soup, spiced with cumin, coriander, cardamon and ginger; a melting gratin of layered potatoes, onions, garlic and cream; Jerusalem artichokes sliced into a stew to add an interesting smokiness; beetroots roasted with onions, garlic, cinnamon, allspice, olive oil; buttery celeriac mash; carrots and swedes mashed together with butter and parsley; a simple casserole of all of the above, with herbs and vegetable stock, simmered low and long to bring out the sweetness of the roots; a mellow mixture of roughly cubed vegetables roasted slowly in olive oil, basil, oregano.

I’m romanticising, of course, for we can buy sanitised, scrubbed up versions of these vegetables all the year round at the supermarket. But I hark back to my years as an allotmenteer, when the roots grew in profusion ready for harvesting in the winter months. There was something right and proper about hauling them from the ground in the winter months, ugly and filthy with soil (them and me!), to lug them home for a good scrub and transformation into something delicious.

It is New Year’s Eve and a time when we look back reflectively, as well as forward optimistically. I am thinking today with sadness, affection and gratitude, of all the people who have shaped my life and are no longer with us – my roots, in other words. Our roots are what equip us to go forward in life and I will at least start the new year in a hopeful frame of mind. I wish you all a happy, creative, satisfying year ahead.

To end, here is a poem about vegetables that amused me.

There aren’t many words
To rhyme with ‘vegetable’
That aren’t either laughable
or barely acceptable.
But finding those most suitable
Is fast becoming pretty insurmountable
(and, to be honest, a tad cerebral)
A vegetable
Is honest and dependable
Verging on the comfortable
And incontestably respectable.
Presentable in most receptacles
Never indigestible
But with all the potential to be absolutely delectable.
Its a shame there aren’t any words
To rhyme with ‘vegetable’
As this poem could really be incredible!

V. Robinson

Thank you for reading,

Sheilagh

Read More

Cold snap?

Why is it a heat wave and a cold snap?  What if we reversed it?


Polarwave

Summer slid down the piste like a shark
Hot on its trail came the cardigans,
then the wool mix socks
a ragged scarf about the neck
finally, the duvet was transferred to the sofa
that's when we knew it - Polarwave.

The blackbirds didn't see it coming
at night they would perch in the trees
as if it were still October
pining for a St Tropez sun
come morning, their Jurassic feet were glued
by frozen dew, formed hard about the twigs
like jaws of glass

The moon wore her halo at night without apology
while the sun seemed out of his depth; ill at ease
and we walked fairy footsteps outside
or slipped and bruised ourselves colourful
until, recklessly, we left the duvet on the bed
made love without our socks on
put the scarf to better use.

I hope that's helped to cool you down.  Thanks for reading.

Read More

Deconstructing Dick

Now is the winter of our discontent

Protests continue on a number of fronts:

• Anti-fracking (MP, Caroline Lucas to be charged for helping stage a peaceful protest)
• Many groups, including the main unions, assembling in Manchester this Sunday against the privatisation of the NHS
• UK Uncut want an end to austerity measures that hurt the poorest and advocate a tax on financial transactions
• Several groups have formed to fight the 'bedroom tax' which was recently condemned by a UN special investigator
• Journalists continue to publish details of government spying on civilians despite threats and the detention of those who help them

Made glorious summer by this sun of York;

The first Conservatives were supporters of James Stuart, Duke of York, when he was excluded from the throne for being a Catholic.  The Tories were known for their love of the monarchy and hostility towards reform of the church.

And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Take your pick.  There's the Osama bin Laden threat which was used to keep us in a state of fear, before he was killed and buried at sea, so the story goes.  Alternatively, there are the concerns over climate change and pollution which are sunk beneath piles of Newspeak and propaganda which puts the finance of private business above the state of the planet's ecosystems.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

London Olympics 2012

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

The right to protest is in a fragile state and protesters can be dispersed for 'distressing' the public.  Given the number of copies of The Daily Mail sold across the country, it is likely that there will always be a member of the public who is capable of becoming distressed at the sight of a protest.

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

Protesters often mix political anger with more entertaining messages.

Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barded steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

Boris Johnson

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;

This is how the disempowered are made to feel.  Those at the bottom are portrayed as leeches, as something broken or cancerous which needs to be cut away from the population.  Those who protest against, for example, the use of drones, are portrayed as terrorist sympathisers and detained - in the UK.


Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:

The unemployed (there are lots of these since trillions of pounds were lost by corporations who continue to reward their risk-takers while accepting handouts from our taxes) can't afford to ride on the train but they have plenty of time to become depressed over what they are told are their own failings.

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

Necessarily a villain, if your protest stands in the way of a company whose representatives are working within the government.

Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,
About a prophecy, which says that 'G'
Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.


At the Labour Party Conference, Miliband set himself up against the energy companies, threatening to freeze their prices if Labour win back power.  The energy companies feigned fury and in return threatened power cuts, this despite the extra £3billion in profits the 'impoverished' energy firms have made since the ConDem government took over.

But is this progress?  Current prices mean families are already suffering from fuel poverty.

Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here
Clarence comes.

The Transparency of Lobbying, Non-Party Campaigning and Trade Union Administration Bill could come into play from January 2014.  It can significantly reduce the campaigning activities of charities and protest groups right up until the next general election.  Many vociferous opponents of the current government may find themselves effectively gagged during that time.

  Richard III - a villain or someone written as such by history's winners?  And who will write the story of this government, when the scholars are all owned by the same companies whose interests the government represents?  Will our descendents read about the brave, heroical decisions taken by Cameron, the hero of the 21st century?

Read More

The coming frost

The coming frost

Pack up your toothbrush

Pack up your flannel

Pack up your toy duck

Shampoo and towel

Eat all your old bread

Eat all your cans

Eat all your hot soups

Cheese, eggs and ham

Find all your blankets

Find all your clothes

Find all your scarves

hat, gloves and coat

Temperature's dropping

Fire's alight

Winter is coming

I'm off, goodnight.

Read More

I Would Miss...

At the moment, with winter’s cold temperatures nipping, the idea of being stranded on a desert island is quite appealing. Those who know me will be aware of my dislike of the icy conditions – at my boyfriend’s parents’ house, my spot is the one next to the fire, while friends and family buy me gifts to ward off the cold: hot water bottles, fluffy socks, flasks and warm jumpers (all very much appreciated).

So, thinking about what I wouldn’t miss (the British weather) made me wonder what I would miss if I was stranded on a desert island:

Books – Yes, I could take a handful with me, but I would miss having the luxury of choice. Often I read (especially poetry) based on how I’m feeling at that moment; diving in and out of different books until I find something that seems compatible with my current mood.

Bubble Baths – the perfect conclusion to those ‘bad days’.

Roo – My cat; a stray who can’t purr, has more attitude than a stroppy teenager and who likes to chew toes.

My Nephews – They’re still little, still growing, still learning new things.

Shaun – Often his constant talk and messiness irritates me, but if he suddenly vanished I’d quickly miss him. He makes me laugh, holds me when I cry, inspires me, encourages me and always believes in me.

Thank you for reading,
Lara

Read More

Winter Blues

 by Ashley Lister

 Is it me or is the news getting more depressing?

Over the past few weeks there’ve been some heart-breaking and tragic stories in the news. We’ve had the posthumous allegations against Jimmy Savile. Whether these stories are true or not, all the news coverage is still a sickening reminder of the fashions that people openly wore in the 70s. We’ve had all those stories from the Tory party conference about what Darth Cameron intends to do if he is allowed to continue his apocalyptic reign of doom. It’s good to know we’ll be allowed to beat the shit out of burglars if they break into our homes. It’s just a shame that, under the current government, no one will be able to afford their own home before much longer.

As winter draws closer, the news will invariably become grimmer. Fuel bills will increase; sunlight hours will decrease; the weather, generally, will grow more unpleasant and, worst of all, everyone will be talking about football.

To that end, I suggest we should try and introduce some counter measures against the impending hiemal depression. I’ve been scouring the internet for ways to beat the winter blues and I’ve stumbled on five potential ideas that might be of use.

1) Express your creativity: You’ve come to the right place for this one. Write a poem and share it with us here at the Dead Good Blog.

2) Walk a dog: This one involves fresh air and the companionship of something furry with the ability to lick its own nether regions. Who could ask for more?

3) Talk with friends: And I mean talk! None of this txt msg wnk or tweeting or chat-room bollocks. Face-to-face talking where you can smell your friend’s nasty breath. (NB – don’t tell your friends that they have nasty breath).

4) Do something different: such as visiting a poetry event, like the one that will be occurring at the No. 5 Café on Friday October 26^th. It’s an Open Mic event with a theme of Ghostly Goings-On. Poetry begins at 6:00pm and it should be a great night’s entertainment.

5) Stay away from weirdoes like Dead Jimmy Savile and Darth Cameron. This, I feel, is self explanatory. It also helps to stay away from weirdoes who enjoy talking about football although, on this blog, that’s sometimes unavoidable.

If you have any personal suggestions for how to beat the winter blues, please share them in the comments box below.

Read More

Hair is grey and the fires are burning

We are separated, finally, not by death but life.
We cling to the dead, but the living break away.

From Winter Song by Carolyn Kizer

Winter has a reputation for harshness.  It brings with it a dose of reality, or mortality.  We are ill equipped to face this season and the sense of endings which it drags in its cold, grey wake.  No matter how many winters we witness, how many deaths we endure, the finality maintains its capacity to horrify us.

What of the separation of which Carolyn Kizer speaks?  What of the endings which are inevitable in the tumult of living?  Disagreement, incompatibility, impracticality?  Some places we have tended, carefully, become barren.  They no longer provide the sustenance essential to life.  The ground turns hard, the landscape unwelcoming.  Do we stubbornly plough the frozen ground, thinking Spring to be on the horizon?  Or do we walk away from that place?  Can we leave it behind, knowing that not only can we never return but that some other might find that sacred place, knowing a way to tend that land which we hadn't imagined, and yield the sweet harvest which we imagined in the beginning?

Some things must end.  This is the fact.  Endings feed beginnings.  Old matter nourishes the ground, feeding the seedlings.  It is right to cling to the dead, to remember what has passed.  It is equally right that we let them go, with love, and acknowledge the elegance of the cycle.  More difficult is it to walk away from the living.  Even when the leaves have fallen, the stems become brown and brittle, we remember how the meadow looked in the height of summer, brazen and dazzling - teeming with life and possibility.

When the living break away what can we do, but trust in Winter's necessity, think on the lost loves of the dead, and rest a while, nourishing ourselves in the dark.

Read More

Winter is Coming

by Ashley Lister

As has been noted, there has been a confrontational quality to my writing over the past few weeks. This has been noted in my angst-fuelled poetry, it has been noted in my furious fiction and it has been evinced in the internal memos I’ve been sending to some of the a***holes at the workplace.

I blame it on the encroaching summertime.

I do not like summertime.

Whilst many people enjoy the warm weather and extended hours of daylight, I am not a lover of summertime. I find it is an affront to the senses:

In the summer time, I find, there is too much bare flesh on the promenade.

Those who know me will be aware that I’m not a prude. Truth be told, I have a penchant for bare flesh and could look at it for hours. However, I have little time for the pasty-coloured bare flesh that gets exposed on the prom during a British summer. Half the time it’s like looking at a skinned halibut in a bikini. The rest of the time it’s not quite so attractive.

I also find there is too much perspiration.

It’s been said that deodorants and common sense are never used by those people who most badly need them. I shall say no more on the subject except to mention that summer offends my sense of smell.

Our national anticipation of summertime is a constant irritation. Everyone in the UK acts as though we’re going to have a California heatwave starting in late May and continuing until early September. When the reality kicks in, three mild days before a Bank Holiday downpour, everyone acts with aggrieved disappointment.

Personally I think we should start investing our hopes in one of the other seasons. The other three are more dependable because of their consistent ability to deliver. I’m hoping for a really crappy autumn this year, followed by a dire, miserable winter and an unsatisfying and unmemorable spring. If we approach the seasons with this mindset, even if our hopes are dashed, we won’t be disappointed. 

Read More

if winter comes can spring be far behind?

By Ashley Lister

If Winter comes can Spring be far behind?

This is the final line from ‘Ode to the West Wind’ by Percy Bysshe Shelley. I came across these words the week before last as I was researching poetic forms for one of my creative writing classes.

I was surprised by this line for two reasons.

Primarily, I was surprised because I’ve heard the phrase quoted before, but I’d never previously seen the whole poem. It was a pleasure to put the phrase in context – almost like mentally completing a jigsaw.

But I was surprised by the poem for another reason.

Over the past few years I’ve taught a wide variety of poetic forms and I sometimes worry that I’ve worked with every established form of poetry that’s been recorded. I’ve worked with poetic forms from abecedaries through to Zéjels and many more in between. But it seems there are an infinite variety of poetic forms. And, whilst I was looking through records of what I’ve taught and what’s still out there waiting to be taught, I came across Shelley’s ‘Ode to the West Wind.’

Obviously, I’ve taught the concept of odes before. Technically, the ode is not a poetic form. Length, meter, rhyme scheme and structure can all vary in the ode dependent on the needs of the writer and the way the subject matter needs to be presented. But ‘Ode to the West Wind’ is written in the form of a Terza Rima and that’s a form I hadn’t previously covered in my classes.

The Terza Rima is originally an Italian form that’s been used by Milton, Shelley, Byron, Frost and Dante Alighieri. It’s written in tercets (three lined stanzas) with a rhyme scheme of aba bcb cdc (and so on) until the final stanza. The final stanza can either be a single line, relating back to the middle rhyme of the penultimate stanza, (yzy z) or it can be a concluding couplet (xyx zz).

The structure suits iambic pentameter or iambic tetrameter and the interlocking rhyme scheme presents a neat little form that is a challenge to write and a pleasure to read. This is the opening from the aforementioned poem by Shelley. The rest of it can be found through this link: (http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15693)

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,

Each like a corpse within its grave, until

Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)

With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;

Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!

And, if anyone here is up to the Saturday challenge of building a poem, let’s see if we can each contribute a tercet in the comments box below.

Which moron here chose the dragon topic

For this winter’s dead good poet’s event?

The theme’s making me feel misanthropic…

Read More

A Coventry Snow Storm

I haven't written a poem since I quit smoking 10 days ago. I have lost the ability to concentrate. I have felt restless rather than inspired. However, I decided to challenge myself to write a poem for this week's post. I decided it was time to force my mind to focus. I decided to prove to myself that I can write - and that I can write without the aid of cigarettes... It was a challenge, hence the lateness of this post.

Coventry Blizzard, 1990

During the night it fell at steady rate. Large flakes racing down

through street light shine, through the searching full-beam lights

of a lone motorist travelling home on white tarmac roads;

his tyres pressing a snow leopard print along the length of the street,

creating two shaky lines of imperfection

which nature quickly filled and smoothed.

By morning, cars had been transformed into cotton wool hills,

phone lines draped down wooden poles and slithered across the ground.

Communication severed; a city left to wait and thaw in silence.

We missed school; built a snowman in the front garden,

gave him two stone eyes and twiggy arms. Finger-carved a smile on his face, 

placed one of dad’s silk ties around his neck.

For the rest of the day I sat in the bay window, watching. Thinking

I could bring him to life with nothing more than hope

and the power of my own mind.

At lunchtime I ate jam sandwiches, drank warm blackcurrant squash.

Kept my gaze fixed on the snowman’s stone stare,

waiting to see a blink, anything to prove him real.

But I saw nothing, nothing except two little girls in t-shirts and jeans.

Like a modern Dickensian scene they struggled

with a pushchair through the snow;

a sack of potatoes where a baby would normally sit.

The children’s lips were the colour of winter’s first frost, their skin

ghostly like an early morning December mist,

and as I sat in the window, the snowman slowly shrunk.

Thinking. Hoping. Wishing for something else. 

Thank you for reading,
Lar

Read More