Are Songs Poetry? - Yes

 Are songs poetry?

 That’s a broad question and something that my late friend and poet Christo Heyworth had an ongoing gentle debate with. It was concerning the songs of the Moody Blues, both Christo and I being ‘experts’ on their work. I was ‘yes’ because I find the lyrics to most of their songs poetic, depending on the writer, and all of their albums contain a poem by the late Graeme Edge, drummer and a founder member of the band. Graeme’s poems were performed or recorded as the spoken word set to music and often by Mike Pinder. Graeme’s poems which became actual songs include ‘I’ll Be Level With You’ from the Octave album. I showed Christo my prized copy of one of Graeme’s poetry books. As for songs being poetry, he was a definite ‘no’. I couldn’t persuade him otherwise, but we had some great conversations about it at poetry evenings. We discussed other things too, like the paintings of L.S.Lowry and Christo’s visits to poetry events in Much Wenlock, Shropshire. Christo was always excellent company with lots of interesting topics to share. I wonder what he might have thought of my other poetic song choices.

The lyrics of The Smiths, Morrissey, Oasis, Liam and Noel Gallagher, I can read as poetry. Their creative use of language appeals to me and really makes me listen. Liam’s ‘Paper Crown’ and Morrissey’s ‘Every Day is Like Sunday’ are just two examples of what would be a very long list. I was about sixteen when I first saw Raymond ‘Gilbert’ O’Sullivan on Top of the Pops singing ‘Nothing Rhymed’. There he was, an odd looking bloke with an over-sized cap, sounding a bit like George Formby. He captured my attention with the poetry of his words.

Not all songs can work as poems but poems can work as songs, and I don’t just mean The Song of Hiawatha by Longfellow – I can still recite the part I had to learn by heart in the first year of high school, but I’ll spare you that. I will complain that schools don’t include learning poetry by heart or even reading a whole book, from what I can gather. Anyway, that aside, Robert Burns wrote ballads and sang them, ‘My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose’ and ‘Auld Lang Syne’, two that come to mind.

Radio DJ and musician, Mike Read, wrote music to accompany some of John Betjeman’s poems. Quote from Wikipedia, “…Thirty of these songs were recorded by artists including Cliff Richard, David Essex, Gene Pitney and Marc Almond for the 2006 various artists’ album Words/Music, and subsequently re-released in 2008 as a double CD titled Sound of Poetry. Read’s production of the musical ‘Betjeman’ based on the above has occasionally been staged for charities, including the Royal Marsden Hospital and Children with Leukaemia.”  One of my favourites is David Essex singing Myfanwy.

With an apologetic nod to Christo, though I'm sure he wouldn't mind and would even expect it, I'll finish where I started with the Moody Blues. This time, John Lodge with 'my song', and to me, a poem.

  

One More Time to Live  -  John Lodge

Look out of my window
See the world passing by
See the look in her eye

One more time to live and I have made it mine
Leave the wise to write for they write worldly rhymes

And he who wants to fight begins the end of time...
For I have riches more than these
For I have riches more than these

Desolation
Creation
Tell me someone why there's only confusion
Evolution

Tell me someone that this is all an illusion
Pollution
Tell me someone
Saturation

Tell me someone
Population
Annihilation
Revolution

Tell me someone why this talk of revolution
Confusion
Tell me someone when we're changing evolution
Illusion

Tell me someone
Conclusion
Tell me someone
Starvation

Degradation
Humiliation
Contemplation
Changes in my life

Inspiration
Elation
Changes in my life
Salvation

Changes in my life
Communication
Compassion
Solution

Look out on the hedgerow
As the world rushes by
Hear the birds sign a sigh

One more tree will fall how strong the growing vine
Turn the earth to sand and still permit no crime
How one thought will live provide the others die
For I have riches more than these
For I have riches more than these

(From the album Every Good Boy Deserves Favour, 1971)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Screen Crush - Rowdy, Heathcliff and Robert

 

I recently watched the 1940 film, ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ on TV. It’s dark, disturbing and honest of the time, but falls short of John Steinbeck’s excellent book in typical Hollywood style of failing to follow stories to the end. Anyway, what struck me this time – I’ve seen it before – is how good-looking Henry Fonda was. I wouldn’t call him a screen crush, not for me, but he had perfect jaw alignment which gave him a fabulous smile. This gene was inherited by his son, Peter and daughter Jane. All have been screen idols for many fans.

For me, having a screen crush started when I was about five years old. I could stay up on a Friday evening to watch ‘Rawhide’ and fall in love with Rowdy Yates aka Clint Eastwood. It was good to see all the episodes again when the TV channel TCM did a complete run on them. I hadn’t remembered any of the stories but they did take me back in my mind to our cosy sitting-room over the pub, coal fire and a tiny black and white TV screen. This was family time, c.1959/60, priceless. Clint Eastwood has continued to be one of my favourites, but not my one and only.

My head was turned by another. His name was Heathcliff. Again, we had Hollywood spoiling a good book by telling only half a tale, as I discovered in later years when I read, re-read and studied Wuthering Heights, but I was only eleven when I was first smitten. We were in the living-room of the quiet house we had for a while when my mum wasn’t well enough to help run the pub. We still had a tiny black and white TV. I might have missed the very beginning of the film, but I was soon drawn in and as the character Heathcliff emerged, I was star struck. My mum told me the actor was Laurence Olivier. I’ve seen all of his films over and over. Max de Winter in ‘Rebecca’ was another Heathcliff moment. I owe him everything I’ve been able to get to grips with by Shakespeare. His life and his work have been of great interest to me. Returning to ‘Wuthering Heights’, I have seen many TV productions but for me, Laurence Olivier is the definitive Heathcliff.

If you know me, you’ll understand that I couldn’t miss out a certain person who has entertained me on the small screen in recent years. I refer to him as my mid-life crush, my toy-boy fantasy in an innocent way. Robert Peston. I can nearly hear the ‘who, what, why?’ Well, I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. He’s a journalist and writer, currently the political editor for ITV and has his own politics show for ITV on Wednesday nights. It’s been a slow burn over a few years. I used to find him irritating in his TV journalist delivery. One day, driving through Ayrshire, I was listening to him in conversation on the Jeremy Vine radio show. Robert’s wife had died. He was talking about how they met, married, her illness, his feelings, then, he’d had a burglary at their home and jewellery, including his late wife’s wedding ring had been taken. I was upset by everything he’d gone through and began to see him as less irritating and more of a person I’d like to hug and reassure. More recently, he’s been fortunate in
finding love again and I wish him every happiness.

My haiku,

Friday night Rawhide
With my heart throb, Rowdy Yates,
When I was five – ish.
Clint Eastwood, so cool,
And he’s still a handsome man
In his mature years.

Then there was Heathcliff
Who swept me clean off my feet,
Rugged Yorkshire Moors.
I didn’t look back,
Yes, Laurence Olivier,
Screen love of my life.

Wednesday nights I am
Beguiled by Robert Peston,
Late night politics.
I’m not listening,
Not properly, anyway.
Just fascinated.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Retirement - Just Go With The Flow

Retirement.  That’s the time to wind down, take up a stress free hobby, go for gentle walks, watch daytime TV and meet friends for long lunches, right? Wrong. Certainly in my case.  

I’ve always been busy.  Babysitting came first.  In the sixties, parents, unbelievably, trusted an unknown 12 year old to look after their offspring.  I had three families on the go, one of them with four very lively children, all of whom drove me to distraction.  Once they were finally in bed I used to eat my way through the cupboards and spend hours on the phone to my best friend who was babysitting just across the road.  

At 13 I got my first ‘proper’ job, working in a mini market on a Saturday morning (10/- for four hours - that’s 12.5p per hour in today’s money) and then, in addition, at 15 I took on working in a dentists on a Sunday (I can’t remember the pay now, but I know I hated the whole thing).  One of the fathers from the babysitting job was a dentist. He was Jewish, hence the Sunday opening.  His practice was in Stamford Hill which was a fair way from where I lived in Southgate, and meant that I had to travel with him in his car.  I was a very shy teen and he was a grumpy, monosyllabic, old (to me) man, who probably had no more desire to take me with him than I had to be there, squashed up against him in his noisy Fiat 500.  Thankfully, that job came to an abrupt end when I persuaded my dad to phone Mr Cardash and tell him I was so busy revising for my GCEs that I wouldn’t be able to work for him any more.  In fact, most Sundays, I was lying in bed till lunchtime then spending about two hours on clothes, hair and make up, and meeting my best friend to talk about boys.

At about the same time I answered an advert in a shop window for somebody to look after a little boy and do some light cleaning.  I was hopeless at cleaning but I loved children, and the lady who took me on seemed pretty desperate so the job was mine.  It turned out that Myra Schneider was a writer and spent most of the time in her study whilst I looked after Benji and half heartedly wiped a cloth around the house.  Interestingly, I’m still in touch with Myra*, who is now in her 80s and continues to write, having had several books of poetry published over the past 50 years.  I’d like to think I played a small part in her success.  

To prevent this turning into a four page blog post (and, after all, it’s supposed to be about retirement - we’ll never get there) suffice to say my CV is long. In addition to the above, in no particular order: barmaid, shop worker, novelty cake maker, graphic designer, typographer, market stall holder, craft teacher, cafe worker, caterer, school dinner lady, deli assistant, factory worker (shoes; catalogues), teacher and GP admin assistant. 

And then came retirement. With hindsight, I was lucky that a new Head came to the school that I’d happily worked in for 15 years.  Without her appointment, the subsequent two year dispute and the final decent payout I would never have taken early retirement.  As it was, it coincided with the birth of my first grandchild, and the need for a childminder several days a week.  The decision was made, and at 55, I gave up half my teachers’ pension to relax and enjoy life.  Oh and look after a lively baby.  That’s one thing I’ve never regretted.  Fifteen years later, the relationship with my first grandchild is testament to the time we spent together.

Once my childminding duties had been cut down to just a few days a week (with three more grandchildren added to the mix) I felt the need to get busy again, and secured a part time job at a GP surgery.  I was taken on to cover for three months for someone who was off sick.  Six years later, I reluctantly gave in my notice, as my interest in photography became more intense.  

My life has never had a grand plan.  Things have happened to me by chance, and I’ve always been happy to go with the flow.  Retirement has been no different.  Fate brought me into contact with Claire Walmsley Griffiths and the original altBlackpool online magazine, where I could make use of two of my favourite activities: writing and photography.  I met more local creatives and seemed to be accepted into their midst, despite being at least twenty years older than most of them.  My photography took off and went from strength to strength. I began to feel that my life had gone full circle, from Art College in the early ‘70s to the Blackpool art scene 50 years later.  

Oh, and I wrote a book

Finally, in retirement, I found my ideal job. 

This week’s poem is not one of my own, but one I’ve loved for a very long time.  I think it was written for me….

Warning by Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick flowers in other people’s gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Thanks for reading……..Jill

And thanks to everybody who has snapped me taking photos.

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...or get off the pot

This week the theme is advice for aspiring writers. 

From all the books I have read about writing, all the people I have spoken to about writing and all the interviews I have read, listen to or watched with writers about the craft of writing, I have only two major piece of advice.

First,

Writers read,

You may not agree,

But I assure you this,

Reading is bliss.

And not just the stuff you adore,

That’s a bore.

Challenge yourself, be bold,

Let others work unfold.

For good and for bad,

Happy and sad,

In their words you will find,

Your own voice, but mind,

Careful not to copy,

That’s just sloppy.

But seeing is knowing,

Reading is sowing,

Your ideas will grow,

Words will flow.

And with the help of books,

Within your minds nooks,

The pieces will fit,

The plot you will knit,

And you know how and how not to,

Put the words down from inside of you,

Second,

Writers write,

Quite obvious right?

Yet still they use excuse,

Not produced,

Too happy, too sad,

You’re a writer, too bad.

You put the words out on paper,

Deal with them later.

But the writing is happening,

Not waiting for less apathy ,

Caught in a tsunami of procrastination,

You’re denying a nation,

Of entertainment and ideas,

Like a pair of frightened deer,

You first stand there, then run,

As if the laptop is a gun.

Just stop, take a mo,

Start typing, let it flow,

Get it out, let it play,

Come back to clean on another day.

Don’t say you “could have”, don’t say “you can’t”,

“I can” and “I have” should be your chant.

So sit at your desk and write something down,

Ideas are no good to anyone when you’re in the ground.

Philip Pullman writes 1000 words a day, five days a week. That means a first first draft of a standard novel of 50,000 words would take 50 days or ten weeks. And that’s the stuff from the heart, then you can start the editing process and make it into the book you want it to be. But at least it’s all there in front of you to work on.

Now go, write something.

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The Etymology of I

By Maryam Piracha

I’m not sure how common this is, but for as long as I can remember, I’ve kept a mental running commentary of my life. In retrospect, that sounds a bit narcissistic, but as the youngest in a family of four sisters I considered this and my imagination my only forms of self-preservation. Writing was perhaps the next natural step in my “intellectual” progression. In quotes because I wonder if I’m deluding myself into believing I qualify as an intellectual at all. Are writers intellectuals because they read and write (let’s forget about the lives they’ve led)? But I digress.

I was asked to write a post on the theme ‘if I didn’t write’, which I find ironic in itself but let’s forget that for a moment. If I didn’t write – an interesting statement because it’s ‘didn’t’ rather than ‘couldn’t’, which implies there’s some choice in the matter. Writing isn’t a choice, of course – I think I can safely say that without threat or persecution. Can I list a set of things I’d do instead? God knows, I’ve tried them all in that brief moment when I thought I’d left my best work behind me only to realize I couldn’t stop. It was an unbreakable habit, a second skin.

I tried working in a startup company, as an online marketer who then segued into just a regular marketer and sometimes salesperson. I can’t sell anything to save my life, or at least, I couldn’t then. I relied too much on being behind the scenes, you see. The title of ‘Manager, Marketing & Sales’ only helped to reaffirm that I wasn’t cut from the same cloth of marketing management. Don’t get me wrong – I enjoyed most of it, to a point. I liked coming up with marketing ideas, assembling words together to encapsulate a product, its function in someone’s life and recruiting others like me. Perhaps if I wasn’t a writer I might’ve been a marketer in another life.

Or an editor, which I am now although most editing as any writer knows is a great deal of rewriting, and it’s a thankless, anonymous job especially in the newspaper business. Eventually, you cease thinking about yourself as an entity at all but rather as the opposing force to a writer, which gets complicated when you’re an aspiring author yourself. Things don’t get less complicated from here: I’ve served as the Editor-in-Chief of not one, but two literary journals. It seems I can’t get away from words. Perhaps this is what I’d do if I didn’t feel borderline orgasmic when I hit upon the right combination to express emotions, feelings and the right temperament of the characters that slip in and out of my consciousness on a daily basis.

If there’s anything I’ve been doing for roughly the same amount of time and dedication, it’s throwing actual stuff together and standing back to view the result. There’s something awesome about starting out with goo and ending up with a frosted cake. A little miracle. Yes, yes it’s all in the flour that serves as a raising agent but a girl can dream, right?

In all honesty, I don’t know who (or what) I’d be if I didn’t write. It’s been a part of my life for so long charting when it happened is about as painful as pulling one (or several) nails. But if I’m being very, very honest, if I didn’t I’d probably be lounging about somewhere, a couch potato enslaved to slovenliness and the whims of an indifferent remote control. Perhaps very deep down, I already am.

Or perhaps, that’s just the person.

Maryam Piracha graduated from Lancaster University with a Creative Writing MA in 2011. She writes short fiction, is hard at work at a novel hopefully to be completed later this year, and serves as the Editor-in-Chief of The Missing Slate, an international literary and art quarterly magazine. She previously served as the EiC of Papercuts, a South Asian magazine and is currently an editor at The Express Tribune, the South Asian partner to The New York Times.

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