Here Comes the Weekend

 As a child I remember looking forwards to the weekends, but thinking back now, they weren’t the best times. Age eleven, I was miserable in my secondary school and Friday teatimes were wonderful. No school for two whole days. Saturday morning and I would will my parents to forget about my piano lesson. If it wasn’t mentioned, it didn’t exist. It didn’t work. The fated hour would be nearly upon me and I would be transported by my dad’s car to the home of the horrible man, subject of nightmares. I would sit rigid and hit the keys hard in a display of my anger. I hated every moment and each week I promised myself I would speak out and it would be my last. I never did. Sundays were bath, hair wash, Sunday School then the rest of the day would be family time. We would either be visiting or having visitors. It was always good and remained so until after tea. That was when the worry started. The sinking feeling of dreading school tomorrow, remembering the piece of unfinished homework, the maths I hadn't understood, the poem I forgot to learn by heart, the items for cookery I didn't ask for. I don't know why I looked forward to weekends at all.

In adult life, weekends offered a mix of welcome rest time after a hard week at work and being out and about socialising. A day out or sometimes a whole weekend away would be a good way to relax and enjoy something or somewhere different.

Becoming parents changed the way we planned weekends. Activities for the children were a priority even if it was just a play on the park and an ice cream. Junior football became my pet hate. I love the game, I always have, but some awful parents I encountered made my blood boil. It would upset me to witness five and six year old little lads having fun running with the ball, being seriously shouted at because they haven’t yet developed the skills some parents expected them to be born with. I would dread the times I had to take our little lad on my own. I would stand watching, keeping to myself.

Since retirement, the days are much the same and weekends disappear almost completely. We know it is Saturday when there’s a home match on and we’re in our places at Bloomfield Road. My husband is once again on the touchline at grassroots level, taking our football playing middle grandson to his matches. We’re starting to plan a few short breaks away with our caravan, but we tend to go midweek when places are quieter, so I suppose that becomes a kind of ‘weekend’ for us.

I remember Mackintosh’s Weekend, a boxed collection of mixed chocolates and posh sweets. They would be my mum’s and rarely shared. It’s the first thing I thought of when I saw the theme for this blog, so I had to mention it.

No poem today. Instead I share an excerpt of lyrics from ‘Here Comes the Weekend’, a Moody Blues song written by John Lodge,

Somewhere in the night
There’s a heart that beats so fast
I can feel the heat
Of the fire in your eyes,
Burning like a naked flame,
Waiting for the ice to break,
Counting down the days,
Waiting for the weekend.
Lonely is the night.
Silence is a friend to walk with,
With no one else to talk to.
Somewhere in the heat
There’s a heart that beats so fast
I can hear your voice,
Talk to me tonight.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Brown Study - Daydreaming

I hadn’t heard of ‘brown study’. When I looked it up and did a bit of online research, I quickly realised that I do it all the time. Deep in thought, away with the fairies, that’s me and seemingly more so at the moment. There is a lot going on to fill my head with worry and make me stressful. Of course, things will improve, but I’ve got to get through the here and now. I drift off into my thoughts, trying to reason things out or work out what to do. There is rarely a solution.

This morning I was enjoying the stroll in the cool air to a group I attend. I was wondering if I would have better staying at home because I was feeling upset and close to tears, but the short walk would do me good and I love to catch up with my friends there. I stopped to cross a road, turned to check for traffic and jumped out of my skin to see one of my friends next to me. She’d been saying my name. I hadn’t heard her. I was away in my own little world of oblivion. We walked the rest of the way together, chatting about the mild weather after I’d explained that I was fine, just lost in a daydream.

I’m struggling to concentrate when reading. I’m near to the end of what is a re-read of a good book and I keep losing it, literally. The paragraphs give way to me overthinking something, so I go over it again then often nod off. It isn’t a boring book, well, some might disagree, but I love the story and it is a real rediscovery now, as a mature adult. I think I was about eighteen when it was mandatory reading and, I confess, some of the content was lost on me. The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, thank you, Robert Tressell.

My personal brown study isn’t always about what I might be fretting over at the moment. Sometimes I travel way back, reliving nice happenings, or being angry with myself over doing things I now consider stupid – we make mistakes, learn from them and move on – I don’t need to beat myself up fifty years later. Most of what haunts me from the past are things and events that I had absolutely no control over and remain in residence in a brain cell.

I found this poem meaningful. It’s written by C. Vergara, published on Poetry Soup.

Deep thoughts, without blinking
In a trance, deep thinking

Voices of yesteryear, instilling neurotic fear
Deeper and deeper, across my hemisphere.

Deep thoughts, within my soul
Bringing my running to a slow crawl

Trying to avoid it, but can’t control it
Like a ‘who done it’, I can’t outrun it

Deep thoughts, take over my mind
They begin to grind what’s left behind.

It’s a sign, rectifying
My essence in time.

                              C. Vergara 9/6/2010

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Don't Let The Balloon Burst

Believe me, you don’t know the meaning of the word 'stress' unless you have taken a buggy, a large suitcase, a backpack, a handbag, a carrier bag full of snacks and games, a comfort blanket and three children under four on a two hundred and fifty mile train journey (with, not one, but two changes). If you haven’t wiped noses, hands and bums at least thirty times on that journey (and this before the advent of convenient baby wipes), picked up off the floor, crayons, half eaten sandwiches, squashed grapes and the sausage roll that nobody wanted; taken those desperate children several times to the fascinating (smelly) toilet, so that they can tell you they ‘don’t need to go now,’ as you sit wearily upon the lav, and watch in slow motion as they fight over pressing the button that quietly opens the door to reveal you in all your glory to the suited and booted businessman waiting in the corridor.  No, unless you have done that journey, under those conditions, please don’t tell me you know what stress is. 

Alternatively, if you have no children and are feeling pretty smug about it, then ponder for a moment on technology.  Just last week, as I was attempting to upload a couple of hundred images to my Mac, it first flooded  the screen with yellow triangles, warning about misdemeanours I’d committed and mishaps that would befall me (none of which I fully understood and some of which were downright baffling), and then, very dramatically, froze before displaying a language consisting entirely of question marks. After a few moments of puzzled frowning, and muttered expletives, I tried to restart the machine. The screen went black and despite several attempts to coax it back into life, it refused to do anything but remain defiantly dark. I knew this day was coming. I’d been chancing my luck for the last few months, overcoming problems on a wing and a prayer. Things weren’t looking good. The next few days were filled with the kind of stress that comes with panic.  I was desperate not to lose images and documents and programs and apps.  When I got a (very short) window of opportunity before it all crashed again, I frantically moved everything possible onto the External Hard Drive.  I won’t go into the details, mainly because I can't remember them, but suffice to say, I had three full days of stress and anxiety over that Mac.  By some miracle, I managed to pull it all back, but by that time I was not only stressed to the point of feeling ill, but also exhausted through hours of trial and error. 

A Novel Screen?

There was only one thing more stressful than dealing with my own technological problems, and that was sorting out my 92 year old dad’s.  He did so well to even get on the computer at his age, not to mention sorting bank transfers, writing essays and emailing friends, but if anything went wrong he was flummoxed.  As he lived over two hundred miles away and didn’t know his archive from his El Capitan it was an afternoon’s job, requiring supreme patience.  There were times when my stress levels were through the roof, as I saw time ticking away and heard my dad saying for the third time, ‘but which one is the address bar?’ or ‘how do I move onto the next line?’ And once, woefully, ‘but now the screen’s gone sideways!’  I always kept my patience and didn’t let him know I was stressed but it was an effort - and my poor husband got the brunt of it once I came off the phone after a couple of hours.

I’ve always been a pretty stressy person. I’d love not to, but I worry about almost everything.  I’m convinced there’s some sort of cavity in my head that is there exclusively for problems. No sooner do I get rid of one worry than another takes its place. That Problem Cavity must always have to be filled, and believe me, that’s one problem I don’t have - filling it. I’d love to be one of those laid back people like my husband, who floats along, batting away worries like annoying bluebottles. I’ve decided that I now take on his worries as well as my own. I’ve also realised, as time’s gone on and the family has grown to include children, grandchildren, great nephews and nieces, that the bigger the family, the more stressed I become.  I love my family dearly, and we’re all extremely close but there are more and more people to worry about.  I put it down to a vivid imagination.  Somebody only has to be five minutes late and I’ve got them kidnapped by a knife wielding maniac, under a bus or down a ravine, and I’m ordering wreaths for their funeral. 

That’s extreme, and I’m happy to say that these days I do try my best to keep my stress levels under control.  When I was really ill with depression and anxiety several years ago, I visited an amazing psychiatrist, who, I would say, saved my life.  One thing that  sticks in my mind, is the balloon analogy, and although it didn’t work instantly, it’s something I always think about if things start getting too much. 

There comes a point in all our lives when we need to let some air out of our balloons.

Here's my poem:

Don't Let the Balloon Burst

He looks at me over half moon specs

Fleetingly, I think 

he looks like a caricature of what he is

A psychiatrist 

Kind eyes, no real humour

but then none here either

‘Your head is like a balloon,’ he says 

in that calm, quiet voice 

I would laugh in other circumstances 

‘The air going in,’ he continues

‘is the stress’ 

I don’t have the energy to nod 

‘If you don’t let some out…’

I stare at a mole on his face

waiting to hear what could happen

‘The balloon will burst.’ 

I nod

I don’t want my balloon to burst

‘No more air in - let some out,’ he whispers

I drive home, my balloon still full

Imagining the bang.

Thanks for reading, Jill

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On the Doorstep - Stretford 1958

Stretford, 1958, me, my mum, my nanna and my great grandmother, Nanna Polly grouped together for a family photograph on the doorstep of Nanna Polly’s house. I can remember being shuffled about to place everyone exactly right, and wearing my beautiful dress made by my other nanna. Our four generations, never to happen again, which makes the photograph all the more special.  Nanna Polly passed away the following year then ten years later my mum died which broke the links in the chain.

It has been a year of everything being placed on our doorstep, quite literally.  On a personal level, Covid 19 changed the way we live and the way we shop. We’ve done grocery shopping online for years. This has increased to the, butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker, or that’s how it sometimes seems.

The first lockdown brought me fear and worry as we stayed at home, shielding from the outside world. One day, there was a wonderful surprise that started with a message from our niece.

“I bet you a million pounds there’s a shoebox outside your front door.”

What? Of course, I went to look. On the doorstep was a shoebox, with a note wishing us well and hoping we enjoy the contents. It was jam packed – including jam – with all the tasty goodies to put together an afternoon tea with lots of extra treats.

I was overwhelmed. Our niece, a busy NHS frontline worker, adored by us all, had gone to such trouble to make us this fantastic gift which was very welcome. I didn’t see her or hear her drive away. What a special lady, our angel. I think she made one for her mum, too. If you’re reading this, Jo, we salute you.

Good old Amazon, I couldn’t have managed Christmas without you. Day after day, another parcel delivered and placed on the doorstep as I organised gifts for the family and planned some sort of socially distanced Christmas Dinner at our house.

I’m the only survivor of my four generations.  I’m in awe of the strength of character my nanna and great grandmother must have had to endure two world wars and all the hardship and heart break that life threw at them. Both of them lost children in infancy. My great grandmother was only twenty-seven when she was widowed and lost her five year old daughter all within a fortnight.  I’m proud to be standing on that doorstep, surrounded by their love. I hope they’ve passed some of their northern grit down to me.

I found this poem by Thomas Hardy,

On the Doorstep
The rain imprinted the step’s wet shine
With target-circles that quivered and crossed
As I was leaving this porch of mine;
When from within there swelled and paused
A song’s sweet note;
And back I turned, and thought,
“Here I’ll abide.”

The step shines wet beneath the rain,
Which prints its circles as heretofore;
I watch them from the porch again,
But no song-notes within the door
Now call to me
To shun the dripping lea
And forth I stride.

Thomas Hardy, written in January, 1914 – and I wanted to add, ‘Yep, out you go!’

(If you remember the photo, apologies for using it again, though it was ages ago.)

Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x

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What If - Everything Vanishes

 

A Happy New Year to you.

One thing after another has prevented me from being an active blogger in recent weeks. I’m very happy to be back.

I over-think things. I worry. My head is full of the crazy imaginings of ‘worst case scenarios’ and if the thoughts were visible it might look like a flow chart of What Ifs. Actually no, because flow charts are organised and logical, and my mind is not.

The cruel What Ifs are currently busy. Recent health issues made me give in and reluctantly visit the doctor. Tests, then more tests and a hospital referral to reassure me, only it doesn’t  reassure, the prospect is something I find scary and full of What Ifs. These particular What Ifs, dormant during my busy day, line up and take turns to confront me when they are magnified by my tiredness.

A saying from childhood keeps coming back to me, ‘If ifs and ands were pots and pans there’d be no work for tinker’s hands’. I don’t know what it really means, feel free to enlighten me, but I think it’s telling me not to worry about things I can’t control.

Our fourth grandchild, a girl, is days away from being born. She could decide to arrive any time and we are excited to meet her. Our daughter and her partner want me to be there at the birth, as I was for their boys, and I hope I can be. This is another set of What Ifs, dearie me, but these are nice ones.

Here are a few of my worrying thoughts.

 

What if I lose the desire to write?

What if I don’t have the power to fight?

What if the words start refusing to rhyme?

What if I find I’m running out of time?

What if I go off Italian food?

What if my mood is forever subdued?

What if I can’t have Tia Maria?

What if I can’t feel my loved ones are near?

What if I can’t hear the music I choose?

What if there’s no Mozart or Moody Blues?

What if I forget all that I have known?

What if I forget all that I was shown?

 

  

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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My thoughts are the antlers

Sorry it's a late one today.  As the sun sets on another day of salty underarms, burned lawns and panting dogs, here is an exercise (#3 to be precise) from one of my poetry workshops. 

In touch with nature

Stories and poems which include strong visual imagery are more likely to be retained by the reader.  Use visualisation to put yourself in a scene and make it vivid for yourself.  If you can see what you’re describing you’re more likely to be able to make it clear for the readers.

Exercise 3:

Write down an emotion:

 e.g. worry

Think of an animal to represent that emotion:

e.g. sparrow

Think of a scene for that animal to exist in:

e.g. garden path

Think of an action for that animal to carry out:

e.g. watching

Create your example of metaphorical nature-based imagery:

e.g. She paces at the window

       a sparrow on the garden path

       restless

       eyes searching the trees

       for the ill-fitting shadow

        

And here are some examples of superlative nature-based poetry which should inspire you to look at the details around you and capture them for your own nefarious poetic means.  Enjoy!

The moment Echo saw Narcissus

She was in love.  She followed him

Like a starving wolf

Following a stag too strong to be tackled.

And like a cat in winter at a fire

She could not edge close enough

To what singed her, and would burn her.

Ted Hughes, from Tales from Ovid (1997)

You know me as a turbulent ocean

clouded with thunder and drama.

Carolyn Kizer, from In the First Stanza

 

I’ll chatter metaphysics with a chimpanzee, now

                        my thoughts are the antlers of the Irish elk,

                                                the wings of flightless birds, peptides

                                                spelling out the phrase

                                                very like a whale

Brook Emery, from Very like a Whale

No lik the past which lies

Strewn around.  Nor sudden death.

No like a lover we’ll ken

An connect wi forever.

The hem of its goin drags across the sky.

Kathleen Jamie, from Skeins o Geese

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Anxiety and Me

At four I push myself to the middle of a privet bush.

At five I stand frozen at the edge of the swimming pool.

At seven I lock the car door at traffic lights, and unlock it when we're moving.

At nine I start biting my fingernails.

At ten I never put my hand up.

At twelve I press my forehead against a radiator and pretend to be ill.

At thirteen I run.

At fourteen I write my mind into a diary.

At fifteen I fracture into a thousand pieces.

At sixteen I fail my English oral exam.

At seventeen I faint.

At eighteen I feel like I'm drowning on dry land.

At nineteen I try a cigarette for the first time.

At twenty-one I sit in the dark.

At twenty-three I start biting my fingernails again.

At twenty-four I f**k up my first year exams and forget how to spell 'literature'.

At twenty-five I listen to Simon and Garfunkel's I Am a Rock on repeat.

At twenty-six I look at an unopened envelope for over three hours.

At twenty-seven I feel like an ant in a wind-tunnel.

At twenty-eight I grind my teeth while I sleep.

At twenty-nine I cut myself off from the world.

At thirty I start smoking again.

Thank you for reading, 

Lara

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First Day Nerves

I couldn’t write this post last night, nor could I write it this morning. I couldn’t write it for one reason: I was panicking, fretting, worrying, and was even convinced for a moment that I was about to die suddenly from a heart attack. Obviously, I didn’t die – I’m not writing this from beyond the grave – and my anxiety has now quietened to a mere mumble. Therefore, I feel able to write again...

Today I started back at Lancaster (this is what caused the shortness of breath and rapid heart rate), and I was filled with both a sense of excitement and one of dread. I’m not very good at change. I’m not very good at meeting new people. I’m not very good at being sociable. Therefore, first days are always difficult. I mention this because – as I drove back from Lancaster, having survived the first day – it struck me that my antonymic emotions are not dissimilar to the way in which I feel before writing a poem. There is often an element of enthusiasm – a new idea, a single line, or even just a title is enough to unlock smile-faced serotonins. But at the same time there’s an injection of trepidation, and this always seems to steal away any opportunity of writing a poem that is solely fuelled by untarnished excitement. However, I’ve learnt (sort of) to appreciate both the favoured and unfavoured; to realise that enthusiasm inspires me, while the doubt is the force that moves me, causes things to happen, creates a ‘final’ draft. If I was less self-doubting, I’m almost certain that I wouldn’t write.

This week’s theme is ‘best resource’ and for me, personally, I’d have to say that self-doubt belongs in my top five resources. Yes, I realise it isn’t concrete. It can’t be acquired at the library. It doesn’t have a website that you can visit, and you can’t subscribe to it monthly. But, in terms of poetry, I believe that it is the main thing that pushes me to be the poet that I’d like to be. It’s the editor that I don’t have to pay for. It’s the critic, who keeps me grounded and always asks that I give more.

Alongside the slightly odd choice of ‘self-doubt’, there are also a few more conventional resources on my list: my Roget’s thesaurus, my dictionary, photographs and, when all else fails, ‘Thinking Putty’ (thanks Katy).

Thank you for reading my Tuesday afternoon post,

Lar

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