Sharks

Ever since the film ‘Jaws’ in 1975, when the ability of sharks to be predators and attack people on beaches was highlighted, there has been at the back of my mind the danger of sharks.

Not that I ever have swam in the sea or been on a beach where sharks are prevalent, but the idea is visibly planted following that iconic film.

I thought that not swimming in obvious places would protect me from the predator shark, but I was wrong.

Sharks can turn up in unlikely places where you don’t expect them. I worked for two years for an organisation where a shark was circling in our midst. He was a predator who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. He would exaggerate the amount of work he did and try to belittle the work of others. He would try and bully colleagues with his size and seniority; he would dominate conversations during team meetings in the hope that the loudest and most constant voice would be heard above others.

Then over the years I have been involved with many community projects, often from churches. These community focused groups offer support to people in need. One of the biggest needs is that some people are in debt and can’t find a way out of it. Sometimes the reason people have a large debt is because they have been ‘loaned’ money by so called loan sharks who prey on people in need, offering small loans and then charging huge interest and demanding with menaces repayment immediately.

So, be careful of sharks as it’s the ones you don’t notice you need to worry most about….

Shark

She found a shark in the fish tank
only 45cm long but enormous
in the 60 cm aquarium

this was a problem
a tank for tropical freshwater
fish and the shark is marine

a couple of spoons of salt
probably wouldn’t help
and what species was the intruder

if from the colder northern waters
then she could turn the heater off
but it’s hard to tell if a shark is hot

she hasn’t asked what it was doing
in the tank as it’s not the ones
you see you have to worry about.

Thank you for reading and stay safe from the predator,

David Wilkinson.

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Knitting

I never thought I would be writing about knitting. As a child my mum used to knit a lot and she tried to teach me, but it wasn’t something I considered ‘cool’ enough for a lad who went to a dodgy school in Liverpool to do.

I imagined it was for older ladies and in fact my mum belonged to a knit and natter group of largely older ladies, making knitted squares which could be sewn together with others to make blankets for those in need of warmth and more comfort.

When one year I asked for an Everton scarf and hat, I imagined I would get one of the fashionable ones from the Everton club shop, but no, my mum knitted me a distinctly unfashionable blue and white one instead.

Also, when I ran my second- hand bookshop in Ambleside in Cumbria, the shop was located just opposite the place where the coach stop was. Regularly coach trips would arrive for the morning or afternoon and often a significant number of people who got off the coach would come into the shop and many would buy books, thus helping trade tick over. I recall one coach load was all older ladies, about forty of them(maybe it was a W I outing) and several of them spied my shop and this led to most of them crowding in. 

One by one they came up to me and asked if I had any books on knitting or any knitting patterns? My response each time was negative (I didn’t) and I said we have books on most subjects, but just not knitting. In not stocking them I had thought there wouldn’t be much demand and anyway it was a boring (to me) subject.

I guess you can get my thoughts about knitting by now? Boring, not cool, for older ladies and generally annoying. But I am wrong. It took my daughter to show me how wrong I am. 

She started to learn to knit in her teens and she makes lovely small knitted toys and presents for people. Not only that but the process of knitting is something that helped her greatly when she had some OCD issues, as it was very calming and productive. (There is an obvious satisfying outcome.) Even more than that she is now using knitting and creative skills to help other women in a community group that she leads which enables women to cope better with trauma and other challenging situations they face.

So, knitting is good for young people, good as a way of mixing the generations, good for helping people through anxiety or stress and good for producing lovely hand made small gifts which can be personalized. (Who would have thought it? Not me as a teenager.)

Greek modelling a classic red Himation (not even blue)

Classic knitting

She knitted him a Himation
it was her latest design
Psyche confronts Eros
a spartan marriage undone

Tension                                            Abbreviations                                Yarns
carry out a tension check        BO - bind off                                    colossal
before commencing                  CO - cast off
as he wanted                                 M1R - make one right
a football                                         PR - previous
s                                                          RIB- ribbing                                    Patterns
c                                                          RT- right twist                                 loopy
a                                                          RC- right cross
r                                                          SL- slip
f                                                          ST- stumble
until everything                           SP - spear (him now or                 Instructions
unravelled                                      you’ll be ancient history)             mythical

Thanks for reading, and keep knitting. 

David Wilkinson

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The Most Boring Place

For many years we lived in Derbyshire and it coincided with the time when our children were little. It is a beautiful place to live. We had a house in a gorgeous village by a river and our two loved playing in the river and fishing for whatever they could find. Derbyshire was not a boring place.

We made regular trips into the Dales surrounding us and they were not boring, rather breathtakingly beautiful. We would visit the surrounding towns of Matlock, Matlock Bath and Bakewell for the lovely mix of independent shops they had to offer and none were boring.

We went to the family attractions ‘Heights of Abraham’, ‘Crich Tramway Museum’ and the steam train from Derby to Matlock and each had its own character and interest.

Derbyshire, however, had one major failing, it is a long way from the sea. The East Midlands is as far away from the sea as you can get in this island of ours. In fact I think Ashby De la Zouch has the dubious privilege of being the furthest place from the sea in England. This is a problem if you love the sea as much as I do. I needed to make trips to catch a glimpse of the sea, walk by it and feel the atmosphere of a seaside resort.

Skegness

Unfortunately the nearest seaside to Derbyshire is Skegness and we went there a couple of times only to discover that there wasn’t much of interest and it became my ‘most boring place’ as summed up in this poem. 

Skegness
I’m drawn
to places
where
nothing
happens,

that’s why
I love
Skegness
with a passion.

The air is filled
with mystery
and the sea can read
your thoughts.

I’ve been coming
here for years
and it never
disappoints.

Thanks for reading and apologies to Skegness, or if you are from there. 

David Wilkinson

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Stress

Stress is something that is more readily acknowledged in recent years than it used to be when I was younger.

I recall getting engaged, finishing my degree, getting married, moving to the opposite end of the country and then starting a new job all within the space of a couple of months. When we arrived on the Wirral in Merseyside, we wondered why we were finding it difficult to adjust  and manage the new situation. There was no thought from anyone else that this might have been a stressful time for us, or that we might need some time to get used to all the changes.

We managed to muddle through together and in some ways it has made us appreciate each other more and the times we have now here in Blackpool in semi-retirement where life is much less stressful and much more enjoyable.

Thankfully now, most people are more aware of the need to provide help and support if someone is struggling with stress. If you are stressed, my encouragement would be to find someone to talk to about it (we got by through talking with each other).

There are talking therapies available if you don’t have a partner or a friend you can share with.

Also, see if there is any way you can change your situation if it is that which is causing you stress, although this may not be possible. I was in a job for several years where someone tried to bully me and I had to continue in it for the family’s sake for a few years.

Above all, cut yourself some slack and don’t  feel bad if you are struggling mentally or physically with stress. Everyone will at different times in their lives, so you are not on your own.

I conclude with a new poem on theme:

Mindful of Stress

Consider this chart:
Unhappy at work, 15 points
Change of residence, 17 points
Change in number of arguments with partner, 33 points
Death of a relative, 50 points

Need
I go
on?
See
how easily
the score
calculates
and many
of us
I know
find this
reckoning
a reason
for stress
in itself.

If no
cause to cry
is at hand,
treat yourself
to a good
sob
during a film
to release
toxins,
though not
every
tear-jerker
matches
the real thing;
proteins
in
each
drop
don’t
always
reduce
pain.

Thanks for reading, David.

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For The Record

Those of us who were teenagers when music was played on vinyl records, probably regard that as a golden era for music production. It isn’t only the vinyl which is iconic, but the creative and beautifully illustrated sleeves which the records were housed in are also evocative.

For most people, if into music, there are particular groups or records which are associated with moments and times in their lives. That sound and visual impact of vinyl creates a double impression on the memory. Increasingly of course they are becoming popular again as people regain enthusiasm for this form of music.

My favourite contemporary rock group of all- time is Barclay James Harvest and of course I had all their LP’s and associate memories with them and also memories of seeing them live and live again reformed a few years ago.

One particular funny memory I also have is of liking the group Sparks and of getting their album in Liverpool. My parents thought upon looking at the duo (Ron and Russell Mael) that they were rather subversive and not appropriate for me to listen to. However, that only had the effect of making me want to listen even more and waiting until they were out to do so!

For the record I resolved never to do that to my children when they chose their own music to listen to and have endured as patiently as I possibly can, endless music and talk about Taylor Swift as a result.

My experiences in listening to records from childhood also led to a few themes for poems and I conclude my blog with one such poem.

On Record

We pushed the lid down so it fitted tightly,
clipped the needle arm into its cradle
and carried it in like a kid’s coffin.

We were stuck on the steps as it was heavy.
I could hear dad say; ‘It can’t rest in here,
leave it, then put it back in its place.’

Inside, we clashed on where to put it,
but with only one socket it had to be
against the TV set and up the wall.

Pulling the plug on tact, we were told
in no uncertain words to grow up. Pop
music’s not suitable for young minds.

Wouldn’t Handel be more appropriate?
We simply uncoiled each lead, plugged
the speakers in and faced the music.

Thanks for reading and I hope it ‘sparks’ your musical memories, vinyl records or otherwise.

David Wilkinson

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Northern Men Just Grunt

I wonder if you have ever participated in a personality test? The sort of thing that tries to work out what type of personality you are. For example, are you an extrovert or an introvert? Do you get your energy from being with people or from spending time on your own? 

The idea behind such tests is to try and encourage you to value your strengths and then work on any areas of weakness, so that you can better relate to others and work well in a team.

Many years ago, when I lived in London, I was asked to participate in such a test by an organization. However, the premise behind the test was rather compromised by the leader indicating her view that ‘Northern Men just grunt’. 

In her world a man from the north wasn’t capable of intellectual or sensitive comment on life or relationships. A grunting response was all men from the north could give. So, ‘eh’, ‘yer what’, ‘uh’, ‘erm’ was about the extent of the interaction. This view was aimed at several of us who were in her eyes from the north and whom she hoped to ‘civilize’ in some way by taking the test. It made for an interesting discussion, especially when I revealed that I was not in fact a Northern Man, but was from Hertfordshire!

I don’t suppose such a thing would be allowed to be said in a public way these days, but do such stereotypes still exist, even if only in people’s minds?

Northern Men Just Grunt

It has been said, ‘northern men just grunt’,
they’re bad at fashion, good at decadence
and can’t grasp basic common sense.
The conclusion really is that blunt.
It’s no use asking men, they don’t suit
introspection, it confuses them
and when feeling trapped, they go dumb –
it’s their monosyllabic front.

But men don’t put everything on display,
like furniture that’s flat packed.
We believe opposites can attract.
Come with your over- flowing cup today
and show that you’re an eloquent catch.
We could be two mugs that match.

Thanks for reading,
David Wilkinson

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Miniatures

The human race has always hankered after extremes. In the same way that it has tried to climb the highest mountain, explore the profoundest depths of the ocean, reach into outer space, build the biggest and tallest buildings, it has always been enthralled by the smallest.

Flea circuses, the amoebae visible only under a microscope, the Lord’s Prayer written in the smallest book of 2mm squared, doll’s houses with their tiny furniture, Baxter’s needle prints and miniature portraits and sculptures are witnesses to this interest in and love of the miniature.

In this small world, books occupy a place of honour. They join to the great skill lavished on their creation the crowning glory of man’s spirit enshrined in their text. Miniature books are creations of beauty and wonder and are now both rare and valuable. But why bother when the same text in a larger version can be found for a fraction of the price?

For those of us who have been bitten by the bug (I have a collection of miniature books running into the hundreds), the answer is easy.

The first advantage is portability. The works of a beloved poet, the text of a play you are going to see at the theatre, classical texts for study, scientific or technological works needed for research, religious works like the bible, prayer or hymn books, for devotion. I have used all these at different times and when I went to a conversational German class, they all sat there with a desk covered in several large books and were all amused when I produced from my pocket two miniature German/English books and proceeded to use them.

In addition, such miniature books take up very little space in a small house or flat. My whole set of Shakespeare is housed in a bookcase of 6 square inches.

Equally important is the fact that the production of the small books taxed craftspeople to the extreme and compelled them to produce individual letters, the finest tooled leather bindings and exquisite illustrations.

So, definitely for me, ‘small is beautiful’ and ‘good things come in small packages’. In honour of my love of miniature things I have written the following poem;

The art of small things

As the doll turns the page,
don’t offend the book, or its age
by saying it could be opened faster
if it were bigger, vaster

than the whole library he’s sitting with.
This is all part of the myth
that bigger is better – or another,
that life is ruled by Big Brother

watching you. Mass media’s laced
with this hype and it can be traced
back to ‘size matters’ – it’s implicit;
you don’t have to listen for it.

A strong magnifying- glass
will show the miniature’s class.
When you fix it in your view,
the truth that hides becomes visible to you.

Thanks for reading, David Wilkinson

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Confessional Poetry

A quick definition of Confessional Poetry would be that it is poetry focused on the ‘I’.

It deals with subjects polite society would rather sweep under the carpet. It is raw, fearless, emotive and unflinching.

Or as Robert Lowell put it in his National Book Award acceptance speech: ‘It is huge blood- dripping gobbets of unseasoned experience’.

Robert Lowell, W D Snodgrass, Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton are the four poets most often cited as ‘Confessional’. However, it was, and still is, a controversial title. The form is often criticized for being self- indulgent. Even Snodgrass, arguably the first confessional poet, dislikes the term intensely.

W D Snodgrass

Poet and novelist Lavinia Greenlaw says, ‘no one wants to be called a confessional poet…It suggests all you do is blurt your feelings. But to work explicitly with the self requires extraordinary judgement and control’. These poets aren’t simply wailing into the void. They are still working within the constraints of poetry. Rather like a doctor describing a wound, brutal but precise.

Confessional poets wrote about then taboo subjects such as mental illness, familial drama, suicide, and sexuality. Of the four poets mentioned. Sylvia Plath is probably the best known and loved. Two of her most famous poems, ‘Daddy’ and ‘Lady Lazarus’ are great examples of confessional poetry, dealing with the death of her father and suicide attempts, respectively.

Sylvia Plath

In our century, when many people have Instagram, Facebook, or whatever is the latest social media app, people often reveal the raw, personal details of every-day lives. In that context, it can be difficult to see confessionalism as a distinctive approach.

Much poetry today can be thus classed as ‘confessional’ even if it doesn’t claim that title or acknowledge the influence behind it.

I have written a slightly satirical poem to conclude my blog.

The Confessional poetry sentence
State who you are, what your purpose is,
the name of the poem - something informative
and honest like a post-it note on your forehead,
equally, describe the world in which you move,
if there are places you want to avoid, the nature
of your baggage, what you need to make a go of it,
in turn, define the meaning of everything, say what
will change and what will stay the same, making sure
you have allowed for sufficient instances,
then you can relive that moment of happiness,
the one you revisit so that it takes a toll on your health
and causes you to drink, developing crise de foie,
ulcers, anxiety, stress, headaches, an arrhythmia,
so that you want to sue the past for medical damages,
yet when it was suggested that you let this moment
go in the hope that your health might improve
as one might give up smoking or try a vitamin,
you said; what’s the point of living without any joy?

Thank you for reading and do add any comments you have about this style of poetry or today's social media confessional approach.

David Wilkinson

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Handwriting

When was the last time you received in the post a handwritten letter from another person? Or when did you last write a handwritten letter to anyone else? With the advent of digital communication, emails, texts, electronic messages etc, there is now little need or requirement to do so.

I do receive one handwritten letter about 4 times a year. This is from a friend who is a Luddite and refuses to have the internet or engage in any form of digital communication. He is also fairly deaf, so speaking via a landline is tricky. His only means of regular communication with me, therefore, is to hand write a letter. I respond by mail, but always type mine, as my handwriting is not the easiest to read.

Will handwriting thus become a thing of the past, if it hasn’t done already?  I hear via teacher relatives and friends and have seen from my own involvement in schools over the years, that some children find it far easier to use their fingers and thumbs to handle and control electronic devices than they do to use a pen or a pencil.

If handwriting is uncommon today, then obviously in the past, it was the main way of communication. I buy and sell antiquarian books and I love thumbing through books and seeing inside different notes and writings from people. It can be a shopping list, a diary piece, a love note, a comment on the book, or just someone’s thoughts on life or their day.

The writing is often beautifully crafted and neatly expressed. Handwriting in years past was an art in itself, with copperplate style and pen and ink.

Handwriting can have more personal or sentimental links too.  In our family, we do not have  many photographs and so written memories are very important reminders of who a person was. I have a diary of a relative’s journey through the Lake District in the early 1900’s, which makes fascinating reading and gives a thoughtful insight into their lives at that time.

The main memory I have of my father is due to his handwritten talks and notes that he left and to which I sometimes refer when I give talks of my own, or when I am drawn to thinking about him.

Handwriting has and always will have an important place in my life, but I wonder what place it has in yours and whether it will have any place in future generations?

In honour of the theme of writing I am including a favourite poem by Seamus Heaney:


Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

Thank you for reading, David.

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Poetry Readings

When I was at school, which was a sink comprehensive in Liverpool, three things were definitely not ‘cool’; supporting Everton F.C., liking poetry and reading books. I was in the challenging position of loving all three.

Poetry, if it was taught at all, consisted of a dead pan rush through Tennyson, Keats, Hughes and maybe one or two other traditional/modern poets.

Nobody had a clue what a ‘Grecian Urn’ was or why it was in any way relevant to Merseyside in the 1970’s. However, there was a glimmer of light in a second- hand bookshop in Liverpool which specialised in Modern First Editions and had a wonderful stock of poetry books. The gentleman who ran the shop was very kind and didn’t seem to mind me going in and reading through the titles and talking to him about the poetry books, even though I had no money to be able to actually buy any.

He would talk about poetry and poets, some of whom he had met when they did book signings in his shop. One day I suggested that perhaps he could organise one of the poets to come to the shop and read his/her work for those who would be interested to hear. He laughed and implied that would be just the two of us then. I did manage to discover a poetry reading in a room in the library and went along excited to see how it would go. The young lady reading was a good, published poet and an accomplished reader, but there were only five people there and apart from me, the rest were her family.

Fast forward forty-five years to today in Blackpool and poetry and poetry readings have a new lease of life. We have the excellent Dead Good Poets’ open mic readings, in Preston there is the Damson Poets open mic readings. There are equivalents in Lancaster, Wigan and now even Merseyside has woken up with readings in Liverpool.

It is a good time to be a poet, but in memory of when it wasn't so good, I have written the following poem;

On giving a poetry reading to an empty hall

The booking was to read for one hour
at the Wittering Community Arts Festival.
I did everything in my power,
I gave it my all
to the empty hall.

The empty chairs gazed up at me in awe.
I caught the eye of a chair in the third row
and it would not let me go.
A redheaded, dumpy chair on the edge,
never once smiled.
The more droll my poems, the more
the back row seemed beguiled.

When I had done and the non-applause
died down, after a pause
the chairman of the committee
scrambled up onto the podium.
He spoke about how it’s much more congenial
to have a small audience, or better still
no audience at all.

‘It’s more intimate’, he sighed, ‘more intimate’
and he blew his nose and cried:
‘To you all a thousand thank yous’.
He turned to me, winked and with the mic turned down,
said: ‘that’s the last poetry reading we’ll have in this town'.

Thank you reading and keep writing and reading poems. 

David Wilkinson

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Collections

'Don’t tell my wife’, was a phrase I would regularly hear when I ran my antiquarian and second-hand bookshop in Ambleside, Cumbria, as a man bought another book for his collection. I even had one man hiding behind a bookshelf when his wife came in and asked had I seen him.

Or, there was an occasion when a man was wanting to buy a set of natural history books and the woman who was with him hit him across the cheek and ordered him to put them back, as in her mind he had more than enough books already.

There does seem to be an anoraky male tendency to collect every book on a subject or every football programme or every Vinyl LP or every part for the train set and diorama.

I devised my own ‘anorak of the year award’ and the man who won it was someone who came into my shop and asked if I had a particular edition of a book. He was very specific about the only edition of this book that he wanted and didn’t have. This particular edition was printed on thinner paper than the others during the war when paper was scarce.

I went to see if I could find a copy and came back with the only one that I had. ‘How would you know if it is the rare copy?’ I asked. He replied,’ you can only tell by weighing the book to see if it is very slightly lighter than the others’. ‘How can we weigh it’? I asked, ‘I don’t have scales that would weigh that delicately’. ‘Ah’, he said, ‘I do’ and with that he took out a pair of scales from his rucksack and proceeded to measure the book.

Sadly for both of us, it wasn’t the rare copy and he went on his way.

This is not to imply that ladies don’t collect things. There were ladies who bought books for their collections, but in my experience they were in a minority.

As well as over 6000 books I have now for online sale, I also have my own collection of thousands of books and miniature books, which furnish my library/study and which are a constant source of pleasure for me to read, look at, hold and reminisce.

In honour of collectors everywhere, I have written this poem:   

Collections

 

And there will never be a time

when we see our lives laid out

on the floor for the scavengers.

 

We will never weep to see our

trophies laid out on newspaper,

turned over for the lure of profit

 

or still heaped in their cartons of transport

where nothing is thought to be beautiful

that cannot survive its ownership.

 

The things we liked are like the things

we did, kept by us and remembered,

but imperfect to the injudicious eye.

 

The things that are only what they pretend

to be for as long as one pays them attention:

objects that tease by confusing the appetite.

 

What has always been said is also

true: you can’t take it with you.

So let’s establish a useful countdown

 

like eating the contents of the fridge

before departure. A satisfying meal

to the condemned prisoners we are.

 

All these objects that we believe

define us: they ache already with

our love and their forgottenness.  

Thanks for reading,

David Wilkinson

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Oxygen

These past weeks have made us more aware than ever before of the need and value of oxygen. As a malevolent respiratory virus has caused devastation for thousands in our country and across the world, many have been struggling to breathe and have needed urgent oxygen treatment in hospital. We heard our own Prime Minister speak of how he needed litres and litres of oxygen pumped into his lungs so that he could live.

At the same time as this disease has left many mourning the loss of loved ones, the accompanying lockdown has seemingly made the skies bluer and the air clearer. It has enabled me and those in our household to enjoy the outdoor air more than ever before, with walks and bike rides around our beautiful Stanley Park, Salisbury Woodland and along the coast.

 I wonder also if this enforced time of lockdown has made us rethink what is really important? The phrase ‘oxygen of publicity’ is sometimes used to describe those who seek media attention because they require it to keep their celebrity status before people’s eyes. Whereas, those who work in often unnoticed and unrecognised roles, don’t get the attention their work deserves.

Equally, having more time has allowed me to read and write poetry, which is part of my ‘oxygen’ for daily living. I came across a quote which inspired the poem which accompanies this blog: "Plant trees, they give us two of the most crucial elements for our survival: Books and oxygen."  A Whitney Brown.

Touch wood

In this neck of the woods

I put down my poetry book

and am in a wood in minutes:

sycamore, ash, maple and oak

and no two trees are the same.

Generous lungs of the earth,

they help the planet breathe.

I hope to draw their oxygen

to my respiratory tree

so this heart can beat and grieve.

I want to hug the greying beech,
a name that shares the root
with the Old English word for book.
I crave that reassuring touch,
We’re not out of the woods yet.

Trees outlive us and I envy them
their permanence. They have the
wood on us as nothing else
on earth can be said
to look so beautiful when its dead.

There are trees that have fallen
and those that are felled. Dried
and seasoned, they’re cherished
lovingly and are smoothly planed
to a finish that is silken.

They are the ones that will furnish our lives,
the ones that will remembered for good
and ones which may become a coffin
for us to hide our bodies in.
Touch wood.
 
Thank you for reading and stay ‘oxygen safe’.

David Wilkinson

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