Zoom Page
The work on this page arises out of the prompts issued to the Agbrigg Writers on a weekly basis. The work is posted here and used as a basis for reading and discussion at the Zoom meeting.
Guests have made occasional contributions and if any non-member would like to make a response to a prompt please get in touch via the site contact page.
Guests have made occasional contributions and if any non-member would like to make a response to a prompt please get in touch via the site contact page.
Prompt Twenty-One: These Boots
Well, here we go with our final prompt before breaking up for the Summer. It's a visual prompt this time and we'll try and link our responses to our next submission to the Voices from the Coal Shed project. A poem or 150 (please note this change) words of prose within the general theme of coal mining and the coal mining background, please. We'll keep to our usual Monday midnight deadline and discuss the results on Thursday. That will give us some time to hone and polish before we make our submission.
Anyone who has contributed regularly to our Thursday prompt page is welcome to take part. In fact, we might make that invitation compulsory!
Good luck everyone.
Anyone who has contributed regularly to our Thursday prompt page is welcome to take part. In fact, we might make that invitation compulsory!
Good luck everyone.
Prompt Twenty-One: These Boots responses
Change Happens
Sessile oaks sit squat in landscape,
Watching change afoot apace,
Seeing leather, from hoof to last,
Trudge passed in forced migration
To forge communities across the nation.
Change happens
Time moves on
Tick tock
Tick
Communities now, torn by division,
Neighbours riven, tempers driven,
Union inciting, senseless fighting,
Whipped into actions, fanned by factions,
Pumping muscles, shouting slogans,
Ancient war-cries, outmoded notions.
Change happens
Time moves on
Tick tock
Tick
From coalyards to designer outlets
Red Wall voters ready for change
Witness more than they’ve seen before
New World Order and online shopping
Climate change and acid rain
Furlough and coronavirus
Change happens and shouldn’t surprise us.
Time passes
Tick tock
Tick
Sessile oaks have seen it all
But true pit boots can still stand tall
Tick tock
Tick
Martyn Harrison
The Featherstone Riots 1893
Tonight is the final performance.
I stand backstage, awaiting my moment,
As a community watches their distant past
Flicker into view like a lamp in the darkness.
Soldiers firing on striking miners,
Two men shot dead,
Families in turmoil
Echoing another battle
Fought within the memory
Of those sitting here.
I walk into the centre of the blinding spotlight
My eyes brimming with the emotion of my lines:
‘If I live to be 100 I will never forget
What I saw that day…
Not ever..’
And in the stillness of that single moment
I can hear the sound of a whole community
Still weeping.
( In memory of The Enemy Within: A play by Ian Clayton 1993)
Larraine Harrison
Just a Pair of Old Boots
Like old dogs hoping their owner will return,
listening for the familiar tread in the morning,
tongue lolling inactive.
Now-empty eyelets plead for the purposeful walk there and back.
Work to home. Dawn to dusk
Home to work. Dusk to dawn
As regular as clockwork.
The hobnails rasping the cobbles
like the clearing of the throat at shift’s end -
a practised aspiration of the lungs.
Iron toecaps, safe for kneeling,
good glue in the welt,
secure in the strength of the stitching,
waiting for another walk, another day.
Sharyn Owen
These Boots
Moulded round an industry that through stoicism
engendered celebration, during WW11
When toe caps of steel, reinforced colliers and rippers
slaving at the face to power the nation.
Then Thatcher’s Jackboot tactic using outside force
closed the cages.
Later to witness decimation crushed under political boot.
The heart was ripped out of pit villages
who found their working world cut at the root
Proud family legacy passed down the age
through strike...
caused bitterness...picked at scabs...
Leaving behind black gold buried in seams, unbled.
And dusty boots hanging in an old coal shed.
June
A scratch on the surface of time
First, the heavy boots, then our brass tallies, helmets and batteries, ready for whatever happens.
The cage door clangs shut. Then a hiss and that feeling in our stomachs. We arrive in a world created 100 million years before dinosaurs roamed the earth.
A short train ride then only crunching boots to the heading. The air is better than the rush hour Tube and we can stand upright. No adverts, no buskers, no scurrying human ants down here, just men doing the job they’ve always done. Grit, dignity and pride are chiselled into their faces. They break off work to satisfy our naïve schoolboy curiosity.
Back to the surface, and the pithead showers. Our youthful unscarred bodies mingle momentarily with their bent blemished backs. At the canteen, ham ‘doorsteps’ and pints of tea to stand a spoon in.
The colliery was closed and erased from the landscape in 1984.
John Seacome
These Boots
No more early alarm
and pre-dawn camaraderie
winding down the pit lane.
No more last fag stubbed
before the caged descent into hell.
No more black diamond eulogies
to the force that powered a nation
through industrial revolution and two world wars.
Only the accusation of hiding
the enemy within.
No more pride for these boots
the last shift over, redundant on a shelf.
But the eyes are wide open
with no more threaded laces
to pull,
tighten
and bind.
John C
Prompt Twenty: Sometimes it happens
What has become very evident during this prompt setting exercise is that the Agbrigg Writers have the knack of creating an arresting line, a line which conjures a mental picture or stops the reader in her tracks. Here's just a few selected from prompt nineteen:
Giggling sisters with matching hair/and boisterous brothers kicking balls.
Sometimes it Happens
And sometimes it happens that you are friends and then
You are not friends,
And friendship has passed.
And whole days are lost and among them
A fountain empties itself.
And sometimes it happens that you are loved and then
You are not loved,
And love is past.
And whole days are lost and among them
A fountain empties itself into the grass.
And sometimes you want to speak to her and then
You do not want to speak,
Then the opportunity has passed.
Your dreams flare up, they suddenly vanish.
And also it happens that there is nowhere to go and then
There is somewhere to go,
Then you have bypassed.
And the years flare up and are gone,
Quicker than a minute.
So you have nothing.
You wonder if these things matter and then
As soon you begin to wonder if these things matter
They cease to matter,
And caring is past.
And a fountain empties itself into the grass.
Brian Patten
Giggling sisters with matching hair/and boisterous brothers kicking balls.
- The gulls do wheelies on the wind
- Your breath comes soft against my cheek
- Bless the soul in your eyes
- Where the raspberry patch sprawled out against the sun
- Why did you look a hundred feet across a sea of drawing boards?
- I cuddle a bundle of my flesh and blood
- the female kestrel still as a full stop.
Sometimes it Happens
And sometimes it happens that you are friends and then
You are not friends,
And friendship has passed.
And whole days are lost and among them
A fountain empties itself.
And sometimes it happens that you are loved and then
You are not loved,
And love is past.
And whole days are lost and among them
A fountain empties itself into the grass.
And sometimes you want to speak to her and then
You do not want to speak,
Then the opportunity has passed.
Your dreams flare up, they suddenly vanish.
And also it happens that there is nowhere to go and then
There is somewhere to go,
Then you have bypassed.
And the years flare up and are gone,
Quicker than a minute.
So you have nothing.
You wonder if these things matter and then
As soon you begin to wonder if these things matter
They cease to matter,
And caring is past.
And a fountain empties itself into the grass.
Brian Patten
Prompt Twenty: Sometimes it Happens responses
And This, Too, Shall Pass Away
The shed door is akimbo today
displaying hand-tools and shapely gloves
and empty pots stacked like Russian dolls
- they will not rot for a thousand years,
And these, too, shall pass away.
In the attic, boxes of Christmas decorations
are set astride the joists
with the last box of University papers
old and slightly foxed.
And this, too, shall pass away.
The garage is full of gizmos and gadgets,
broken furniture, faded curtains and their poles
and rings and screws and rawl-plugs on rickety shelves
and rusty tins on metal brackets.
And this, too, shall pass away
Photo albums, slides, enigmatic electronic thingies.
boxes of ‘stuff’’. Books, glass and crockery
harvested from ancestor’s’ corner cabinets -
their fingerprints on the candy twist stems and their DNA.
And this, too, shall all pass away.
Sharyn Owen
Sometimes it happens
Sometimes it happens.
That was all he said.
The developing brain
takes a minor diversion then
follows through
to a place of confusion.
So … what to do.
Handbooks had nothing useful to say
about handling difference.
But The Bhagavad Gita says it all.
The Bible too.
We took the instruction.
All that matters is
love.
So that is what we did.
It made life easy.
Don’t try to understand.
Well
not too much.
Just deal with it.
She deals with it too.
A life of simple focus.
An abundant love of being alive
and all it offers.
She tolerates our complexities,
the way that we squirm
using awkward manoeuvres
to get through all the messy bits.
Radiance beams out of her.
She teaches us
how to live.
Viv Longley
Some Times
Spiralling, dancing, cider and wine
Giggling away the passing of time
Last bus leaves at 10.59
Sometimes you just have to GO
Young man nervous on bended knee
Promising gold for eternity
Deep down you know you need to be free
Sometimes you just have to GO
Thorny problems pierce your mind
No-one feels the need to be kind
Need to get out and need to unwind
Sometimes you just have to GO
Marble graveside, sparkles in the rain
Leaving flowers once again
Nothing will ever ease the pain
Sometimes you just have to GO
Bound together like stitches in a dress
Sharing the good, surviving the stress
Love stays around despite life’s mess
Sometimes you just have to STAY
Larraine
1950s Set in Clay
This is the soil I dug down to the clay
To bury the man who wouldn’t let me play
Football against the end terrace wall
The wall where he slept during the daylight
When his shift had ended the previous night
When something’s wrong it’s not right
From that same clay I sculpted a human head
And gave him the name Thomas
‘Thomas the lonely soldier’ to be precise
But that soldier was me and it’s not very nice
To be thinking that way about the man next door
But who could blame me? I’m not really sure
If they knew the lives that were lived there back then
No excuses I know, but don’t rush to condemn
When something’s wrong it’s not right
When you stare at nature thinking it’ll outlive you
And can only rely on your dog to stand by you
And for as long as you’ve known that’s all you’ve known
It’s time to take stock and find your true home
When everything’s not right everything’s wrong.
Martyn Harrison
Is life pre-ordained?
Durdle Dor, an archway in the coastal cliffs
And entrance to a misty world beyond.
Summer sunshine on the slopes above
Anodyne melodies from the Light Programme
Acclaimed the ingenuous cosiness of my life.
All prescribed, how I’d get from school to Uni.
Did I want to go there? Well yes, I suppose so.
And then a job which suited me.
First, forthcoming adolescence
Perfectly natural, nothing to see here.
Like the scent of a summer’s day
That rosy dream
Soon blew away as gentle breezes
Veered suddenly right round the compass.
I wasn’t dressed for this change.
It’s true, real life is a faraway country
You enter through that one-way arch.
No pre-ordained life awaits the other side.
John Seacome
Sometimes it Happens
And sometimes it happens when least expected. Felicity’s mind ran on like an old Super Eight reel. Mother Nature had certainly taken a bite out of her bottom this time.
Apart from the biological logistics, how had she managed to conceive? Sex not so desperately urgent as when they first got together. Now, moments of intimacy were subdued, considering Mike’s dicky heart. She was surprised they still shared the same bed.
What was to happen financially with the Business being packed in, and university fees pending for Pete, and Ellie sixteen, teetering on the brink of life.
She reflected on their entry into the world....
Suffering nausea during pregnancy followed by midnight craving for oranges. Then those gripe water trials in the we hours, inhaling a potpourri of Johnson’s talc and milk deposit. She hugged to herself the feel of tiny soft fingers clutching her breast.
However, the detached voice from the clinic had said it was a simple matter of swallowing two tablets...Worry over.
She dreaded the morning.
The foetus was half the size of a pea.
What is the measure of a soul?
Did she dare to hope for Divine intervention while intending destruction of the sacrificial lamb.
She pulled on a jacket and wavered breakfast. Mike and Ellie had eaten. He had that air of Machiavellian about him.
A youth from the sixth form strolled down the path. Ellie grabbed her satchel and bolted outside. Mike waved them off.
Then, ”Get your coat off Fi” he whispered close to her cheek,
“You know we would never forgive ourselves.”
And into her arms he placed a basket of oranges.
June
Hear the lonesome locomotive roll
Like the low moan of an idling loco
pitching in crescendo.
Sometimes change happens.
Our luggage stowed,
by duty-bound porters
we have been sirred and ma’amed
and polished into place
until we spin through the dark on Amtrak
from Freedom Gateway Detroit
to the city of ’scrapers, pizzas
and Al Capone’s Valentine’s rout.
We scroll through a corner of Michigan,
skim Indiana and roll into Illinois
where each shack and patch of real estate
is tolled by a bell from effects.
Sitting across from Cagney
we joke about matinee stardom
until dirty rat that I am,
I need to go and freshen.
Misreading the bathroom signage, I wait
and practise a look of feeling,
dipping into my English pool of protocol,
aren’t these things just sent to try us.
Hearing the lock slide open, seeing the
changing colour of the figure displayed,
I prepare to share my smile
and reflect our mutual plight.
But eye contact with the black girl is slight,
drawing from her centuries-old well of destiny,
she stiffens, then shrinks, from the white guy,
the one she has made to wait.
Like a storm about to break
across a brooding lake.
Sometimes change happens.
John C.
Sometimes It Happens
Sometimes it happens. You read the Prompt and you just know what to write. Sometimes it happens slowly and the germ of an idea grows and becomes the start of a fully-formed piece of prose.
Sometimes it happens that you pick up your pen and the blank sheet is noisy with the scratching of words. Sometimes it happens that you read back what you have written and feel satisfied and read it again, just to make sure.
And sometimes it doesn’t happen at all.
Lesley
Prompt Nineteen: Where the title, first line and final line are all the same
That's right. The title, first line and last line are all the same. That is, they all have the same words in the same order, but the reading of each may be subtly different through repetition. Think that's not possible? Well Brian Patten managed it beautifully:
I Caught a Train That Passed the Town Where You Lived
I caught a train that passed the town where you lived.
On the journey I thought of you.
One evening when the park was soaking
You hid beneath the trees, and all around you dimmed itself
as if the earth were lit by gaslight.
We had faith that love would last forever.
I caught a train that passed the town where you lived.
Brian Patten
So, it's all yours now. Try not to copy Patten's idea of a train journey but the idea of a passage of time is a good one. If you are a prose writer, we'll be looking to you to do the same thing with your title, first sentence and final sentence.
Good luck with that. J.C.
I Caught a Train That Passed the Town Where You Lived
I caught a train that passed the town where you lived.
On the journey I thought of you.
One evening when the park was soaking
You hid beneath the trees, and all around you dimmed itself
as if the earth were lit by gaslight.
We had faith that love would last forever.
I caught a train that passed the town where you lived.
Brian Patten
So, it's all yours now. Try not to copy Patten's idea of a train journey but the idea of a passage of time is a good one. If you are a prose writer, we'll be looking to you to do the same thing with your title, first sentence and final sentence.
Good luck with that. J.C.
Prompt Nineteen Responses
Well, it looks as though our writers had fun with this one, and one or two corners were cut. But still, all of the titles, first lines and final lines were almost all the same, and look at the outcome! Please read and pass your own comment afterwards.
Walking on the Beach on a Windy Morning
Walking on the beach on a windy morning. Not every one’s cup of tea. Layered up. Bobbled hatted. An eye watering wind whisking up froth on tumbling waves. Not yet ear-splitting crashes on the cliff face, just a gentle thrum, lulling us into a false sense of security. Only the dog, ears flattened, growls at the advancing danger.
Weak sun emits little warmth but enough to elevate hopes of a brighter future. Distant figures lift an arm in salute, their voices lost in a gust. Whilst the gulls, taking advantage of powerful currents do wheelies on the wind, screeching like children at playtime.
You plod on, invigorated by the beacon on the landing. Like moths to a candle, fellow walkers are drawn towards the light. Anticipating the aroma of freshly ground coffee, a bacon butty. The steamy windows block out the view, eyes are wiped and bulky layers are peeled off. Stiffened fingers defrost around a hot mug of coffee. Can you think of a better way to start the day? Walking on the beach on a windy morning.
Lyn
Your Breath Comes Soft Against My Cheek
Your breath comes soft against my cheek. The warmth and brightness of the gas and air is gone and the midwife puts you on my chest, skin against skin. We gaze at each other and I am startled at the blueness of your eyes. Pete leans in and kisses us both on our heads. He winks a tear away. We have a daughter.
I pass you back to be weighed and tidied and hear myself say, “She will be called Summer.”
The midwife looks bemused for it is November.
“After her grandmother, his mum, she has six grandsons. And after the long hours I have laboured, her middle name shall be Solstice.”
The midwife smiles, nods and hands you back. Your breath comes soft against my cheek.
Lesley
You Do Not Have to Say You Love Me
You do not have to say you love me.
You do not have to struggle attempting the Three Peaks
when blisters make you bleed.
Nor brave the North Sea when a tentative toe
is all you can manage.
And I should probably mention that
strolling the sands, pondering the possible
alignment of Sagittarius with Aquarius
does not ignite the campfire.
The important thing ...
when I think about it...is…
You just have to be within shouting distance
when my crock is cracked and leaking.
So, canopied under a myriad of stars.
I indulge your fascination with the galaxy.
Surrender to warm breath on cool skin.
And bless the soul in your eyes.
Shshsh...
You do not have to say you love me.
June
Why are those fishing nets in our garage?
Why are those fishing nets in our garage?
…
Dad?
… Ah, yes.
Those nets have been used for years.
Trawling in the North Sea
hauling flinty eyed cod
and the odd octopus
out of the ocean.
They are past their best now.
I was sent to the bottom of the garden
where the raspberry patch sprawled out in the sun.
The fishing nets had been cast over the canes,
bending them like walking sticks.
Black,
heavy
sparkling with sea salt crystals.
Still with corks attached,
threaded through
with desiccated
bladderwrack
and
kelp.
I sat underneath.
Picking the fruit for tea.
Warding off the unique aroma
of raspberries in full leaf
and fish docks.
So that is
Why those fishing nets were in our garage.
Viv Longley
A part of my life still looks for absolution
A part of my life still looks for absolution.
Was this because you were eight years younger, much too young for me? After you moved on to another stage of your life, it seemed sensible to let you go and get on with my life.
But my dreams did not obey the rules. Who can control their dreams? Dreams are not like films. You have to let them run. Worse you can’t even close your eyes. It’s not Netflix after all.
Why did you look 100 feet across a sea of drawing boards at me the first time I saw you? You had an aura about you. You weren’t just another young girl coping in a 1970s male office environment but were waiting to see what your ‘gap year’ would bring.
But I was not the one.
How could I be. You had to play by the rules of your faith. We met discretely in pubs and station waiting rooms. We just talked and talked. I felt I was in the confessional sometimes, a place I’d never been to before and hardly ever since. Your smile was my absolution.
We were still feeling our way in the adult world. You still had a new life to look forward to. But the rules you’d been set at convent school were there to be obeyed.
So had the rules my life had set for me.
Sometimes a part of me looks unscripted for you in my dreams. I arrive, but you’ve already left with no forwarding message. What are these dreams telling me?
Is it that a part of my life still looks for absolution?
John Seacome
I Cuddle a Bundle of my Flesh and Blood
I cuddle a bundle of my flesh and blood
Primordial ecstasy it says to me.
I hope in the far distanced familial past
My forebears had time for such luxury
First-borns will always be special
No acquired lexicon big enough
To portray feelings encountered
When greeting one sent from above
Second time around and life’s punishing cycle
Don’t overshadow sibling arrival
Though it’s hard to recapture the raw emotional stature
Of first-born imprinted, breathing and touch
From mineshaft to war-front, bloodlines stretch the ages
From farm field to factory floor, pointers are there to remind us
From lessons learned on mother’s knee to grave
What’s gone before and what we need to save
Suffering, chance, stoicism, conviction
Stamina, resilience, legacy, connection
Miniscule worlds, monumental love
I cuddle a bundle of my flesh and blood
Martyn Harrison
Only Child
Only child
No sisters or brothers
No need to share the toys with others
Private bedroom just for me
Swing in the garden always free
Only child
No second hand clothes
No oversized wellies with worn out toes
No babies to mind for a busy mum
No chores to get the cleaning done
Only child
In the playground hiding
Watching other children sliding
On the beach I stop and stare
At giggling sisters with matching hair
And boisterous brothers kicking a ball
But no-one plays with me at all.
Lonely child
Only child
Larraine
We went out into the stormy day
We went out into the stormy day
Wrapped in fleeces and anoraks
and tramped along the cliff path
leaning against the westerly gale.
A family of kestrels, the female still as a full stop,
Training a youngster to hunt and catch
One twitch of a tail; one tilt of a wing
And everything flipped
from stillness to rush, from hungry to fed
When we went out into the stormy day.
Sharyn Owen
In the end there is no more to be said
In the end there is no more to be said.
Adverbs are not your friend,
avoid repetition
unless there’s a point to be made.
Metaphors can curl up and cosy against your skin.
Clutch slim volumes to your chest,
listen to moaning trees.
Let your soft animal body love.
In the end you need to bear the cloak of assurance.
Turn up the collar
step into the winter air, throw back your head
and bay at the moon.
In the end there is no more to be said.
John C.
Walking on the Beach on a Windy Morning
Walking on the beach on a windy morning. Not every one’s cup of tea. Layered up. Bobbled hatted. An eye watering wind whisking up froth on tumbling waves. Not yet ear-splitting crashes on the cliff face, just a gentle thrum, lulling us into a false sense of security. Only the dog, ears flattened, growls at the advancing danger.
Weak sun emits little warmth but enough to elevate hopes of a brighter future. Distant figures lift an arm in salute, their voices lost in a gust. Whilst the gulls, taking advantage of powerful currents do wheelies on the wind, screeching like children at playtime.
You plod on, invigorated by the beacon on the landing. Like moths to a candle, fellow walkers are drawn towards the light. Anticipating the aroma of freshly ground coffee, a bacon butty. The steamy windows block out the view, eyes are wiped and bulky layers are peeled off. Stiffened fingers defrost around a hot mug of coffee. Can you think of a better way to start the day? Walking on the beach on a windy morning.
Lyn
Your Breath Comes Soft Against My Cheek
Your breath comes soft against my cheek. The warmth and brightness of the gas and air is gone and the midwife puts you on my chest, skin against skin. We gaze at each other and I am startled at the blueness of your eyes. Pete leans in and kisses us both on our heads. He winks a tear away. We have a daughter.
I pass you back to be weighed and tidied and hear myself say, “She will be called Summer.”
The midwife looks bemused for it is November.
“After her grandmother, his mum, she has six grandsons. And after the long hours I have laboured, her middle name shall be Solstice.”
The midwife smiles, nods and hands you back. Your breath comes soft against my cheek.
Lesley
You Do Not Have to Say You Love Me
You do not have to say you love me.
You do not have to struggle attempting the Three Peaks
when blisters make you bleed.
Nor brave the North Sea when a tentative toe
is all you can manage.
And I should probably mention that
strolling the sands, pondering the possible
alignment of Sagittarius with Aquarius
does not ignite the campfire.
The important thing ...
when I think about it...is…
You just have to be within shouting distance
when my crock is cracked and leaking.
So, canopied under a myriad of stars.
I indulge your fascination with the galaxy.
Surrender to warm breath on cool skin.
And bless the soul in your eyes.
Shshsh...
You do not have to say you love me.
June
Why are those fishing nets in our garage?
Why are those fishing nets in our garage?
…
Dad?
… Ah, yes.
Those nets have been used for years.
Trawling in the North Sea
hauling flinty eyed cod
and the odd octopus
out of the ocean.
They are past their best now.
I was sent to the bottom of the garden
where the raspberry patch sprawled out in the sun.
The fishing nets had been cast over the canes,
bending them like walking sticks.
Black,
heavy
sparkling with sea salt crystals.
Still with corks attached,
threaded through
with desiccated
bladderwrack
and
kelp.
I sat underneath.
Picking the fruit for tea.
Warding off the unique aroma
of raspberries in full leaf
and fish docks.
So that is
Why those fishing nets were in our garage.
Viv Longley
A part of my life still looks for absolution
A part of my life still looks for absolution.
Was this because you were eight years younger, much too young for me? After you moved on to another stage of your life, it seemed sensible to let you go and get on with my life.
But my dreams did not obey the rules. Who can control their dreams? Dreams are not like films. You have to let them run. Worse you can’t even close your eyes. It’s not Netflix after all.
Why did you look 100 feet across a sea of drawing boards at me the first time I saw you? You had an aura about you. You weren’t just another young girl coping in a 1970s male office environment but were waiting to see what your ‘gap year’ would bring.
But I was not the one.
How could I be. You had to play by the rules of your faith. We met discretely in pubs and station waiting rooms. We just talked and talked. I felt I was in the confessional sometimes, a place I’d never been to before and hardly ever since. Your smile was my absolution.
We were still feeling our way in the adult world. You still had a new life to look forward to. But the rules you’d been set at convent school were there to be obeyed.
So had the rules my life had set for me.
Sometimes a part of me looks unscripted for you in my dreams. I arrive, but you’ve already left with no forwarding message. What are these dreams telling me?
Is it that a part of my life still looks for absolution?
John Seacome
I Cuddle a Bundle of my Flesh and Blood
I cuddle a bundle of my flesh and blood
Primordial ecstasy it says to me.
I hope in the far distanced familial past
My forebears had time for such luxury
First-borns will always be special
No acquired lexicon big enough
To portray feelings encountered
When greeting one sent from above
Second time around and life’s punishing cycle
Don’t overshadow sibling arrival
Though it’s hard to recapture the raw emotional stature
Of first-born imprinted, breathing and touch
From mineshaft to war-front, bloodlines stretch the ages
From farm field to factory floor, pointers are there to remind us
From lessons learned on mother’s knee to grave
What’s gone before and what we need to save
Suffering, chance, stoicism, conviction
Stamina, resilience, legacy, connection
Miniscule worlds, monumental love
I cuddle a bundle of my flesh and blood
Martyn Harrison
Only Child
Only child
No sisters or brothers
No need to share the toys with others
Private bedroom just for me
Swing in the garden always free
Only child
No second hand clothes
No oversized wellies with worn out toes
No babies to mind for a busy mum
No chores to get the cleaning done
Only child
In the playground hiding
Watching other children sliding
On the beach I stop and stare
At giggling sisters with matching hair
And boisterous brothers kicking a ball
But no-one plays with me at all.
Lonely child
Only child
Larraine
We went out into the stormy day
We went out into the stormy day
Wrapped in fleeces and anoraks
and tramped along the cliff path
leaning against the westerly gale.
A family of kestrels, the female still as a full stop,
Training a youngster to hunt and catch
One twitch of a tail; one tilt of a wing
And everything flipped
from stillness to rush, from hungry to fed
When we went out into the stormy day.
Sharyn Owen
In the end there is no more to be said
In the end there is no more to be said.
Adverbs are not your friend,
avoid repetition
unless there’s a point to be made.
Metaphors can curl up and cosy against your skin.
Clutch slim volumes to your chest,
listen to moaning trees.
Let your soft animal body love.
In the end you need to bear the cloak of assurance.
Turn up the collar
step into the winter air, throw back your head
and bay at the moon.
In the end there is no more to be said.
John C.
Prompt Eighteen: The Longest Day
Yes, it is almost upon us, the longest day of the year. The Summer Solstice is scheduled for Sunday 20th June, the day when most locations north of the equator can expect the day to be 8 hours and 49 minutes longer than the December solstice. What to do with all that daylight? Is it a day to prompt celebrations or just to reflect gloomily that after that day, the nights start drawing in?
The Longest Day was the title of a film as well. A film which portrayed the Allied landings in Normandy in June 1944 with a shed full of Hollywood greats: John Wayne, Henry Fonda, Robert Mitchum, Richard Todd, Richard Burton, Kenneth More... No, it doesn't look like there were any women involved in the war.
Of course the term The Longest Day might not refer to either of these things. It might refer to a long day in a relationship, a boring job, a day when particular difficulties had to be overcome.
What the Longest Day refers to is for the talented members of the Agbrigg Writers to decide and complete within the usual boundaries: 300 words of prose or a poem with a submission deadline of Midnight on Monday 14th June.
Remember to avoid the obvious, make it new, don't be frightened of a little bit of grit and keep your fingers out of the sugar bowl. And good luck!
The Longest Day was the title of a film as well. A film which portrayed the Allied landings in Normandy in June 1944 with a shed full of Hollywood greats: John Wayne, Henry Fonda, Robert Mitchum, Richard Todd, Richard Burton, Kenneth More... No, it doesn't look like there were any women involved in the war.
Of course the term The Longest Day might not refer to either of these things. It might refer to a long day in a relationship, a boring job, a day when particular difficulties had to be overcome.
What the Longest Day refers to is for the talented members of the Agbrigg Writers to decide and complete within the usual boundaries: 300 words of prose or a poem with a submission deadline of Midnight on Monday 14th June.
Remember to avoid the obvious, make it new, don't be frightened of a little bit of grit and keep your fingers out of the sugar bowl. And good luck!
Prompt Eighteen: The Longest Day Responses
Summer Solstice – Aged 16
“My name is Summer.
No, I wasn’t
Born
In
June”
“It was Granny’s name.
Yes, she was
Born
In
June”
“And my middle name
well, it is
Well
Its
Solstice”
“My mam was in labour
for many hours
And
She
Said”
“Well that was hard
It felt like
The
Longest
Day”
I am having this
printed on T-Shirts
Tattooed
On
Arms.
Maybe there will come
the day when
People
Stop
Asking.
Lesley
The Longest Day
Time can stretch, it has built-in elasticity
Time can wreck, the chance of longevity
Time can dictate, the doctor’s appointment
Time can frustrate, the attempt at enjoyment
I’m watching the clock as it ticks by time
And sensing the beginning of the end close by
Of the day that will last but cast shadows no more
On the earth I came from and shall return to once more
I’m punching in the hours toward my longest day
The day that will last but cast shadows no more
I’m watching the clock as it ticks by time
And sensing the beginning of the end close by
Martyn Harrison
Today
Be Still
Listen
Block out
The intensity of insistent lawn mowers
The rasp of the chainsaw on rough branches
The drone of distant music from lager lovers
The football kicked against the fence.
Listen again.
Today you might hear the wild world
Quiver
In the warm breath of a fallow deer
Blowing gently through soft nostrils
And in the gurgle of a stream running clear
You might hear the world talking.
Be Still
Watch
Black out
The rubbish trapped against reluctant hedges
The empty shops on deserted streets
The people living on the edge.
Trainers on the wire
Watch again
Today you might see the wild world
Turning
With the buzzing of a bee on a honeyed bloom
In the haze of a summer afternoon
And in the warble of a blackbird’s tune
You might see the world shining.
Be Still
Sometimes today is what you make it.
Larraine
Mellow Summer
Dappled days in a lavender fragrant garden
under a parasol...
Sharing crossword and coffee.
Now a crow nests in the old oak by the lake
where swifts and swallows swoop
and skim the water
Lazily, a flotilla of ducks leaves the past in their wake,
ignoring a lone dragonfly delicately hovering rushes,
stark reminder of the shorter days.
Balmy evenings
when...cuckoo...cuckoo...echoes through the glade
as pipistrelles mimic bees under trees,
silhouetted against a crimson sky.
Blackbirds banquet on the Berberis we planted
under the window
summers ago...
...I close my eyes...
inhale the musk of earth’s bounty
... and sigh...
You’re not here.
June
The Longest Day
Yorkshire Wildlife Park
I am Nana.
Trying to get it together
and keep it that way.
The nuclear family is out on a special trip.
Picnics in knapsacks.
All customised
not just egg sarnies all round.
Everyone with their own water bottle.
Sun screen
hats
wet wipes
all at the ready.
It is hot, humid
clouds are building.
Excitement is fraying at the edges
dangerously.
Convoys of sleek headed seals
curve through the water
whiskered like cats.
Limp tailed tigers pace
up and down, up and down
watching baby giraffes under
archways of necks.
Painted dogs
slump in a heap
buzz with flies
dreaming of
savannahs.
Lions engage lazily in siesta sex –
What. Yes. Move on -
to the monkeys.
Much worse.
The path is long and gritty.
Mirages appear near the exit.
Bickering was snapping the air -
as it does.
Stomping past the meerkats,
the talk was of the promised
visit to the gift shop.
I heard ‘huge’ and ‘snow leopard’
in the same breath and
flinched.
There were no huge snow leopards.
A stream of blistering vituperation
chopped out of her mouth
clearing a circle round her.
I HATE YOU
YOU DON’T LOVE ME.
ALL I WANTED WAS A SNOW LEOPARD.
Dad wrangled her out of the shop,
arms pinned to her side
screaming all the way.
Tut tuts followed us out.
A very small hand gripped mine tight.
Nana, she’s wrecking the car.
I want to go home
So do I.
Viv Longley
The Longest Day
Steering towards the North Cape
Misty fingers grope the ship.
Our bones chilled as Arctic sun
and scenery
slip into obscurity.
Midnight at the Shrine
Anorak-draped worshippers
gather round a skeletal globe.
No Big Ben or fireworks,
Only the Sun God winking
from under the mist.
Snaps of a Sami with reindeer and tipi
then back to cabin in broad daylight,
Another holiday experience logged.
A bleary view of the passing North Cape,
now clad only in inscrutability.
A town flattened in the war
Seemingly rebuilt by IKEA.
On the hillside a locally tended monument
To 1000 Tirpitz sailors.
Above the beach rock carvings
Of hunting and fishing 5000 years ago.
Touched by these glimpses of man’s history,
We sip whisky on the upper deck.
Heading to the deepest fjord
Here at night trolls hurl down boulders as we pass.
But this has been our longest day.
John Seacome
Mégevette, French Alps
The garden chair has been carefully placed
beneath these sheltering pines
but reading’s a struggle this afternoon.
Power lines buzz and shine a
valley-spanning parabola to where
a farmer tracks and tracks the field
a fraction before the tractor’s moan.
Crows croak, cowbells chorus, a squadron of swallows
chase and scream in dogfight.
Some minutes yet until the church bell
will clang out the hour.
A pair of buzzards cruise and quarter the sky
and everything falls freeze-frame quiet.
I turn back to my page:
The drunkenness of things being various,
and turn away again
not wanting to miss this moment
or this moment’s moment.
John C.
“My name is Summer.
No, I wasn’t
Born
In
June”
“It was Granny’s name.
Yes, she was
Born
In
June”
“And my middle name
well, it is
Well
Its
Solstice”
“My mam was in labour
for many hours
And
She
Said”
“Well that was hard
It felt like
The
Longest
Day”
I am having this
printed on T-Shirts
Tattooed
On
Arms.
Maybe there will come
the day when
People
Stop
Asking.
Lesley
The Longest Day
Time can stretch, it has built-in elasticity
Time can wreck, the chance of longevity
Time can dictate, the doctor’s appointment
Time can frustrate, the attempt at enjoyment
I’m watching the clock as it ticks by time
And sensing the beginning of the end close by
Of the day that will last but cast shadows no more
On the earth I came from and shall return to once more
I’m punching in the hours toward my longest day
The day that will last but cast shadows no more
I’m watching the clock as it ticks by time
And sensing the beginning of the end close by
Martyn Harrison
Today
Be Still
Listen
Block out
The intensity of insistent lawn mowers
The rasp of the chainsaw on rough branches
The drone of distant music from lager lovers
The football kicked against the fence.
Listen again.
Today you might hear the wild world
Quiver
In the warm breath of a fallow deer
Blowing gently through soft nostrils
And in the gurgle of a stream running clear
You might hear the world talking.
Be Still
Watch
Black out
The rubbish trapped against reluctant hedges
The empty shops on deserted streets
The people living on the edge.
Trainers on the wire
Watch again
Today you might see the wild world
Turning
With the buzzing of a bee on a honeyed bloom
In the haze of a summer afternoon
And in the warble of a blackbird’s tune
You might see the world shining.
Be Still
Sometimes today is what you make it.
Larraine
Mellow Summer
Dappled days in a lavender fragrant garden
under a parasol...
Sharing crossword and coffee.
Now a crow nests in the old oak by the lake
where swifts and swallows swoop
and skim the water
Lazily, a flotilla of ducks leaves the past in their wake,
ignoring a lone dragonfly delicately hovering rushes,
stark reminder of the shorter days.
Balmy evenings
when...cuckoo...cuckoo...echoes through the glade
as pipistrelles mimic bees under trees,
silhouetted against a crimson sky.
Blackbirds banquet on the Berberis we planted
under the window
summers ago...
...I close my eyes...
inhale the musk of earth’s bounty
... and sigh...
You’re not here.
June
The Longest Day
Yorkshire Wildlife Park
I am Nana.
Trying to get it together
and keep it that way.
The nuclear family is out on a special trip.
Picnics in knapsacks.
All customised
not just egg sarnies all round.
Everyone with their own water bottle.
Sun screen
hats
wet wipes
all at the ready.
It is hot, humid
clouds are building.
Excitement is fraying at the edges
dangerously.
Convoys of sleek headed seals
curve through the water
whiskered like cats.
Limp tailed tigers pace
up and down, up and down
watching baby giraffes under
archways of necks.
Painted dogs
slump in a heap
buzz with flies
dreaming of
savannahs.
Lions engage lazily in siesta sex –
What. Yes. Move on -
to the monkeys.
Much worse.
The path is long and gritty.
Mirages appear near the exit.
Bickering was snapping the air -
as it does.
Stomping past the meerkats,
the talk was of the promised
visit to the gift shop.
I heard ‘huge’ and ‘snow leopard’
in the same breath and
flinched.
There were no huge snow leopards.
A stream of blistering vituperation
chopped out of her mouth
clearing a circle round her.
I HATE YOU
YOU DON’T LOVE ME.
ALL I WANTED WAS A SNOW LEOPARD.
Dad wrangled her out of the shop,
arms pinned to her side
screaming all the way.
Tut tuts followed us out.
A very small hand gripped mine tight.
Nana, she’s wrecking the car.
I want to go home
So do I.
Viv Longley
The Longest Day
Steering towards the North Cape
Misty fingers grope the ship.
Our bones chilled as Arctic sun
and scenery
slip into obscurity.
Midnight at the Shrine
Anorak-draped worshippers
gather round a skeletal globe.
No Big Ben or fireworks,
Only the Sun God winking
from under the mist.
Snaps of a Sami with reindeer and tipi
then back to cabin in broad daylight,
Another holiday experience logged.
A bleary view of the passing North Cape,
now clad only in inscrutability.
A town flattened in the war
Seemingly rebuilt by IKEA.
On the hillside a locally tended monument
To 1000 Tirpitz sailors.
Above the beach rock carvings
Of hunting and fishing 5000 years ago.
Touched by these glimpses of man’s history,
We sip whisky on the upper deck.
Heading to the deepest fjord
Here at night trolls hurl down boulders as we pass.
But this has been our longest day.
John Seacome
Mégevette, French Alps
The garden chair has been carefully placed
beneath these sheltering pines
but reading’s a struggle this afternoon.
Power lines buzz and shine a
valley-spanning parabola to where
a farmer tracks and tracks the field
a fraction before the tractor’s moan.
Crows croak, cowbells chorus, a squadron of swallows
chase and scream in dogfight.
Some minutes yet until the church bell
will clang out the hour.
A pair of buzzards cruise and quarter the sky
and everything falls freeze-frame quiet.
I turn back to my page:
The drunkenness of things being various,
and turn away again
not wanting to miss this moment
or this moment’s moment.
John C.
Prompt Seventeen: ... is the sweetest thing
Okay everyone, this time we are dealing with the biggie for writers. Yes, Prompt Seventeen is LOVE. Your piece of poetry or prose (300 word limit) must obviously be about love.
However, there is a stipulation that the word love itself may not be used, nor should any variant on the word love like lovely, lovingly, loved, lover and so on.
No Zoom meeting next week but the good news is that the writing deadline has been extended to midnight on Monday 31st May. Email your work to me by then please and good luck!
However, there is a stipulation that the word love itself may not be used, nor should any variant on the word love like lovely, lovingly, loved, lover and so on.
No Zoom meeting next week but the good news is that the writing deadline has been extended to midnight on Monday 31st May. Email your work to me by then please and good luck!
Prompt Seventeen Responses
Wallpaper
I knew when I woke that day that something was wrong. It was Friday morning and the kids had TV cartoons downstairs. He was still snoring after his night shift. But it was the wallpaper that spoilt my morning.
It was downright ugly. What possessed us to buy it in the first place? We’d gone together to the stall on the market just after we were married and life was still an exciting adventure.
We looked through the selection on display.
Finally, we saw this paper designed in 1950s style with yellow bulrushes on a black background. He’d said, “What do you think of this one?” “Yes, it’s OK” I replied. “Yes, it’s OK” he replied. So we’d bought a bargain that we both liked.
We sat down to breakfast. “I can’t stand the wallpaper in our bedroom”. I said straight out over the Chocolate Cheerios. He stopped in mid-munch. “We’ll talk about it later when the kids are in bed," he replied. He was the one who kept their cool.
And so it all came out. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t like it either” he said.
“So why did we buy it in the first place?”
”Life was such an adventure then and neither of us wanted to spoil it”.
After a visit to B&Q we dumped the kids with my mother for the weekend and set to work. The next night he didn’t have a shift. It was like we were young all over again.
John Seacome
Meridians
I am trying
to feel
important.
I must
somehow
create
significance.
It is precisely 3.15
am.
I am iced through to my bones
sitting outside on an upturned log,
cradling the dog’s head as he leans against me.
It seems the right thing to do.
Concentrate.
Slide down the meridian
bouncing like a pecker on a spring.
It is precisely 3.15
pm.
on a monsoon day.
My family are fanning away the damp air
while heavy cumulus clouds build.
I would have pushed her out to sea
on a burning Viking boat
cresting dark waves while the beacons burnt.
She would be on her way to – wherever.
I contort myself into that antipodean heat
sweating in dark clothes
cutting agapanthus from the fields
for the coffin.
Conched arum lilies too.
Mum liked them a lot
until she learnt they grew feral in the scrubby bush
and were locally called
pig’s ears.
Concentrate
No quiet vigil after her passing
all I hear is my chattering mind
making peace
making it notable.
I should be in the family pew
staring at the Cross through sore eyes,
squeezing my dad’s hand too tight.
Hearing the squeaky tread of polished shoes
and heavy breathing
as my brothers shoulder mother up the aisle
to her catafalque.
But I am here
not there.
Viv Longley
The Odd Couple
My stepfather was a piddling precise little man, lean and angular, whose signature was’ place for everything and everything in its place’. My mother was rosy and round with mischievous wit and ready smile.
She wore pom-poms slippers whilst sitting amongst the rhubarb on a kitchen chair at the bottom of the garden, leaving her empty teacups amongst his regiment of black currant bushes.
Exchanges between them were limited to, who had left the bathroom tap on, or a request to put a latch on the gate to prevent their infant son from making a quick get-away down the avenue.
She and the straight-faced war veteran, twenty years her senior, seldom accompanied each other outside the home. I cannot but wonder what quirk of nature. What shared moments. Could have drawn the couple to be irrevocably tied?
That being, until the day of her troublesome tooth. Which saw them venture forth together on a rare visit to the dentist.
Where they joined other would be patients, at the surgery, edging along a line of chairs. Like the customary practice of lining up for a haircut at the barber’s shop. Albeit less talkative.
As the minutes progressed she became more and more agitated. Then the dreaded moment of her turn arrived...
“Next please”, was issued impersonally from beyond the door...
She froze to the seat...
Urgently, she gripped the arm of her solemn supporter.
Who, immediately sprung to his feet.
Pulled back his shoulders, like the old soldier he was, and had a molar extracted on his wife’s behalf.
June
Six Months
It has been six months
since your going
It is the absence
of your special
looks
and the absence
of your Saturday
smile
and the absence
of your caring
hands
Oh, then there’s
you
with
your
poetry lips
murmuring, whispering
telling me
I
am
yours
It has been six months
I am waiting
Lesley
Tell Me True
Don’t be mean, don’t jest, don’t treat me like the rest
Tell me true, don’t test, what I mean to you.
I can’t tell from your eyes and act
What’s lies and what’s fact
Give me a morsel of a clue
What I mean to you.
Don’t leave me hanging, dangling in space
Floating in oceans of emotional surging
Days merging, time stretching
Don’t leave me floundering in sound outage
Just reach out and give me a glimmer
A morale booster and hint of a future.
Don’t tell me lies and falsehoods,
Misunderstoods, give it me real,
Show me how you feel, like or not?
I’m here right now, right here now
Did you hear? Are you listening?
Have you heard? Send me a word
A soundwave around, frequency human
Trans-ferred in hertz…
Not hurts.
What am I…to you?
Martyn Harrison
A Sonnet to a Symbol
When rising waters flood my weakening eye
And pale moons haunt the memories of my heart,
I follow where the dove flies in the sky,
Her bright wings trailing arcs across the dark.
I feel her warmth that melts the ice of years
To surface buried treasure black with age,
To offer olive branches to my fears
And dampen down the embers of my rage.
When wearied hands reach out towards the light
And shadowed faces disappear from view,
I’ll hold the dove before the final flight,
Symbolic of the thread that’s seen me through.
The power of the world that soars above,
Lies hidden in the pathway of the dove.
Larraine Harrison
The Thin Blue Line
So, the relationship begins. Bringing with it a raft of emotions. Believe you me, at times you will feel like you are tumbling down rapids, out of control, with no steering. However, at the bottom is a beautiful, calm lake.
The journey through parenthood is a tough one. Not a stroll in the park but a hike, at times over difficult terrain. Not a compass or ordnance survey map to guide you but an overwhelming sensation of the need to lead and protect, frequently met with resistance.
You gather hundreds of images on the way, sometimes in print or digital these days, a whole cloud of memories.
Finally, you reach a crossroads. Paths separate and you are both on your own, excited and bewildered. However, there is not a one-way sign in sight, return is possible at any time. And so they will. The thin blue line is not broken, just stretched and will bounce back stronger than ever.
Lyn
To have not
I see you sitting beneath a tree
You say hello, but you don't see me
You see a girl you've known for years
A girl who's shed a whole lot of tears
You tease me like some sort of game
But my thoughts for you hold no blame
I know your words are meant in jest
So I laugh, true feelings, kept suppressed
You invite me for coffee as two old friends
And I know this is how it must always end
You speak of another and ask my advice
And I smile politely and say 'That's nice'
I know in my heart you will never be mine
But I still live in hope as I sit here and pine
Unrequited devotion is the worst pain of all
Knowing you are there, but will never call.
Mela
Memories
I picked up my granddaughter and hug her tight. She wiggles half way out of my arms and I laugh. I tickle her madly as she loosens my grip. As I step away from her my daughter comes in to the room. I stand with the three of us. The connection is warm and I think of the beauty that I have produced. I gave life to. I grew in my pot.
My son’s and husband’s pictures on the wall. Other pictures of my family surround me and I’m overwhelmed. My heart explodes as I look at my daughters protruding belly and smile at my granddaughter and daughter. Tears filling my eyes,
The ultimate euphoria to our lives I touch her belly and a kick meets my hand. Joy and happiness overwhelmed me. As the cycle of life continues again to grow.
Alice
The Greeks had fifty words for this
Or was it the Eskimos and words for snow? Anyway, these spots of time, these glimpses of the sublime, there had to be the right words somewhere.
He paused by the window to consider what someone had told him about the Greeks, their language, and scenes such as this. These moments when the pale disc of the moon was fading out of shot; wispy grey morning moments with the Sunday flock of pigeons scattering from the city square as the low sun zeroes in. Greenfly cast in bronze moments.
Or moments like Dolores O’Riordan raising the key in confession, I know I’ve felt like this before but now I’m feeling it even more.
These moments of epiphany like with the woman who shared the bed they’d bought at Slash Carpets, Tring, the bed which now had thirty years on the clock. She who still biroed out mistakes in the Guardian crossword, cursing vowels and a spelling block. Or, as she often did, slipping aside toothpaste, tinned potatoes and cornflakes
for folk at the foodbank.
Yes, these moments, without a word of Greek, just being present at the sulphur struck against the sandpaper moment, like the songbird silhouette posted topmost, tune-bombing the sky; euphonious.
John C.
I knew when I woke that day that something was wrong. It was Friday morning and the kids had TV cartoons downstairs. He was still snoring after his night shift. But it was the wallpaper that spoilt my morning.
It was downright ugly. What possessed us to buy it in the first place? We’d gone together to the stall on the market just after we were married and life was still an exciting adventure.
We looked through the selection on display.
Finally, we saw this paper designed in 1950s style with yellow bulrushes on a black background. He’d said, “What do you think of this one?” “Yes, it’s OK” I replied. “Yes, it’s OK” he replied. So we’d bought a bargain that we both liked.
We sat down to breakfast. “I can’t stand the wallpaper in our bedroom”. I said straight out over the Chocolate Cheerios. He stopped in mid-munch. “We’ll talk about it later when the kids are in bed," he replied. He was the one who kept their cool.
And so it all came out. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t like it either” he said.
“So why did we buy it in the first place?”
”Life was such an adventure then and neither of us wanted to spoil it”.
After a visit to B&Q we dumped the kids with my mother for the weekend and set to work. The next night he didn’t have a shift. It was like we were young all over again.
John Seacome
Meridians
I am trying
to feel
important.
I must
somehow
create
significance.
It is precisely 3.15
am.
I am iced through to my bones
sitting outside on an upturned log,
cradling the dog’s head as he leans against me.
It seems the right thing to do.
Concentrate.
Slide down the meridian
bouncing like a pecker on a spring.
It is precisely 3.15
pm.
on a monsoon day.
My family are fanning away the damp air
while heavy cumulus clouds build.
I would have pushed her out to sea
on a burning Viking boat
cresting dark waves while the beacons burnt.
She would be on her way to – wherever.
I contort myself into that antipodean heat
sweating in dark clothes
cutting agapanthus from the fields
for the coffin.
Conched arum lilies too.
Mum liked them a lot
until she learnt they grew feral in the scrubby bush
and were locally called
pig’s ears.
Concentrate
No quiet vigil after her passing
all I hear is my chattering mind
making peace
making it notable.
I should be in the family pew
staring at the Cross through sore eyes,
squeezing my dad’s hand too tight.
Hearing the squeaky tread of polished shoes
and heavy breathing
as my brothers shoulder mother up the aisle
to her catafalque.
But I am here
not there.
Viv Longley
The Odd Couple
My stepfather was a piddling precise little man, lean and angular, whose signature was’ place for everything and everything in its place’. My mother was rosy and round with mischievous wit and ready smile.
She wore pom-poms slippers whilst sitting amongst the rhubarb on a kitchen chair at the bottom of the garden, leaving her empty teacups amongst his regiment of black currant bushes.
Exchanges between them were limited to, who had left the bathroom tap on, or a request to put a latch on the gate to prevent their infant son from making a quick get-away down the avenue.
She and the straight-faced war veteran, twenty years her senior, seldom accompanied each other outside the home. I cannot but wonder what quirk of nature. What shared moments. Could have drawn the couple to be irrevocably tied?
That being, until the day of her troublesome tooth. Which saw them venture forth together on a rare visit to the dentist.
Where they joined other would be patients, at the surgery, edging along a line of chairs. Like the customary practice of lining up for a haircut at the barber’s shop. Albeit less talkative.
As the minutes progressed she became more and more agitated. Then the dreaded moment of her turn arrived...
“Next please”, was issued impersonally from beyond the door...
She froze to the seat...
Urgently, she gripped the arm of her solemn supporter.
Who, immediately sprung to his feet.
Pulled back his shoulders, like the old soldier he was, and had a molar extracted on his wife’s behalf.
June
Six Months
It has been six months
since your going
It is the absence
of your special
looks
and the absence
of your Saturday
smile
and the absence
of your caring
hands
Oh, then there’s
you
with
your
poetry lips
murmuring, whispering
telling me
I
am
yours
It has been six months
I am waiting
Lesley
Tell Me True
Don’t be mean, don’t jest, don’t treat me like the rest
Tell me true, don’t test, what I mean to you.
I can’t tell from your eyes and act
What’s lies and what’s fact
Give me a morsel of a clue
What I mean to you.
Don’t leave me hanging, dangling in space
Floating in oceans of emotional surging
Days merging, time stretching
Don’t leave me floundering in sound outage
Just reach out and give me a glimmer
A morale booster and hint of a future.
Don’t tell me lies and falsehoods,
Misunderstoods, give it me real,
Show me how you feel, like or not?
I’m here right now, right here now
Did you hear? Are you listening?
Have you heard? Send me a word
A soundwave around, frequency human
Trans-ferred in hertz…
Not hurts.
What am I…to you?
Martyn Harrison
A Sonnet to a Symbol
When rising waters flood my weakening eye
And pale moons haunt the memories of my heart,
I follow where the dove flies in the sky,
Her bright wings trailing arcs across the dark.
I feel her warmth that melts the ice of years
To surface buried treasure black with age,
To offer olive branches to my fears
And dampen down the embers of my rage.
When wearied hands reach out towards the light
And shadowed faces disappear from view,
I’ll hold the dove before the final flight,
Symbolic of the thread that’s seen me through.
The power of the world that soars above,
Lies hidden in the pathway of the dove.
Larraine Harrison
The Thin Blue Line
So, the relationship begins. Bringing with it a raft of emotions. Believe you me, at times you will feel like you are tumbling down rapids, out of control, with no steering. However, at the bottom is a beautiful, calm lake.
The journey through parenthood is a tough one. Not a stroll in the park but a hike, at times over difficult terrain. Not a compass or ordnance survey map to guide you but an overwhelming sensation of the need to lead and protect, frequently met with resistance.
You gather hundreds of images on the way, sometimes in print or digital these days, a whole cloud of memories.
Finally, you reach a crossroads. Paths separate and you are both on your own, excited and bewildered. However, there is not a one-way sign in sight, return is possible at any time. And so they will. The thin blue line is not broken, just stretched and will bounce back stronger than ever.
Lyn
To have not
I see you sitting beneath a tree
You say hello, but you don't see me
You see a girl you've known for years
A girl who's shed a whole lot of tears
You tease me like some sort of game
But my thoughts for you hold no blame
I know your words are meant in jest
So I laugh, true feelings, kept suppressed
You invite me for coffee as two old friends
And I know this is how it must always end
You speak of another and ask my advice
And I smile politely and say 'That's nice'
I know in my heart you will never be mine
But I still live in hope as I sit here and pine
Unrequited devotion is the worst pain of all
Knowing you are there, but will never call.
Mela
Memories
I picked up my granddaughter and hug her tight. She wiggles half way out of my arms and I laugh. I tickle her madly as she loosens my grip. As I step away from her my daughter comes in to the room. I stand with the three of us. The connection is warm and I think of the beauty that I have produced. I gave life to. I grew in my pot.
My son’s and husband’s pictures on the wall. Other pictures of my family surround me and I’m overwhelmed. My heart explodes as I look at my daughters protruding belly and smile at my granddaughter and daughter. Tears filling my eyes,
The ultimate euphoria to our lives I touch her belly and a kick meets my hand. Joy and happiness overwhelmed me. As the cycle of life continues again to grow.
Alice
The Greeks had fifty words for this
Or was it the Eskimos and words for snow? Anyway, these spots of time, these glimpses of the sublime, there had to be the right words somewhere.
He paused by the window to consider what someone had told him about the Greeks, their language, and scenes such as this. These moments when the pale disc of the moon was fading out of shot; wispy grey morning moments with the Sunday flock of pigeons scattering from the city square as the low sun zeroes in. Greenfly cast in bronze moments.
Or moments like Dolores O’Riordan raising the key in confession, I know I’ve felt like this before but now I’m feeling it even more.
These moments of epiphany like with the woman who shared the bed they’d bought at Slash Carpets, Tring, the bed which now had thirty years on the clock. She who still biroed out mistakes in the Guardian crossword, cursing vowels and a spelling block. Or, as she often did, slipping aside toothpaste, tinned potatoes and cornflakes
for folk at the foodbank.
Yes, these moments, without a word of Greek, just being present at the sulphur struck against the sandpaper moment, like the songbird silhouette posted topmost, tune-bombing the sky; euphonious.
John C.
Prompt Sixteen: I Like That Stuff
At first glance, Adrian Mitchell's poem looks like a list poem. Look! a list of things that I like. But closer observation reveals that there is some considerable poetic technique involved. Yes, there is the constant repetition of "I like that stuff" and line endings with "it." But check out also the internal rhymes: "around and found for instance and trapped and wrapped. Every verse reveals a surprise. Then, the final three verses make a departure from the earlier structure, building up to a climax as it were. So, a much more difficult poem to use as a model than first appears. But we can take it as a starting point. How would we structure a poem about the things that we like? Or, alternatively, how would attempt this subject as a piece of prose? I'm sure the Agbrigg Writers will find a way because this is our sixteenth Zoom prompt: I like that stuff. Enjoy!
Stufferation
Lovers lie around in it
Broken glass is found in it
Grass
I like that stuff
Tuna fish get trapped in it
Legs come wrapped in it
Nylon
I like that stuff
Eskimos and tramps chew it
Madame Tussaud gave status to it
Wax
I like that stuff
Elephants get sprayed with it
Scotch is made with it
Water
I like that stuff
Clergy are dumbfounded by it
Bones are surrounded by it
Flesh
I like that stuff
Harps are strung with it
Mattresses are sprung with it
Wires
I like that stuff
Carpenters make cots of it
Undertakers use lots of it
Wood
I like that stuff
Cigarettes are lit by it
Pensioners are happy when they sit by it
Fire
I like that stuff
Dankworth’s alto is made of it, most of it,
Scoobeedo is composed of it
Plastic
I like that stuff
Man-made fibres and raw materials
Old rolled gold and breakfast cereals
Platinum linoleum
I like that stuff
Skin on my hands
Hair on my head
Toenails on my feet
And linen on my bed
Well I like that stuff
Yes I like that stuff
The earth
Is made of earth
And I like that stuff
Adrian Mitchell
Stufferation
Lovers lie around in it
Broken glass is found in it
Grass
I like that stuff
Tuna fish get trapped in it
Legs come wrapped in it
Nylon
I like that stuff
Eskimos and tramps chew it
Madame Tussaud gave status to it
Wax
I like that stuff
Elephants get sprayed with it
Scotch is made with it
Water
I like that stuff
Clergy are dumbfounded by it
Bones are surrounded by it
Flesh
I like that stuff
Harps are strung with it
Mattresses are sprung with it
Wires
I like that stuff
Carpenters make cots of it
Undertakers use lots of it
Wood
I like that stuff
Cigarettes are lit by it
Pensioners are happy when they sit by it
Fire
I like that stuff
Dankworth’s alto is made of it, most of it,
Scoobeedo is composed of it
Plastic
I like that stuff
Man-made fibres and raw materials
Old rolled gold and breakfast cereals
Platinum linoleum
I like that stuff
Skin on my hands
Hair on my head
Toenails on my feet
And linen on my bed
Well I like that stuff
Yes I like that stuff
The earth
Is made of earth
And I like that stuff
Adrian Mitchell
Prompt Sixteen: I Like That Stuff responses
Song of the Seasons
Leaf tea by twilight
Red wine and Netflix
‘Strictly’ and stir-fries
Drawn curtains at six.
All given a rich flavour
of red leaves, smoky mists and
magic to savour.
Frail sun’s brave brightness,
Lace-frosted windscreens,
Grey cotton wool skies,
dried flowers, over-blown greens.
Winter’s surely a time to keep reason.
Plan ahead for the future
and be glad we have seasons.
Reveille sounded from Pan’s horn.
Bless’d noisy choirs at dawn.
Constantly changing to rain showers from sunny.
The weather plays the cruellest of tricks.
It’s not just choccy bunnies.
and day-old fluffy chicks.
Toasting in sunlight to turn coveted brown.
Lay back and relax from life’s bind.
Digital memories like fine wine to lay down.
To uncork and remind us of ‘that special time’.
Meanwhile, barbecues waft up to the stars.
The third, (was it fourth?) glass of red wine.
So, sleep in tomorrow for life is just fine.
Too soon it’s gone but should we turn sour,
as custom and faith herald love, duty and care?
Return to life’s dance and rejoice you’re still here.
John Seacome
Fibonacci makes me happy
Watch how the head of a sunflower grows –
time lapse of course.
The bloom expands from the centre,
wasting as little energy as possible,
each baby floret moving its form
to the nearest gap.
This is how a Fibonacci sequence of
overlapping spirals is formed -
whichever way you look at it.
Cacti do that too.
So simple.
Magic.
I do not think of this driving along
in a shimmering midday of a Mediterranean summer.
Roof folded back – hat tied down with a silk scarf,
fields of open-faced
glowing
sunflowers
pulsing out a predatory energy.
I doubt if Fibonacci bothered either.
Concerned as he was with the arithmetic of trading
and setting problems about breeding rabbits.
You have never heard of him.
Who cares.
Viv Longley
I Like That Stuff
Breathing the smell of hay drying in the afternoon heat, beside
trumpets of convolvulus whitening the hedgerow, as ragged
clouds lend wonder to the earth.
Is this still happening everywhere?
I also used to ‘like’ perusing shops in town, browsing the department stores, picking up bargains from market stalls,
meeting friends for cosy-coffee-catch-up.
Unfortunately out of city malls are devoid of uniqueness of place. And it feels that my whole loving kingdom has been wrenched away.
Now I lay in a bed of sphagnum moss convulsed with doubt
for things are seldom what they seem. It would appear that the
ether has become the Silk Road for any measure of goods.
And I have always fancied myself dwelling in a land of shopkeepers.
However, now, proud Medieval Wakefield bears remarkable resemblance to Dodge City, and a stale smell of abandonment
saddens the streets.
June
Purest White
I woke the hour before the dawn
The walls were purest white
The bedside clock stood all alone
Beneath a single light
I danced upon a pure white rug
Across an empty room
And down the stairs where two white chairs
Transformed the darkening gloom
I swept my hand along a shelf
My fingers felt the space
I lingered on the emptiness
As if a fond embrace
I found my haven in the calm
Of order and delight
Inside the house that in my dreams
Is always purest white.
Larraine
Life
My grandchild
My children
My husband
Life.
My toes brush along the sand
My fingers brush the air
My hair blows wildly in the wind
Life.
I love to write
With great delight
But no one reads
Life.
Feeling myself breath
Living my dreams
Bucket list be damned
Life.
I hope my life
Has meant something true
I loved, lived and laughed
Life.
Finally and most of all
I love joy
I love happiness
And I love my life most of all.
Alice
The Parcel
I am waiting for you
Looking out for you
I think I need the loo
The time they gave 10:52
It is 11:52
I want to go to the loo
Knock, knock – its not you
I’m waiting for you
I need to go to the loo
Clock, clock it is 12:52
What DO I do
I NEED to go to the loo
The time is 1:52
I go to the loo
Card reads
‘Sorry we missed you’
Lesley
I Like That Stuff
Egg custard tarts, Freeview Sky Arts,
Up with the larks, National Parks,
Nights in, original sin,
Beachcombing treasure, British weather,
Ice cream scoops, artistic pursuits,
Freedom from pressure, beyond others’ measure.
We grow, we gain, we reach outward,
We age, we lose, we turn inward,
We lose the gains and then begins
The search for truth and meanings.
I realise, through this exercise,
I’m meeting the brief, what a relief,
“Know thyself,” could be the mantra,
We owe to all those, who come after.
I like that stuff.
Martyn Harrison
I Like that Stuff
Crispy Bacon, piping hot
Coffee perking in the pot.
Butter covered fresh baked bread
Sunday Papers read in bed.
A brand new book
A brand new car
Fish and chips in vinegar.
Cherry blossom, baby powder
Barbecue a quarter pounder.
Benson and Hedges, lit with a match.
Smooth malt whiskey, down the hatch.
Favourite perfume, dressed to kill.
They never fail to give a thrill.
Lyn
All That Matters
All that matters is
the kettle comes to a boil,
there is the daily promise of post
and the crossword needs a finish.
All that matters is
the front door is closed,
car keys are dropped in the dish,
there are no recorded messages.
All that matters is
the radio delivers
the last overs of a Test Match
and England collapse or flourish.
All that matters is
we meet and begin the early evening rituals:
the clatter of cutlery,
gas mark four.
Let our stress be unstressed:
All that matters
is all that matters.
John C.
Leaf tea by twilight
Red wine and Netflix
‘Strictly’ and stir-fries
Drawn curtains at six.
All given a rich flavour
of red leaves, smoky mists and
magic to savour.
Frail sun’s brave brightness,
Lace-frosted windscreens,
Grey cotton wool skies,
dried flowers, over-blown greens.
Winter’s surely a time to keep reason.
Plan ahead for the future
and be glad we have seasons.
Reveille sounded from Pan’s horn.
Bless’d noisy choirs at dawn.
Constantly changing to rain showers from sunny.
The weather plays the cruellest of tricks.
It’s not just choccy bunnies.
and day-old fluffy chicks.
Toasting in sunlight to turn coveted brown.
Lay back and relax from life’s bind.
Digital memories like fine wine to lay down.
To uncork and remind us of ‘that special time’.
Meanwhile, barbecues waft up to the stars.
The third, (was it fourth?) glass of red wine.
So, sleep in tomorrow for life is just fine.
Too soon it’s gone but should we turn sour,
as custom and faith herald love, duty and care?
Return to life’s dance and rejoice you’re still here.
John Seacome
Fibonacci makes me happy
Watch how the head of a sunflower grows –
time lapse of course.
The bloom expands from the centre,
wasting as little energy as possible,
each baby floret moving its form
to the nearest gap.
This is how a Fibonacci sequence of
overlapping spirals is formed -
whichever way you look at it.
Cacti do that too.
So simple.
Magic.
I do not think of this driving along
in a shimmering midday of a Mediterranean summer.
Roof folded back – hat tied down with a silk scarf,
fields of open-faced
glowing
sunflowers
pulsing out a predatory energy.
I doubt if Fibonacci bothered either.
Concerned as he was with the arithmetic of trading
and setting problems about breeding rabbits.
You have never heard of him.
Who cares.
Viv Longley
I Like That Stuff
Breathing the smell of hay drying in the afternoon heat, beside
trumpets of convolvulus whitening the hedgerow, as ragged
clouds lend wonder to the earth.
Is this still happening everywhere?
I also used to ‘like’ perusing shops in town, browsing the department stores, picking up bargains from market stalls,
meeting friends for cosy-coffee-catch-up.
Unfortunately out of city malls are devoid of uniqueness of place. And it feels that my whole loving kingdom has been wrenched away.
Now I lay in a bed of sphagnum moss convulsed with doubt
for things are seldom what they seem. It would appear that the
ether has become the Silk Road for any measure of goods.
And I have always fancied myself dwelling in a land of shopkeepers.
However, now, proud Medieval Wakefield bears remarkable resemblance to Dodge City, and a stale smell of abandonment
saddens the streets.
June
Purest White
I woke the hour before the dawn
The walls were purest white
The bedside clock stood all alone
Beneath a single light
I danced upon a pure white rug
Across an empty room
And down the stairs where two white chairs
Transformed the darkening gloom
I swept my hand along a shelf
My fingers felt the space
I lingered on the emptiness
As if a fond embrace
I found my haven in the calm
Of order and delight
Inside the house that in my dreams
Is always purest white.
Larraine
Life
My grandchild
My children
My husband
Life.
My toes brush along the sand
My fingers brush the air
My hair blows wildly in the wind
Life.
I love to write
With great delight
But no one reads
Life.
Feeling myself breath
Living my dreams
Bucket list be damned
Life.
I hope my life
Has meant something true
I loved, lived and laughed
Life.
Finally and most of all
I love joy
I love happiness
And I love my life most of all.
Alice
The Parcel
I am waiting for you
Looking out for you
I think I need the loo
The time they gave 10:52
It is 11:52
I want to go to the loo
Knock, knock – its not you
I’m waiting for you
I need to go to the loo
Clock, clock it is 12:52
What DO I do
I NEED to go to the loo
The time is 1:52
I go to the loo
Card reads
‘Sorry we missed you’
Lesley
I Like That Stuff
Egg custard tarts, Freeview Sky Arts,
Up with the larks, National Parks,
Nights in, original sin,
Beachcombing treasure, British weather,
Ice cream scoops, artistic pursuits,
Freedom from pressure, beyond others’ measure.
We grow, we gain, we reach outward,
We age, we lose, we turn inward,
We lose the gains and then begins
The search for truth and meanings.
I realise, through this exercise,
I’m meeting the brief, what a relief,
“Know thyself,” could be the mantra,
We owe to all those, who come after.
I like that stuff.
Martyn Harrison
I Like that Stuff
Crispy Bacon, piping hot
Coffee perking in the pot.
Butter covered fresh baked bread
Sunday Papers read in bed.
A brand new book
A brand new car
Fish and chips in vinegar.
Cherry blossom, baby powder
Barbecue a quarter pounder.
Benson and Hedges, lit with a match.
Smooth malt whiskey, down the hatch.
Favourite perfume, dressed to kill.
They never fail to give a thrill.
Lyn
All That Matters
All that matters is
the kettle comes to a boil,
there is the daily promise of post
and the crossword needs a finish.
All that matters is
the front door is closed,
car keys are dropped in the dish,
there are no recorded messages.
All that matters is
the radio delivers
the last overs of a Test Match
and England collapse or flourish.
All that matters is
we meet and begin the early evening rituals:
the clatter of cutlery,
gas mark four.
Let our stress be unstressed:
All that matters
is all that matters.
John C.
Prompt Fifteen: After the Conversation responses
Shattered
Homing in like an Exocet missile
The words had fractured her defences
Poisoned barbs, deadly in their accuracy
Ear splitting, noxious
Leaving behind a broken shell
Lyn
Conversation unknown
Conversation ends quickly, the collusion is blown
The group is startled as my presence is known
There’s a deathly silence and an air of gloom
And the smell of betrayal consumes the room
Heads turn to each other, with utter shame
Deciding where to point the finger of blame
One looks over, with a supercilious glare
I return unperturbed with a self-assured stare
Unable to hide, their expressions of guilt
The battle begins, the milk has been spilt
“May I be of assistance and fill in the gaps
Put you all in the picture, or draw you a map”
Caught off guard, they are taken by surprise
There’s a fumble for words then out come the lies
With poise and decorum my response is quick
And I dispatch my opponents like a ton of bricks.
Mela
Unholy Liaison
The bed creaked but the Earth didn’t move,
there was no resounding Alleluia Chorus.
With rose-petal lips she had anticipated
a benediction of souls.
She fled the crumpled sheet, steamy scent,
heavy arm, and vicious snore.
Tea and toast could not erase the tarnish
on delicate senses.
.
So....She made a mou in the mirror
and opened the door
to fresh green sap
and lilac trees.
June
After Conversation
Silence can be heard
When words fail
And can batter
When hate prevails.
It may not be
The best communicator
But can be
A manipulator.
Silence can be
A defence used in court
‘No comment’
Being the usual retort.
It can make you feel
At home
If that’s all
You’ve ever known.
Cradle to grave
Rhythmic throb
Heart’s pulse
Pump room.
Factory Acts
Noise abatement
The jury’s out
The die is cast.
Martyn Harrison
Aftermath
They were there before us,
Sitting opposite each other
Staring at the flickering candle
Placed in the centre of the black marble table.
Her greeting was manic,
Over the top.
He took my coat with eyes
Reflecting the falseness of his smile.
The waiter brought iced water
Tinged with the bitterness of lemon
As we cut into our food
With serrated edges.
They ate sparingly, gulping down
Glasses of red wine
Between thinly veiled
Barbed comments.
We left early, leaving them
Still drinking, on opposite sides
Of the black marble table,
Staring at the extinguished candle.
Larraine
News
You can’t always choose your time to give news. This was a snatched moment between us.
She turned back to the sink and plunged her hands into the soapy water. I saw her shoulders sag. Somewhere upstairs he whistled that same old tune he learned in the army.
Cutlery clattered into the drainer. She grabbed the teapot and shook it hard to free the leaves. She never washed that. Pot after pot was brewed in that seasoned stalwart of the table, but in it went.
I made to pick up the tea towel but it was whipped away. Plates, saucers, cups all dried hard and stacked noisily.
“Oi!” from upstairs.
She turned, eyes brimming and red.
“I will say you’ve gone to the shop.”
Lesley
The Performance Review
He gives a feigned disproving sigh
At sight of my fee target.
Like Icarus,
it fell to earth
among dried sandwiches and apple cores.
He slams his notebook shut
And sweeps off to let his secretary go.
It’s another of those days.
But where is the redeeming plan?
I should plot a course through
A nameless country
where guidance
is written in an unspoken tongue.
John Seacome
Red Sorry, Yellow Sorry
I’m sorry
You’re sorry.
So sorry.
Sorry for all the time you were late
Sorry for the times that dinner landed up in the dog
Sorry that you missed two out of three open days
Sorry about the gesture of the flowers from the filling station
Sorry for the packet of sweets
I don’t eat
in the glove compartment.
Sorry for the two take away latte cups in the bottom of the rubbish bin.
One with lipstick.
Sorry for pretending that I am
sorry.
Sorry for loving you,
making life so difficult.
Sorry for keeping quiet
not making a fuss.
Sorry for believing you
always.
Sorry for hurting myself
Sorry for being authentic.
Sorry for being too real.
Just sorry.
Give me the keys.
Go.
Viv Longley
The Last Word
Birds gathered on the wire
are programmed for an equatorial
return.
Shrubs and trees
stripped after shaping
will recover and flourish
and wild mountain crystal
will tumble and torrent
after the
thaw.
You and I will still
meet on the street
with a casual nod
but not a smile
which reaches the eyes.
For what is done is done
and what is said
can never
be.
John C.
Homing in like an Exocet missile
The words had fractured her defences
Poisoned barbs, deadly in their accuracy
Ear splitting, noxious
Leaving behind a broken shell
Lyn
Conversation unknown
Conversation ends quickly, the collusion is blown
The group is startled as my presence is known
There’s a deathly silence and an air of gloom
And the smell of betrayal consumes the room
Heads turn to each other, with utter shame
Deciding where to point the finger of blame
One looks over, with a supercilious glare
I return unperturbed with a self-assured stare
Unable to hide, their expressions of guilt
The battle begins, the milk has been spilt
“May I be of assistance and fill in the gaps
Put you all in the picture, or draw you a map”
Caught off guard, they are taken by surprise
There’s a fumble for words then out come the lies
With poise and decorum my response is quick
And I dispatch my opponents like a ton of bricks.
Mela
Unholy Liaison
The bed creaked but the Earth didn’t move,
there was no resounding Alleluia Chorus.
With rose-petal lips she had anticipated
a benediction of souls.
She fled the crumpled sheet, steamy scent,
heavy arm, and vicious snore.
Tea and toast could not erase the tarnish
on delicate senses.
.
So....She made a mou in the mirror
and opened the door
to fresh green sap
and lilac trees.
June
After Conversation
Silence can be heard
When words fail
And can batter
When hate prevails.
It may not be
The best communicator
But can be
A manipulator.
Silence can be
A defence used in court
‘No comment’
Being the usual retort.
It can make you feel
At home
If that’s all
You’ve ever known.
Cradle to grave
Rhythmic throb
Heart’s pulse
Pump room.
Factory Acts
Noise abatement
The jury’s out
The die is cast.
Martyn Harrison
Aftermath
They were there before us,
Sitting opposite each other
Staring at the flickering candle
Placed in the centre of the black marble table.
Her greeting was manic,
Over the top.
He took my coat with eyes
Reflecting the falseness of his smile.
The waiter brought iced water
Tinged with the bitterness of lemon
As we cut into our food
With serrated edges.
They ate sparingly, gulping down
Glasses of red wine
Between thinly veiled
Barbed comments.
We left early, leaving them
Still drinking, on opposite sides
Of the black marble table,
Staring at the extinguished candle.
Larraine
News
You can’t always choose your time to give news. This was a snatched moment between us.
She turned back to the sink and plunged her hands into the soapy water. I saw her shoulders sag. Somewhere upstairs he whistled that same old tune he learned in the army.
Cutlery clattered into the drainer. She grabbed the teapot and shook it hard to free the leaves. She never washed that. Pot after pot was brewed in that seasoned stalwart of the table, but in it went.
I made to pick up the tea towel but it was whipped away. Plates, saucers, cups all dried hard and stacked noisily.
“Oi!” from upstairs.
She turned, eyes brimming and red.
“I will say you’ve gone to the shop.”
Lesley
The Performance Review
He gives a feigned disproving sigh
At sight of my fee target.
Like Icarus,
it fell to earth
among dried sandwiches and apple cores.
He slams his notebook shut
And sweeps off to let his secretary go.
It’s another of those days.
But where is the redeeming plan?
I should plot a course through
A nameless country
where guidance
is written in an unspoken tongue.
John Seacome
Red Sorry, Yellow Sorry
I’m sorry
You’re sorry.
So sorry.
Sorry for all the time you were late
Sorry for the times that dinner landed up in the dog
Sorry that you missed two out of three open days
Sorry about the gesture of the flowers from the filling station
Sorry for the packet of sweets
I don’t eat
in the glove compartment.
Sorry for the two take away latte cups in the bottom of the rubbish bin.
One with lipstick.
Sorry for pretending that I am
sorry.
Sorry for loving you,
making life so difficult.
Sorry for keeping quiet
not making a fuss.
Sorry for believing you
always.
Sorry for hurting myself
Sorry for being authentic.
Sorry for being too real.
Just sorry.
Give me the keys.
Go.
Viv Longley
The Last Word
Birds gathered on the wire
are programmed for an equatorial
return.
Shrubs and trees
stripped after shaping
will recover and flourish
and wild mountain crystal
will tumble and torrent
after the
thaw.
You and I will still
meet on the street
with a casual nod
but not a smile
which reaches the eyes.
For what is done is done
and what is said
can never
be.
John C.
Prompt Fifteen: After the Conversation
It's not what is said but the reaction to what is said. If no-one speaks, what can be heard? How do people react? What can be inferred by the reader about the preceding conversation?
Read the following poem and note how spare and terse the poem is and how there's only one word of more than two syllables in the whole poem. And how "disapproval" resonates.
Read the poem and then write your own piece of poetry or prose under the working title of After the Conversation.
Read the following poem and note how spare and terse the poem is and how there's only one word of more than two syllables in the whole poem. And how "disapproval" resonates.
Read the poem and then write your own piece of poetry or prose under the working title of After the Conversation.
Our News
all told, the silence tastes like
noise, a grainy mustard static.
My ears are wide-open, itching.
Mother folds up her gaze, snaps
shut her lips, sharply sets
down her unsipped champagne.
She slings on her coat, leaves
disapproval as the tip
and stalks out into the rain.
L. Kiew
all told, the silence tastes like
noise, a grainy mustard static.
My ears are wide-open, itching.
Mother folds up her gaze, snaps
shut her lips, sharply sets
down her unsipped champagne.
She slings on her coat, leaves
disapproval as the tip
and stalks out into the rain.
L. Kiew
Prompt Fourteen: The cobweb covered chest
That old chest was covered in cobwebs...
Whose chest was it?
Where and when was it found?
Why was it significant?
What did the box say about the its owner and the people who now, perhaps, wanted to open it?
Whose chest was it?
Where and when was it found?
Why was it significant?
What did the box say about the its owner and the people who now, perhaps, wanted to open it?
Don't spend your precious words on explanation, rather deal with mood, tone and atmosphere. Take us into tension between characters and grit; a real world where the five senses are invoked. Make allusions, hints and suggestions. Don't pin things down neatly at the end and don't lead up to a corny twist. Leave your reader staring into the abyss. Good luck and enjoy.
Prompt Fourteen Responses
Just A Trunk
A hide bound trunk
is some place
to hide
your dreams
A brass bound trunk
is a repository
for
your stories
A cobweb covered trunk
may hold a web
of truths
or lies
Inside is history that
was once a future
…… a future
of boundless possibilities
All bound up in that old trunk
Lesley
The Doll
Here I lie in a forgotten chest
In a cardboard box, lined with the best
Knitted blanket a ten year old’s hands could make,
Fringed around the edges, with one mistake.
Here I sleep enshrined in the gloom
At the top of the house in the attic room
With rosebud lips and glassy eyes
I’m the keeper of the secrets and the whispered lies.
Here I listen for the creak on the stair,
The turn of the key and the first draught of air
Awaiting a stranger’s indifferent grasp
Freed of the shackles of a distant past
Here I whisper to the spider on the web
The rites of memories long since dead
Until there are no tears to shed
And all I know is left unsaid
Larraine Harrison
The New Gem
Cobwebbed trunks holding secrets they never forget
Dust shrouding histories of hope and regret
Letters home saying what recipients want to hear
Books and possessions making everything clear?
I delved into one such dusty casket
And pulled out one such artefact
A well-travelled tome showing signs of age
With its spine all detached and weary
No longer bound to be of use
A Collins New Gem Dictionary
It had seen good service and was very well thumbed
Into various parts each hanging by a thread
And his name, regiment and war service number
Was proudly displayed inside the front cover
The World Atlas section towards the end
Had suffered more from usage and disruption
The Americas were completely adrift
And Eastern Australia missing in action
An atlas that demonstrates continental drift
Now that really is a Gem, a bonus, a gift
But who or what else is missing I wonder
At the end of the world or the day?
His sister said he came home but had changed
And she didn’t elaborate further
He and his Gem both came home battle scarred
Bound in skin or leather
But the Gem had the better vocabulary
And was calmer and much less fiery
He came home missing, lost not in action
Mired amid the mists of mystery
And inside the back cover of the Collins New Gem
Was written the name Rachel and Raechel crossed out
But who was Rachel and who knew Rachel?
Mysteries to the end…no doubt.
Martyn Harrison
Lift the Lid
When my bachelor uncle died, we opened
the battered tin chest that he’d stored for
years in my mother’s box room.
We were hit by a lingering staleness of
Woodbine cigarette smoke echoing round
a small poster of Kitchener,
inside a box of medals
awarded for gallantry
on the Somme.
A thin gold band, carefully tied in a ribbon
of forget-me-not blue, matching the eyes
of the girl he kissed in the corn field
Beside a well-thumbed newspaper
cutting that depicted a steam ship
transporting immigrants to
Canada.
It also contained a stained
Church Army tract
offering respite to
lost souls.
June
Those to whom evil is done…
Those to whom evil is done…
Starlings dance their jeering pirouettes
between the charred rafters of the hall.
Where once his Lordship’s daughter
Danced so gracefully, as county beaux
Took turns to sweep her off her feet.
Can this chest unveil the truth about
those pitiless slave-ship voyages.
Relentless toil amid the steaming fields,
at master’s beck and call, both day and night?
Enjoying riches costing them their lives,
people back home in England,
don’t care to think of that.
Is this chest possessed by some darkly entity?
A malign force which destroyed
his Lordship and his loving family.
Or journals and accounts portraying
the decline of that illustrious breed.
Grist for those who gloat to show
the misery of those long dead.
John Seacome
Under lock and key
I
am the shed in her head.
I
care for her
secrets,
keep them safe
just for her.
There are butterflies – always escaping.
Pin them through the thorax.
Still, steady state
withered wings desiccate.
Lots of hats.
School panamas with petersham bands,
French berets,
Straws for summer days.
Black hats.
She gathered rosebuds
now turned to pot pourri
mingling with olive branches
and mistletoe.
Cloved pomanders splitting
flesh dried to burnt umber.
Laurels wreathed
onto hangers,
cobwebbed
Then there are the plashy water drops of her life.
Each bottled, labelled
Kept on the poisons shelf
Only to be examined through the lens of the apothecary.
Dirty linen
Washed but stained
Kept folded like a concertina.
My door is locked,
shut tight.
My cupboards are full.
Bursting.
No space.
Soon I will
detonate.
Viv Longley
Bail Withheld
She struggled to heave the old chest through the jungle of electrical leads which tangled in her way from the garden shed. Wooden shafted tools had been piled onto the lawn and the old bike lay in a disjointed heap with the front wheel still in a decelerating spin.
“What’re you doin’, that old thing must weigh a ton?”
“It’s your dad’s old chest. I’m surprised it wasn’t checked when the house was searched.” She gasped through laboured breaths and suddenly, her recent exertions and the anxiety she’d carried for too long became evident. “It does weigh a ton,” she said, “but let’s get it open. Let’s see what’s in there.”
“Mum, that was a digital search. They took hard drives and memory files; they weren’t looking for bags marked swag.”
The old key in the lock refused to budge despite the manic determination in her repeated efforts. Eventually, with a sudden jerk her grip slipped and she skinned her knuckles against the protruding metal of the chest.
“Damn it!”
I’d seen the inch of skin she’d lifted and the immediate scarlet bloom beneath, so I whipped out my hanky and wrapped it around her hand applying pressure on the wound, while she folded her free arm around my shoulder, buried her head against my neck and began to sob.
She was barely coherent, “This is the first time I’ve cried since your father…went away.”
“I know, I know,” I said, “It’s okay. We’ll get this open…”
“There’s no proof,” she said.
“Shh…I know, Dad knew what he was doing.”
That old chest? I wasn’t expecting to find any more than grass seed, weedkiller and maybe some petrol for the lawn mower.
But it wasn’t the contents of the chest, or the blood which was seeping from below my make-do bandage, which was causing her to weep.
John C
A hide bound trunk
is some place
to hide
your dreams
A brass bound trunk
is a repository
for
your stories
A cobweb covered trunk
may hold a web
of truths
or lies
Inside is history that
was once a future
…… a future
of boundless possibilities
All bound up in that old trunk
Lesley
The Doll
Here I lie in a forgotten chest
In a cardboard box, lined with the best
Knitted blanket a ten year old’s hands could make,
Fringed around the edges, with one mistake.
Here I sleep enshrined in the gloom
At the top of the house in the attic room
With rosebud lips and glassy eyes
I’m the keeper of the secrets and the whispered lies.
Here I listen for the creak on the stair,
The turn of the key and the first draught of air
Awaiting a stranger’s indifferent grasp
Freed of the shackles of a distant past
Here I whisper to the spider on the web
The rites of memories long since dead
Until there are no tears to shed
And all I know is left unsaid
Larraine Harrison
The New Gem
Cobwebbed trunks holding secrets they never forget
Dust shrouding histories of hope and regret
Letters home saying what recipients want to hear
Books and possessions making everything clear?
I delved into one such dusty casket
And pulled out one such artefact
A well-travelled tome showing signs of age
With its spine all detached and weary
No longer bound to be of use
A Collins New Gem Dictionary
It had seen good service and was very well thumbed
Into various parts each hanging by a thread
And his name, regiment and war service number
Was proudly displayed inside the front cover
The World Atlas section towards the end
Had suffered more from usage and disruption
The Americas were completely adrift
And Eastern Australia missing in action
An atlas that demonstrates continental drift
Now that really is a Gem, a bonus, a gift
But who or what else is missing I wonder
At the end of the world or the day?
His sister said he came home but had changed
And she didn’t elaborate further
He and his Gem both came home battle scarred
Bound in skin or leather
But the Gem had the better vocabulary
And was calmer and much less fiery
He came home missing, lost not in action
Mired amid the mists of mystery
And inside the back cover of the Collins New Gem
Was written the name Rachel and Raechel crossed out
But who was Rachel and who knew Rachel?
Mysteries to the end…no doubt.
Martyn Harrison
Lift the Lid
When my bachelor uncle died, we opened
the battered tin chest that he’d stored for
years in my mother’s box room.
We were hit by a lingering staleness of
Woodbine cigarette smoke echoing round
a small poster of Kitchener,
inside a box of medals
awarded for gallantry
on the Somme.
A thin gold band, carefully tied in a ribbon
of forget-me-not blue, matching the eyes
of the girl he kissed in the corn field
Beside a well-thumbed newspaper
cutting that depicted a steam ship
transporting immigrants to
Canada.
It also contained a stained
Church Army tract
offering respite to
lost souls.
June
Those to whom evil is done…
Those to whom evil is done…
Starlings dance their jeering pirouettes
between the charred rafters of the hall.
Where once his Lordship’s daughter
Danced so gracefully, as county beaux
Took turns to sweep her off her feet.
Can this chest unveil the truth about
those pitiless slave-ship voyages.
Relentless toil amid the steaming fields,
at master’s beck and call, both day and night?
Enjoying riches costing them their lives,
people back home in England,
don’t care to think of that.
Is this chest possessed by some darkly entity?
A malign force which destroyed
his Lordship and his loving family.
Or journals and accounts portraying
the decline of that illustrious breed.
Grist for those who gloat to show
the misery of those long dead.
John Seacome
Under lock and key
I
am the shed in her head.
I
care for her
secrets,
keep them safe
just for her.
There are butterflies – always escaping.
Pin them through the thorax.
Still, steady state
withered wings desiccate.
Lots of hats.
School panamas with petersham bands,
French berets,
Straws for summer days.
Black hats.
She gathered rosebuds
now turned to pot pourri
mingling with olive branches
and mistletoe.
Cloved pomanders splitting
flesh dried to burnt umber.
Laurels wreathed
onto hangers,
cobwebbed
Then there are the plashy water drops of her life.
Each bottled, labelled
Kept on the poisons shelf
Only to be examined through the lens of the apothecary.
Dirty linen
Washed but stained
Kept folded like a concertina.
My door is locked,
shut tight.
My cupboards are full.
Bursting.
No space.
Soon I will
detonate.
Viv Longley
Bail Withheld
She struggled to heave the old chest through the jungle of electrical leads which tangled in her way from the garden shed. Wooden shafted tools had been piled onto the lawn and the old bike lay in a disjointed heap with the front wheel still in a decelerating spin.
“What’re you doin’, that old thing must weigh a ton?”
“It’s your dad’s old chest. I’m surprised it wasn’t checked when the house was searched.” She gasped through laboured breaths and suddenly, her recent exertions and the anxiety she’d carried for too long became evident. “It does weigh a ton,” she said, “but let’s get it open. Let’s see what’s in there.”
“Mum, that was a digital search. They took hard drives and memory files; they weren’t looking for bags marked swag.”
The old key in the lock refused to budge despite the manic determination in her repeated efforts. Eventually, with a sudden jerk her grip slipped and she skinned her knuckles against the protruding metal of the chest.
“Damn it!”
I’d seen the inch of skin she’d lifted and the immediate scarlet bloom beneath, so I whipped out my hanky and wrapped it around her hand applying pressure on the wound, while she folded her free arm around my shoulder, buried her head against my neck and began to sob.
She was barely coherent, “This is the first time I’ve cried since your father…went away.”
“I know, I know,” I said, “It’s okay. We’ll get this open…”
“There’s no proof,” she said.
“Shh…I know, Dad knew what he was doing.”
That old chest? I wasn’t expecting to find any more than grass seed, weedkiller and maybe some petrol for the lawn mower.
But it wasn’t the contents of the chest, or the blood which was seeping from below my make-do bandage, which was causing her to weep.
John C
Prompt Thirteen: A Conversation in my Dream
It all came back to me last night like the soft fall of soot in the fireplace.
That moment of waking up with a vivid memory of a conversation that took place in your dream. Who was involved in the conversation? What was said? It can't have any relation to real life can it?
Prompt Thirteen asks you to delve into dreams.
The old stipulations are back in place: submissions by midnight on Monday please. Good luck.
Prompt Thirteen: A Conversation in my Dream responses
Two singles
Although the concert was excellent, I couldn’t remember a single note of the music when we came out. There were so many encores it overran.
By this time, my friend’s last train had gone.
I said ‘It’s a long way back to Lancaster.’ ‘No problem’ she said ‘my aunt will put me up in Eccles’. I thought my friend’s 75 but I didn’t push the point.
The thought must have crossed her mind as well.
‘Maybe not’ she said. ‘I’ve got other ideas’.
I was intrigued and a bit wary.
‘We could stay in a hotel. There are plenty of them around here’ she said. Indeed, there were.
The first hotel was not impressed by my briefcase and her small ruck-sac. ‘We don’t take people like you without luggage, and we don’t have any single rooms left.’ We laughed with each other, and she squeezed my hand.
The next looked much more our sort of place, but it was full.
The third one looked OK from the outside but the bars on all the windows looked a bit unusual. It was a luxury prison converted from a failing hotel. The officer immediately arrested my friend who was taken away to a cell, with en-suite facilities, Wi-Fi and TV provided. It had a surprisingly low recidivism rate. My friend turned and said ‘Yes ‘I come here quite often’.
I was due to be awarded my higher degree the next day for something I’d written but again I couldn’t remember a single word. The warders said ‘Visiting time’s over’. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the Ceremony’, she said.
She came under escort, and I could hear her cheering and clapping as her handcuffs chinked together.
John Seacome
Perchance to Dream
I drift into a realm of the subconscious, sliding to a Wonderland like Alice, visiting haunts of the past. I have a desperate urge to find the road back home.
Many obstacles bar the way. I have been lost here before.
Bemused, I appeal to a couple of bag-packers.
“Once I was familiar with the area. I didn’t need a number to gain entry”.
The youth gazed over my shoulder, intractable, distancing from conversation.
“There used to be bluebells and rhododendrons close to a spring
and dragonflies”.
The girl smiled vaguely listening. She pointed to the high-rise and tarmac, eyes fixed on a mobile phone.
“Sorry, no signal”
Everyone has disappeared along with the birdsong.
Desolation is a lonely place!
My feet slide uncontrollably on a mossy ledge
I cling precariously to a rock face, beneath a cataract,
enchanted by the majesty of a rainbow, with eyes that sting like cactus prickles.
Turning from left to right benevolent boulders block the passage.
I sway forward and stare into the glare of silver-white cascade, blinded by the sparkling light.
My temples explode.
I’m s-c-r-e-a-m-i-n-g!!!
June
Dreaming
August 28,1963
Her brother hesitated, standing on the marble steps.
Mahalia cupped her hands and yelled
Tell ‘em about the dream, Martin.
I dreamed too.
I wanted a world where I could buy shoes
for me,
with my 8 double EEs.
Where sleeves did not stop inches short of my wrists
where skirts would not etch red lines at my waist.
where tights did not arc between my thighs
where my stomach was not undulating hills
but rather a
flat
plain.
I wanted a world where boys,
even the short, spotty ones,
did not stare.
Where workers on building sites did not say
Cor, look at the size of that.
Where teachers did not say
You – yes, you – the tall girl with the red hair.
A world where my mother did not wince at sales assistants
when they looked at me and shrugged their shoulders.
Or chant the refrain
‘no pudding for you’
whilst apple pie
and ice cream
was served to my brothers.
I did not know a world existed where
just maybe
I would not be isolated by my size and
just
maybe
would be celebrated for my difference and
my kind nature
and being
me.
Martin, I too wanted to be judged
by the content of my character
and not the envelopment of my skin.
Viv Longley
Conversation with Myself
I know I think I must have had
Conversations in my dreams
But I also know for sure I think
That I remember not one thing
I know I could try to imagine
A scenario ripe for exploiting
To satisfy this week’s prompting
And try to make it exciting
I know I think what the task demands
But I think it too difficult for me
Give me something more concretised to use
And then I can see what’s to be
I know I have had nightmares
But once again I think
There was no room for conversation
Just fear and flight to the brink
I know daydream escapes are more pleasing to me
Though conversations don’t figure readily
I remember alcohol could play a big part
And Theakstons Old Peculiar was a very good start
At numbing some thoughts
And releasing some others
From those quiet spaces
Beyond normal reaches
Thoughts that could infiltrate and participate
And congregate in the deep substrate
Which can regulate and facilitate and lubricate
Those rarely visited vistas
Where thoughts can irritate and exasperate
Agitate and implicate
Discriminate and decimate and extricate
From those delicate corners
It’s dangerous territory and I think you’ll agree
It’s safer to stay awake and take Alcohol-Free
I know I’m fortunate to have thought this through well
But thinking should carry a Government Health Warning bell
Martyn Harrison
Dream Train
I have no idea why I’m on this train
Or where I am.
Heathered moors flash by my window
As the train snakes through dank mists,
Turning the sun into a ghostly apparition.
I’m alone on the train, apart from three women
Further down the carriage.
One lies slumped over the table between them,
Her matted raven hair splaying out like an oil slick.
They speak in cackled whispers, but I can hear every word.
‘I wish I could sleep like she does,
But I’m afraid of what I might dream.’
‘What is there to be afraid of?’
‘Guilt… It comes in all manner of grisly guises.’
‘Not that again. It wasn’t our fault. He would have done it anyway.’
‘Not if we hadn’t suggested it. There’s blood on our hands.’
‘His greed caused it all. The three of us are blameless.
Him and his wife. They’re the ones to blame.’
‘Well his wife didn’t actually do anything did she.’
‘Alright, she just persuaded him to do it.
But we’re all responsible for our own actions.’
‘Not if you believe in fate like me.’
‘You’re not making any sense.
If fate is to blame then we’re all off the hook aren’t we?’
‘Then maybe I don’t believe in fate after all.’
‘You think too much. That’s why you can’t sleep.’
However bad your dream is, you’ll wake up in the end.’
‘But how do you know you’re in a dream?
I mean, when you’re dreaming you think it’s real.’
The lights dimmed as we entered a tunnel
And when we emerged, the women were gone.
Melted into air, like phantoms.
Leaving me with unanswered questions
About the nature of dreams
And who is to blame for anything.
Larraine Harrison
Found On The Beach
(In My Dreams)
One evening
twixt twilight
and dawn
I
met
You.
We danced deliriously,
sat serenely
sifting sand.
We went beachcombing
discarding driftwood,
scooping shells.
I found a conch
held it to my ear
and heard
“Yes”
Lesley
If only a dream
In the second wave of the Covid pandemic, the city of Wakefield had shown little sign of a major lock-down as local residents continued to frequent every shop that had escaped the non-essential clause with a scattering of convenient foods or availed their selves of the 'Click and Collect' service.
But on the fringes of the one stop shop, the local wildlife had begun to venture further afield. While vehicles carpeted retail parks, the roads were clear for a different kind of acquisition.
The disregarded waste that they scavenged - normally deposited on their home territory - now lay a trek away at the local store.
But on the 12th April the lock-down was lifted and with it came the bumper to bumper traffic that more resembled the Indianapolis car rally.
So as I headed for town on the first Friday, with its normal increase of traffic, sitting at the traffic lights on the intersection of Ings Road and the A61, I watched helpless as a mother duck and her ducklings took a casual stroll across one of the busiest roads in Wakefield.
As a car on the opposite side of the road sat waiting at the lights, mother duck proceeded to walk under the car closely followed by her young. No sooner were they under the car, the lights changed and the car pulled away revealing one fatality.
Mela
Softly in the Half-Light
Last night you slipped into the room
like a moonbeam checking in
slow panning across a shelf of books,
flooding the photographs in frames,
sitting on a corner of the bed.
Everything’s alright, you said.
Everything’s alright.
As you left the mattress did not sigh,
the floorboards did not creak,
nor did you turn and say,
you were never coming back.
Never coming back.
John C.
Although the concert was excellent, I couldn’t remember a single note of the music when we came out. There were so many encores it overran.
By this time, my friend’s last train had gone.
I said ‘It’s a long way back to Lancaster.’ ‘No problem’ she said ‘my aunt will put me up in Eccles’. I thought my friend’s 75 but I didn’t push the point.
The thought must have crossed her mind as well.
‘Maybe not’ she said. ‘I’ve got other ideas’.
I was intrigued and a bit wary.
‘We could stay in a hotel. There are plenty of them around here’ she said. Indeed, there were.
The first hotel was not impressed by my briefcase and her small ruck-sac. ‘We don’t take people like you without luggage, and we don’t have any single rooms left.’ We laughed with each other, and she squeezed my hand.
The next looked much more our sort of place, but it was full.
The third one looked OK from the outside but the bars on all the windows looked a bit unusual. It was a luxury prison converted from a failing hotel. The officer immediately arrested my friend who was taken away to a cell, with en-suite facilities, Wi-Fi and TV provided. It had a surprisingly low recidivism rate. My friend turned and said ‘Yes ‘I come here quite often’.
I was due to be awarded my higher degree the next day for something I’d written but again I couldn’t remember a single word. The warders said ‘Visiting time’s over’. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the Ceremony’, she said.
She came under escort, and I could hear her cheering and clapping as her handcuffs chinked together.
John Seacome
Perchance to Dream
I drift into a realm of the subconscious, sliding to a Wonderland like Alice, visiting haunts of the past. I have a desperate urge to find the road back home.
Many obstacles bar the way. I have been lost here before.
Bemused, I appeal to a couple of bag-packers.
“Once I was familiar with the area. I didn’t need a number to gain entry”.
The youth gazed over my shoulder, intractable, distancing from conversation.
“There used to be bluebells and rhododendrons close to a spring
and dragonflies”.
The girl smiled vaguely listening. She pointed to the high-rise and tarmac, eyes fixed on a mobile phone.
“Sorry, no signal”
Everyone has disappeared along with the birdsong.
Desolation is a lonely place!
My feet slide uncontrollably on a mossy ledge
I cling precariously to a rock face, beneath a cataract,
enchanted by the majesty of a rainbow, with eyes that sting like cactus prickles.
Turning from left to right benevolent boulders block the passage.
I sway forward and stare into the glare of silver-white cascade, blinded by the sparkling light.
My temples explode.
I’m s-c-r-e-a-m-i-n-g!!!
June
Dreaming
August 28,1963
Her brother hesitated, standing on the marble steps.
Mahalia cupped her hands and yelled
Tell ‘em about the dream, Martin.
I dreamed too.
I wanted a world where I could buy shoes
for me,
with my 8 double EEs.
Where sleeves did not stop inches short of my wrists
where skirts would not etch red lines at my waist.
where tights did not arc between my thighs
where my stomach was not undulating hills
but rather a
flat
plain.
I wanted a world where boys,
even the short, spotty ones,
did not stare.
Where workers on building sites did not say
Cor, look at the size of that.
Where teachers did not say
You – yes, you – the tall girl with the red hair.
A world where my mother did not wince at sales assistants
when they looked at me and shrugged their shoulders.
Or chant the refrain
‘no pudding for you’
whilst apple pie
and ice cream
was served to my brothers.
I did not know a world existed where
just maybe
I would not be isolated by my size and
just
maybe
would be celebrated for my difference and
my kind nature
and being
me.
Martin, I too wanted to be judged
by the content of my character
and not the envelopment of my skin.
Viv Longley
Conversation with Myself
I know I think I must have had
Conversations in my dreams
But I also know for sure I think
That I remember not one thing
I know I could try to imagine
A scenario ripe for exploiting
To satisfy this week’s prompting
And try to make it exciting
I know I think what the task demands
But I think it too difficult for me
Give me something more concretised to use
And then I can see what’s to be
I know I have had nightmares
But once again I think
There was no room for conversation
Just fear and flight to the brink
I know daydream escapes are more pleasing to me
Though conversations don’t figure readily
I remember alcohol could play a big part
And Theakstons Old Peculiar was a very good start
At numbing some thoughts
And releasing some others
From those quiet spaces
Beyond normal reaches
Thoughts that could infiltrate and participate
And congregate in the deep substrate
Which can regulate and facilitate and lubricate
Those rarely visited vistas
Where thoughts can irritate and exasperate
Agitate and implicate
Discriminate and decimate and extricate
From those delicate corners
It’s dangerous territory and I think you’ll agree
It’s safer to stay awake and take Alcohol-Free
I know I’m fortunate to have thought this through well
But thinking should carry a Government Health Warning bell
Martyn Harrison
Dream Train
I have no idea why I’m on this train
Or where I am.
Heathered moors flash by my window
As the train snakes through dank mists,
Turning the sun into a ghostly apparition.
I’m alone on the train, apart from three women
Further down the carriage.
One lies slumped over the table between them,
Her matted raven hair splaying out like an oil slick.
They speak in cackled whispers, but I can hear every word.
‘I wish I could sleep like she does,
But I’m afraid of what I might dream.’
‘What is there to be afraid of?’
‘Guilt… It comes in all manner of grisly guises.’
‘Not that again. It wasn’t our fault. He would have done it anyway.’
‘Not if we hadn’t suggested it. There’s blood on our hands.’
‘His greed caused it all. The three of us are blameless.
Him and his wife. They’re the ones to blame.’
‘Well his wife didn’t actually do anything did she.’
‘Alright, she just persuaded him to do it.
But we’re all responsible for our own actions.’
‘Not if you believe in fate like me.’
‘You’re not making any sense.
If fate is to blame then we’re all off the hook aren’t we?’
‘Then maybe I don’t believe in fate after all.’
‘You think too much. That’s why you can’t sleep.’
However bad your dream is, you’ll wake up in the end.’
‘But how do you know you’re in a dream?
I mean, when you’re dreaming you think it’s real.’
The lights dimmed as we entered a tunnel
And when we emerged, the women were gone.
Melted into air, like phantoms.
Leaving me with unanswered questions
About the nature of dreams
And who is to blame for anything.
Larraine Harrison
Found On The Beach
(In My Dreams)
One evening
twixt twilight
and dawn
I
met
You.
We danced deliriously,
sat serenely
sifting sand.
We went beachcombing
discarding driftwood,
scooping shells.
I found a conch
held it to my ear
and heard
“Yes”
Lesley
If only a dream
In the second wave of the Covid pandemic, the city of Wakefield had shown little sign of a major lock-down as local residents continued to frequent every shop that had escaped the non-essential clause with a scattering of convenient foods or availed their selves of the 'Click and Collect' service.
But on the fringes of the one stop shop, the local wildlife had begun to venture further afield. While vehicles carpeted retail parks, the roads were clear for a different kind of acquisition.
The disregarded waste that they scavenged - normally deposited on their home territory - now lay a trek away at the local store.
But on the 12th April the lock-down was lifted and with it came the bumper to bumper traffic that more resembled the Indianapolis car rally.
So as I headed for town on the first Friday, with its normal increase of traffic, sitting at the traffic lights on the intersection of Ings Road and the A61, I watched helpless as a mother duck and her ducklings took a casual stroll across one of the busiest roads in Wakefield.
As a car on the opposite side of the road sat waiting at the lights, mother duck proceeded to walk under the car closely followed by her young. No sooner were they under the car, the lights changed and the car pulled away revealing one fatality.
Mela
Softly in the Half-Light
Last night you slipped into the room
like a moonbeam checking in
slow panning across a shelf of books,
flooding the photographs in frames,
sitting on a corner of the bed.
Everything’s alright, you said.
Everything’s alright.
As you left the mattress did not sigh,
the floorboards did not creak,
nor did you turn and say,
you were never coming back.
Never coming back.
John C.
Prompt Twelve: Portrait of the Artist's Wife, Sarah, Knitting
Norman Cornish
Right, I'll cut straight to the chase here. This prompt arises out of our collaboration with the National Coal Mining Museum. You are invited to write up to a 150 words as a response to the above painting.
Norman Cornish was a working miner and you may want to draw out some contrasts between the physical nature of digging coal and the intricate nature of knitting. Or you may prefer to imagine what the subject, Sarah, is thinking about as she knits. As always, you are free to go wherever your imagination takes you in poetry or prose, but your results must reflect the coal mining background of the picture and you must follow the 150 word limit.
Good luck.
Norman Cornish was a working miner and you may want to draw out some contrasts between the physical nature of digging coal and the intricate nature of knitting. Or you may prefer to imagine what the subject, Sarah, is thinking about as she knits. As always, you are free to go wherever your imagination takes you in poetry or prose, but your results must reflect the coal mining background of the picture and you must follow the 150 word limit.
Good luck.
Prompt Twelve Responses
1. My Wife Knitting by Norman Cornish
She is always one step ahead of me.
All I can do is dig out coal, ride the paddy mail to the showers,
take home a brown envelope, eat my tea.
She knits the bones of our family together,
stitches our wounds, tacks the seam of every day
with deep knowledge of the shape our lives should be.
Angular as a gallery of half-drilled coal; soft as talc.
Strong as a wooden prop; vulnerable as an apprentice.
Stoical as a pit pony; mysterious as hidden gas.
Her crows’ feet are not white estuaries in black lands.
No speck of coal dust on her.
But I know it stains her soul.
I paint her as I see her. Her hands never still.
She creates the tapestry we live within.
She is my place of safety. My rock.
Sharyn Owen
2. The Hand
The hand that winds the wool round the needle’s shaft,
Wrings black coal dust from mangled shirts in steaming sculleries,
Pegging them out to bleach beneath a canary sun.
The hand that works the stitches one by one,
Knits up the coughing nightmares in stoical silence,
Trapping dark fears like bread in a snap tin.
The hand that holds the knitting on her lap,
Props up the mine with every twist of her wrist,
Every meal on the table, every scrub of the step.
The brush that paints the hand that holds the miner,
Freezes forever a bitter-sweet memory of shared toils,
When in suffocating darkness, there was always a lamp.
Larraine Harrison
3. Closely Knit
Click. Click. Click. His eyelids drooped. A result of hypnotic tapping and the mesmerising flames. He marvelled at the concentration on his wife’s face. He pushed his chair back a foot, away from the sweltering heat. His clumsy, blackened hands knew nothing of knitting, but he knew a lot about coal. He ripped the stuff out of the ground, he and his team.
Digging. Like a colony of ants excavating, or moles burrowing, large mounds above them a testament to their labours. The dust got everywhere. In the sandwiches, up their noses, in the lungs. It’s in the blood. No amount of steamy water and gritty carbolic would wash it away.
He would be down there tomorrow. He could feel the drop of the cage. He never got used to the fall. Wind down. Wind up. Repeat. Wind down. Wind up. Repeat.
Lyn Graham
4. Hardworking Women
I married into a mining family. My husband worked at the pit as did his three brothers, his dad, both grandads, two great grandads and a great, great grandad.
Miners provided their own clothes and the women washed them at home. Later the NCB did provide workwear and they laundered the outer clothes but the underwear and socks were still washed at home. I don’t miss that!
Depending on how many menfolk you had at the pit, women could be making a dinner two or three times a day, according to their shifts.
Mining was not a well-paid job and women were inventive. For example, rugs could be made from old clothes. My husband’s aunty used to get old jumpers and unravel them. She would then knit them into thick, warm pit socks.
Many women were as supportive as pit props.
Lesley Moore
5. Much Loved
I married a miner from Spennymoor.
He broke himself hacking out the black stuff.
He took a risk and became a painter.
Pictures,
not walls.
He told me to sit still
pretending to knit.
I have a crick in my neck.
My fingers twitch.
Lowry advised him to paint what he knew.
He filled notebooks with details of beer glasses,
straight pints of Newcastle Brown
that swept out the dust cancers of the mine.
Sort of.
He sketched the men with bent backs and coughing lungs
slaking their throats, hunched over mahogany bars.
Now it is my turn.
He loves me well,
hunched over my hands
pretending to knit.
Fidgeting.
Full known, rounded.
Hair set just how I like it.
No stick women here.
Viv Longley
6. The Knitter
She sits there, knitting all her love and fears for her man into some article of clothing. Maybe it’s a thick undervest or perhaps something he can wear with pride at weekends when they are reunited above the surface.
She’s bent over the garment not in submission but in pride, as the comfort-giver and provider for the family. She’s his steady rock in the stormy sea imagined in the background.
That’s the burden she has to bear, trying to keep calm and clearheaded both for his sake and for the bairns' sake. They’ll need her even more if anything happens to him.
Maybe she symbolizes all the pit wives, bearing on her shoulders the fragile lives of their husbands and sons down the pit.
Or just thinking about the joy her task will bring to its wearer. In turn he is expressing his love and admiration for her.
John Seacome
7. Sarah, Knitting
I hate it when he’s on nights, ever since the lads woke me up regarding the accident… knitting’s a great way of filtering the mind but it doesn’t remove the dread. My risk thermostat works overtime...
The belt swung! Hit him on the temple! Hospitalised, unconscious!
Left me feeling fragile...Left him an indigo tattoo he calls his trophy.
He’s into trophies!...
If I cast on this sleeve now, he can wear this cardigan on Saturday at the Miner’s Welfare harvest do...
Meanwhile, above the shaft, free of insidious black, his first call is breathing the sweet air of the allotment, where he administers to my rival.
I badger him about it being the kids, dog, and that bloody marrow, coming before me. He just winks! A man of deeds not many words!
However, when we trundle home on Saturday, 1st Prize glowing in the wheelbarrow.......
My heart will sing like a canary.
June Hurst
8. A Child’s Dream
What did you do down the mine Great Grandad?
Harvested the jungle, the Carboniferous.
Hot down there was it?
Aye, tropical.
Why did it die?
Climate change they say.
Same today. They told us in school.
Should we worry?
Nay, it’s geological, climatological.
Don’t waste time, it’d be illogical.
It’s just natural decay, and as your Granny would say:
‘Patterns of life
Spun and woven
Torn and stitched
Frayed and holey.’
Ask her, she’ll tell you how it is and was.
TISWAS! She told me about that too.
Today Is Saturday: Watch And Smile
Said she watched it from ‘74 when it started
And re-runs in the strike in ‘84 to steel her resolve.
Said everything’s just natural decay in the end.
Some smart cookie your Granny.
Champion knitter to boot.
Chip off the old block eh, wouldn’t you say Great Grandad?
Nay, I really couldn’t say...could I?
Martyn Harrison
She is always one step ahead of me.
All I can do is dig out coal, ride the paddy mail to the showers,
take home a brown envelope, eat my tea.
She knits the bones of our family together,
stitches our wounds, tacks the seam of every day
with deep knowledge of the shape our lives should be.
Angular as a gallery of half-drilled coal; soft as talc.
Strong as a wooden prop; vulnerable as an apprentice.
Stoical as a pit pony; mysterious as hidden gas.
Her crows’ feet are not white estuaries in black lands.
No speck of coal dust on her.
But I know it stains her soul.
I paint her as I see her. Her hands never still.
She creates the tapestry we live within.
She is my place of safety. My rock.
Sharyn Owen
2. The Hand
The hand that winds the wool round the needle’s shaft,
Wrings black coal dust from mangled shirts in steaming sculleries,
Pegging them out to bleach beneath a canary sun.
The hand that works the stitches one by one,
Knits up the coughing nightmares in stoical silence,
Trapping dark fears like bread in a snap tin.
The hand that holds the knitting on her lap,
Props up the mine with every twist of her wrist,
Every meal on the table, every scrub of the step.
The brush that paints the hand that holds the miner,
Freezes forever a bitter-sweet memory of shared toils,
When in suffocating darkness, there was always a lamp.
Larraine Harrison
3. Closely Knit
Click. Click. Click. His eyelids drooped. A result of hypnotic tapping and the mesmerising flames. He marvelled at the concentration on his wife’s face. He pushed his chair back a foot, away from the sweltering heat. His clumsy, blackened hands knew nothing of knitting, but he knew a lot about coal. He ripped the stuff out of the ground, he and his team.
Digging. Like a colony of ants excavating, or moles burrowing, large mounds above them a testament to their labours. The dust got everywhere. In the sandwiches, up their noses, in the lungs. It’s in the blood. No amount of steamy water and gritty carbolic would wash it away.
He would be down there tomorrow. He could feel the drop of the cage. He never got used to the fall. Wind down. Wind up. Repeat. Wind down. Wind up. Repeat.
Lyn Graham
4. Hardworking Women
I married into a mining family. My husband worked at the pit as did his three brothers, his dad, both grandads, two great grandads and a great, great grandad.
Miners provided their own clothes and the women washed them at home. Later the NCB did provide workwear and they laundered the outer clothes but the underwear and socks were still washed at home. I don’t miss that!
Depending on how many menfolk you had at the pit, women could be making a dinner two or three times a day, according to their shifts.
Mining was not a well-paid job and women were inventive. For example, rugs could be made from old clothes. My husband’s aunty used to get old jumpers and unravel them. She would then knit them into thick, warm pit socks.
Many women were as supportive as pit props.
Lesley Moore
5. Much Loved
I married a miner from Spennymoor.
He broke himself hacking out the black stuff.
He took a risk and became a painter.
Pictures,
not walls.
He told me to sit still
pretending to knit.
I have a crick in my neck.
My fingers twitch.
Lowry advised him to paint what he knew.
He filled notebooks with details of beer glasses,
straight pints of Newcastle Brown
that swept out the dust cancers of the mine.
Sort of.
He sketched the men with bent backs and coughing lungs
slaking their throats, hunched over mahogany bars.
Now it is my turn.
He loves me well,
hunched over my hands
pretending to knit.
Fidgeting.
Full known, rounded.
Hair set just how I like it.
No stick women here.
Viv Longley
6. The Knitter
She sits there, knitting all her love and fears for her man into some article of clothing. Maybe it’s a thick undervest or perhaps something he can wear with pride at weekends when they are reunited above the surface.
She’s bent over the garment not in submission but in pride, as the comfort-giver and provider for the family. She’s his steady rock in the stormy sea imagined in the background.
That’s the burden she has to bear, trying to keep calm and clearheaded both for his sake and for the bairns' sake. They’ll need her even more if anything happens to him.
Maybe she symbolizes all the pit wives, bearing on her shoulders the fragile lives of their husbands and sons down the pit.
Or just thinking about the joy her task will bring to its wearer. In turn he is expressing his love and admiration for her.
John Seacome
7. Sarah, Knitting
I hate it when he’s on nights, ever since the lads woke me up regarding the accident… knitting’s a great way of filtering the mind but it doesn’t remove the dread. My risk thermostat works overtime...
The belt swung! Hit him on the temple! Hospitalised, unconscious!
Left me feeling fragile...Left him an indigo tattoo he calls his trophy.
He’s into trophies!...
If I cast on this sleeve now, he can wear this cardigan on Saturday at the Miner’s Welfare harvest do...
Meanwhile, above the shaft, free of insidious black, his first call is breathing the sweet air of the allotment, where he administers to my rival.
I badger him about it being the kids, dog, and that bloody marrow, coming before me. He just winks! A man of deeds not many words!
However, when we trundle home on Saturday, 1st Prize glowing in the wheelbarrow.......
My heart will sing like a canary.
June Hurst
8. A Child’s Dream
What did you do down the mine Great Grandad?
Harvested the jungle, the Carboniferous.
Hot down there was it?
Aye, tropical.
Why did it die?
Climate change they say.
Same today. They told us in school.
Should we worry?
Nay, it’s geological, climatological.
Don’t waste time, it’d be illogical.
It’s just natural decay, and as your Granny would say:
‘Patterns of life
Spun and woven
Torn and stitched
Frayed and holey.’
Ask her, she’ll tell you how it is and was.
TISWAS! She told me about that too.
Today Is Saturday: Watch And Smile
Said she watched it from ‘74 when it started
And re-runs in the strike in ‘84 to steel her resolve.
Said everything’s just natural decay in the end.
Some smart cookie your Granny.
Champion knitter to boot.
Chip off the old block eh, wouldn’t you say Great Grandad?
Nay, I really couldn’t say...could I?
Martyn Harrison
Prompt Eleven: There are places I remember
Where are the places we remember? Villages, cities or whole counties? Why do we remember these places? Was it because we spent our childhoods there? Or visited them for magical holidays? Do we remember the place we went to when we left home? Or where we fell in love, or out of love? Or where we grieved?
How do we write about such places? How do we avoid a tourist brochure approach, and make them vivid? How do we make a lasting impression on our readers?
Diana Anhalt moved from New York to Mexico when she was eight years old. She writes about Mexico as though she is a larger than life mother figure. She personifies Mexico in a number of ways. Read for yourself how dramatically Mexico appears in her writing, then have a go yourself. Write about a place which has had a significant impact on your life. Grasp this task by the horns, make it breathtaking, leave your reader gasping for air. Do it in 300 words or less of prose or in a poem. Good luck.
Mexico
mother of lopsided logic, defensive driving, the shrug, arrived on my doorstep
when I was eight and entered, trumpets blazing, rolling her R’s.
She flashed a finger, danced a zapatco down my spine.
She has clouds in her pocket, mint on her breath, thunder in her bosom
and a tongue to fold around words like huitzilopachtli. For me,
she dressed in fuchsia, wore jacarandas in her hair. Let me
wrap you in my silk-fringed rebozo, she crooned. You will be mine.
She blew on the dice, tossed them once and taught me to jaywalk
through life under the eye of her blood-giddy sun.
So I shrugged off the Bronx like yesterday’s vows, forgot the words
to Girl Scout songs, fear of dark places under the El,
but kept my ice skates, my accent, the scars on my knees.
She filled my ears with marimbas and gossip, sang me her tunes
until I called her my own: Let me home in the marrow of your bones,
porque nonca hay retorno.
There is no return.
Diana Anhalt
How do we write about such places? How do we avoid a tourist brochure approach, and make them vivid? How do we make a lasting impression on our readers?
Diana Anhalt moved from New York to Mexico when she was eight years old. She writes about Mexico as though she is a larger than life mother figure. She personifies Mexico in a number of ways. Read for yourself how dramatically Mexico appears in her writing, then have a go yourself. Write about a place which has had a significant impact on your life. Grasp this task by the horns, make it breathtaking, leave your reader gasping for air. Do it in 300 words or less of prose or in a poem. Good luck.
Mexico
mother of lopsided logic, defensive driving, the shrug, arrived on my doorstep
when I was eight and entered, trumpets blazing, rolling her R’s.
She flashed a finger, danced a zapatco down my spine.
She has clouds in her pocket, mint on her breath, thunder in her bosom
and a tongue to fold around words like huitzilopachtli. For me,
she dressed in fuchsia, wore jacarandas in her hair. Let me
wrap you in my silk-fringed rebozo, she crooned. You will be mine.
She blew on the dice, tossed them once and taught me to jaywalk
through life under the eye of her blood-giddy sun.
So I shrugged off the Bronx like yesterday’s vows, forgot the words
to Girl Scout songs, fear of dark places under the El,
but kept my ice skates, my accent, the scars on my knees.
She filled my ears with marimbas and gossip, sang me her tunes
until I called her my own: Let me home in the marrow of your bones,
porque nonca hay retorno.
There is no return.
Diana Anhalt
Places I Remember: Prompt Eleven Responses
Hometown
Like a well-worn pair of jeans
With frayed edges, the occasional rip
Washed out
To be returned to in troubled times
Comfortable with the contours
At ease
Lyn
I remember the day
I remember the day, that I first met you
We went for a walk and enjoyed the view
I remember I shared, my life on a whim
And the following day, you bought me a ring
I remember the day I gave you my vows
To love and to cherish, my wealth I endow
I remember that look, of glee in your eyes
As they wished us well and we said goodbye
I remember we left, with such great haste
You said that there was little time to waste
I remember you had, a surprise for me
A secluded cottage, right next to the sea
I remember we strolled, the cliffs of Dover
Then you turned to me and pushed me over
I remember the lid, as it slowly came down
And I now lay beneath, six feet of ground
I remember the terms, of the will that I left
In a swiftly demise, I’d bequeath the WWF
Mela
Welsh Summer Penmaenmawr
A dapper little man handed my husband the keys and we entered the bungalow through a side gate. Standing in the midst of verdant lawns, a perfect spot in which to further our love affair with Wales. With our student daughter and her friend we plonked baggage in chosen bedrooms and discovered a billiard table in the dorma.
We spoke with him in his cafe. Apparently, the bungalow was for sale and over coffee and Eccles cakes warmed in the microwave, he suggested we phone the rest of the family to visit for a couple of days. There was plenty of room. At no extra charge. So we did.
Our eldest daughter plus husband and three small boys joined us the following day.
I donned a straw hat and made my way into the garden, an area of crazy paving. This was overgrown by evening primrose, Canterbury bells, inviting butterflies and intoxicated bees. Sweet scented stocks, blue iris, and lavender led to a summer house draped in climbing roses. In the haze of the afternoon, gnats floated on a potpourri of musk. The garden was a frowsy lady displaying her past glory in cascading jewels beckoning us to share her hospitality.
Cabinets containing pictures of celebrities like Gertrude Lawrence, Gladys Cooper and Ivor Novello encapsulated a mood. There was a wireless but no sign of technological penetration. You felt that any minute a young chap would breeze in, wearing white bags and tennis pumps, hair slicked smooth with Brillianteen.
And with affected flourish would offer you cloudy lemonade on the lawn.
But! Oh dear! Goosebumps in the we-small-hours!
From the room above, sounds of chinking glass, muffled laughter, and rolling balls connecting with wood…meant putting a hold on scary night visits to the bathroom.
June
Everything Is Going To Be All Right
(A poem for the River Mersey at Crosby Beach)
Everything is going to be all right
because you are ageless as the dawn.
You move according to your moods.
Extravagantly, graciously,
always
retracing your past.
Your music soothed my becoming
And
I am drawn back and back and back
to you.
My heart quickens at your name.
Your watchers keep you safe
until I return.
Lesley
The Door
Are memories fixed like photographic plate,
Stored in vaults and retrieved by robots
From well -ordered shelves, deep within
The crevices, inglenooks and tangled networks
Of our humming controller mainframes?
I have no idea, I digress and confess
But signals and sparks have consequences.
What are the triggers and who connects
Who receives and who selects,
Who finds the photographic plate
Or plays the 78 or Super 8
And who listens and/or looks
At the memory sweet or indiscreet?
Whilst trudging along in 2005
A wooden front house door came alive.
My sight-sense trigger shot me 50 years back
And I took pen to paper to remember that.
It had knocked me for six and transported me
To Bridlington and the cold North Sea.
‘The door that reminds and places in time
Memories of visits, brief yet intense,
To the house in the street by the harbour top
And the uncle we’d meet when the fishing stopped,
With his smiling face and quiet demeanour
And the aunt so severe you’d know if you’d seen her
And the door with its window, oval in shape
And marked by a boat ,a shipshape long-liner,
Stained and preserved; the Wayside Flower.
Memories wax and wane
But sentiments remain.
Joe was his name,
Nelson the street
And Harrison the name on the door.’
Martyn Harrison
Bittersweet
County Durham
The North beyond the North they said.
As the motorway crossed the Don.
The sign just said ‘The North’.
Way beyond God’s Own County.
Flat in places with
exotic views hid in tight bolts,
then suddenly rolled out
like displays of priceless cloth
before the tourists’ eye
In a Moroccan souk.
A Cathedral tower peeping over
the edges of a carved valley,
Still wary of marauding Scots.
A sturdier Acropolis
enticing visitors
to Sunderland,
now closed for repairs.
A coastline black with coal
Hostile to thermos flasks and
Greggs’ pasties on the beach,
Even hiding from northeastern winds.
The people, straight-talking and
discomfortingly direct
Not like periphrastic southerners,
but in good humour, good company as well.
This bittersweet image remained,
Till Carter dealt out big-screen rough justice
Then on a grimy coal-strewn beach,
just like so many local civic leaders
he fell face-first in the muck.
John Seacome
Half A Mile To Cwmrhydyceirw
Plunged unexpectedly into a pool of Welshness
I stood fixated by a sign saying:
Half a mile to Cwmrhydyceirw
My tongue stumbling over the paucity
Of vowels, like a cart on a bumpy road.
An English girl in a foreign land,
Made dumb by the founding language.
But then came the school with its views of the bay
And the cap-sized park where Dylan Thomas misspent his youth
Singing in his chains like the sea.
And I too sang with the lilting schoolgirl voices
That filled the sandy inlets with illegal late night barbeques
On Summer nights, under the daffodil moon,
Walking home to unsuspecting parents
Innocent of how we spent our days
Hiding sandy school books
In brightly coloured towels.
Until one day
I heard the cry of gulls in the distance,
Singing me a different song.
And the reassuring sound of the sea
No longer soothed my heart.
And on that day
The tide turned my Welsh tune
Into a distant melody.
Larraine
Ah yes, you say, Oxford
A smile enters your hazy mind, pulling out
Morse, the view from Boars Hill and all those dreaming spires.
My Oxford speaks a more common language.
We bustle down from Cumnor,
in an old untrustworthy Humber Hawk,
sliding over the bench seat on corners.
You can tell by the smell that they are marmalade making at Frank Cooper and tomorrow’s bread is fermenting at the factory next door.
We deliver our Bramley apples and Kentish cobs
to Mortimer’s in the market – too close to the smelly latrines. We kept the Peasegoods and Cox’s for ourselves. They matured to a Sauterne scented richness in the garage on bakers’ trays borrowed from the Co-op bread delivery man.
We drove down the city walled Holywell
waved at the house where my best friend lived.
Left into the High, looking to beat the 88 bus
just driving past Culpeper House with its
apothecary bottles in wavy glass windows.
Past the shop full of candy-striped scarves
that you could only buy if you were a member of the right college.
Round the botanical gardens seemingly sinking in the ox bow curve of the Thames housing Magdalen’s Cricket pitch where scoring a six meant fishing the ball
out of the river.
If you could find it
or it had not holed a punt.
Dad would drop me off at Pitt Rivers, bemused as to why I preferred the company of shrunken heads in glass cases with labels written in Indian ink to watching my family play ball games. Not always round either.
He would pick me up at the Ashmolean where I had spent my time with bandaged pharaoh’s, Utrillo’s hunters, and staring deep into Alfred’s jewel.
And then home via Old Man Harris’ store for Corona in stoppered bottles – and chocolate ginger for my mother.
Viv Longley
Bayeux
It’s an ordinary French town - a sun-lit market,
a church, museum, tourists and locals
getting on with their normal day.
The little white train trundling us around
stops, without fanfare of trumpets,
by a wide gateway.
Blissfully unaware, we peace-lovers and pacifists
- between our café au lait and our dejeuner -
stroll into the war cemetery.
Perfect lines of graves curve to infinity.
Immaculate lawns and paths. No weeds.
No lichen but by each grave, red geraniums.
A mathematical universe of white crosses -
their regimentation completely at odds with
the chaos of the last moments of these young men.
We falter and are stilled.
Everything blurs. Unexpectedly.
So unexpectedly.
We have to confront the meaning
Of bravery, sacrifice and obedience
in one, small, almost-ordinary French town.
Sharyn Owen
Sweet Thames Run Softly Till I End My Song
Composed upon Westminster Bridge 3rd September, 2002.
Earth has not anything to show more fair
Dull indeed anyone passing this by,
Missing the site spread out against the sky,
The ancient laureate can still declare
The beauty of morning; silent bare.
Until rattling trains silhouette the sky:
Barging commuters; to sell or to buy?
Full of care, without the time to stand or stare.
Ignore the big issue, they seldom fret
About cardboard city where scroungers mill.
The city seat of Empire functions yet
Two hundred years of furthering debt.
On chartered streets the sun has long been set
And all that mighty heart is lying still.
John C
Prompt Ten: Absences
Okay, so I miss coffee shops, I miss being able to browse around book shops, I miss face to face poetry encounters and being able to go and stand in a crowd at a football match. These are absences in my life. Eight years after his death, I miss my father and my younger sister who died six months after Dad. Absences, whether great or small, are difficult things to write about, but that is our prompt number ten: Absences. Be wary of being over-sentimental, be wary of cliches. As always, we are looking to be honest in our writing and we are looking to make it new. It's our most difficult prompt to date. Good luck.
Separation by W.S. Merwin
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its colour.
Separation by W.S. Merwin
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its colour.
Absence: Prompt No. Ten Responses
Easy Under the Apple Boughs
You have gone from us leaving a gaping-gap in the garden fence. Here amongst lavender and bees our family joined us for buffet parties. Wearing a camouflage hat you were Grandee to our children’s children, the most forgiving Corleone, urging everyone to be themselves. Laughing boys were being pushed on the swing, in balmy air infused with drifts of honeysuckle.
I miss your habit of winking at me over tousled heads. And calling “Grub up”, to the menfolk concentrating on a serious darts game in
the garage. The girls would pass round sausage rolls and dish up the trifle in organised chaos. While you looked on using irony to view life through red nose and baggy pants.
I muse about the daily daft things that encompassed that life. Like the dog salivating at your feet, adoration streaming from her limpid Labrador eyes. And you throwing into the air, two yeast tablets for her to catch and gulp down. Simultaneously swallowing two yourself from a I lb jar of vitamin B.
Those hectic meal times, when, with our three daughters we dined round the table, discussing the day’s events, chipping in bits of advice. Grouses brought into the open, robustly tackled, and somebody always in need of a lift.
Discordant days when lightning migrained the sky and sorry was obliterated from the landscape. Prolonged silences. Teacup storms washed away before the sun did a disappearing act.
It is here in the barbecue scene that my role has changed dramatically from player to observer. But your presence still moves among us when somebody wistfully says.
“Dad would have said that” recalling an amusing story.
I feel your essence through their smiles.
Alas, the swing lies dormant but the fragrance of honeysuckle lingers on.
June
A.W.O.L.
No one gave you permission to go
Slipping away in the dead of night
Leaving us abandoned
A rudderless ship
Sometimes we imagine you playing truant
To return and sit in the naughty corner
Or hibernating until spring
When the grass needs cutting
We like to think of you elsewhere
Plodding along in our nothingness
Allowing ourselves the occasional laugh
Knowing you would want us to
Knowing you won’t be back
Lyn
Wasps
In the photo we’re bunched on a picnic bench
In the garden of the Huntsman’s Inn.
It would have been a Sunday evening, early.
Mum and gran have shandies; grandad grasps a half of mild
and I’ve got orange squash.
I can still taste it.
And crisps; the ones with the twist of blue paper containing salt.
I’m wearing new sandals, white socks and a cotton frock.
Two of my front teeth are missing.
We’ve strolled up Dunsford Hill and down Ide Lane
The bluebells are almost done
Among startlingly green grasses, Herb Robert,
dock leaves, nettles, buttercups, cautious brambles,
ladybirds, butterflies, thrips.
Sparrows bicker in the hedges; a distant woodpecker knocks on wood,
an invisible chiff-chaff tells us we’re nearly there.
Bees graze the cider apple blossom in a triangular field.
Gnats dance out their nuptials.
The stream at the edge of the garden
carries Dartmoor water
splashing over blue and red stones
under a cloud of mosquitoes.
Wasps suss out my sugary drink.
Gran makes a wasp trap in a used glass
with some beer and newspaper.
It works for a while
Then the wasps decide to swoop,
Surrounding me with spiky black and yellow darts.
“Ignore them. They’ll go away” says my gran.
I ignored them. They went away.
Now I hardly ever see a wasp
Or a mosquito, or a daddy-long-legs
Or even the once-ubiquitous house-fly.
Sharyn Owen
Body snatcher
I have two hearts beating in a syncopated rhythm.
Quite remarkable.
I know you are there.
Stretching the canvas of my thin skin.
You are measuring the scope of your world
hands palpating, knees against your chin.
already feeling for the way out,
which you never found.
None of that skin-to-skin stuff for this mother.
You were lifted into bright light by
white coats who did not know you - just needed you to breathe …
… … … … please.
I was cut hip to hip,
tied, stitched in a clumsy Frankenstein line.
My flaccid belly now so very quiet.
Already dismissed from your mind,
you left me empty- nested,
abandoned at birth,
and talked to your father.
Viv Longley
Will
The bedroom window has a view of the backyard. At first I don’t see Will, just the butterfly on that old tree, the truck blackened from the fire.
He doesn’t see me. He is facing the Morris’s place, standing empty; no children running in the yard – long since grown up and gone away. Mom and Pop Morris died last year and the house has stopped waiting for the family.
I wonder if he still carries a torch for Cindy Morris. They were inseparable. But Will left.
He moves and I know he is is listening to the cowbells. Will was a good dairyman; his cows fine and productive. But Will didn’t stay.
On mom’s dressing table is the letter Will wrote when he left home. Mom never told us what was in it. I am tempted to open it but resist. Instead, I take off my funeral clothes.
In half an hour I shout Will.
“Dinner’s ready.”
The hammock is empty. Will left.
Lesley
Behind closed doors
Yesterday was then, today is tomorrow
and the next day, it seems,
and every day after that.
You can’t dwell on the past
Get over it, grow up
And move on.
So I slammed the door shut.
Insistent knocking from behind the door,
Usually angry,
eventually died away, or so I thought.
Since then I’ve opened many other doors
Bobbing like Columbus’s galleon
But often delaying sailings sine die
Like he could not.
Not desiring wealth of riches
But just a calmer sea.
As life ticks by I sometimes wonder,
Should I have heeded sooner
those insistent knocks?
Recently I peeped around that door
To peep at a fabled misty world,
Both sweet and sad
Reflected on, now with smiles
and now with tears
A door to open and peer inside,
but not walk through.
John Seacome
The House That Jack Built
This is the house that Jack built.
This is the door where Jack came and went.
These are the stairs that creak in the night,
Scaring the woman now living alone
With absentees from times gone by,
That lived in the house that Jack built.
This is the woman who feels their presence
With every sip from their stained flowered cups,
To the tarnished tip of their blackened silver spoons,
To the hairline cracks in their ornamental plates,
Inside the house that Jack built.
This is the woman with time on her hands
Who winds the clock with the broken face,
That sits on the heavy unread tomes
Of war and religion, long since displaced,
That live in the house that Jack built.
This is the woman all alone
Who sits by the window that faces the sun,
Counting her hours until she becomes,
Another creak on the winding stair,
Inside the house that Jack built.
Larraine
Not In Service
Loss hits you and knocks you down
Eats you up and spits you out
Leaves you broken and half alive
And your days pass by
Like empty, ‘NOT IN SERVICE’ buses
On their way, late at night, back to the depot
Where they will rest, recharge and refresh
Ready to face another day
How I wish I
Was one such bus
Martyn Harrison
He Would Know That They Had Left This Job Too Late
That they should have been out
when the sun and the sky still held
a late remembrance,
when the leaves, brown and crisp,
skittered with each breath.
When those that cling to the resentful end
finally flutter to their clarty bed
he would know that tramping and
raking on the damp grass now
will only leave a deep wound grudge.
But the days of remonstration,
of railing against feckless youth
and leaving things too late
are gone.
You do your best and that’s your lot.
Now he would sit and watch
the robin on the moss-turned plot
and be the first to ask about tea
mashing in the pot.
John C
You have gone from us leaving a gaping-gap in the garden fence. Here amongst lavender and bees our family joined us for buffet parties. Wearing a camouflage hat you were Grandee to our children’s children, the most forgiving Corleone, urging everyone to be themselves. Laughing boys were being pushed on the swing, in balmy air infused with drifts of honeysuckle.
I miss your habit of winking at me over tousled heads. And calling “Grub up”, to the menfolk concentrating on a serious darts game in
the garage. The girls would pass round sausage rolls and dish up the trifle in organised chaos. While you looked on using irony to view life through red nose and baggy pants.
I muse about the daily daft things that encompassed that life. Like the dog salivating at your feet, adoration streaming from her limpid Labrador eyes. And you throwing into the air, two yeast tablets for her to catch and gulp down. Simultaneously swallowing two yourself from a I lb jar of vitamin B.
Those hectic meal times, when, with our three daughters we dined round the table, discussing the day’s events, chipping in bits of advice. Grouses brought into the open, robustly tackled, and somebody always in need of a lift.
Discordant days when lightning migrained the sky and sorry was obliterated from the landscape. Prolonged silences. Teacup storms washed away before the sun did a disappearing act.
It is here in the barbecue scene that my role has changed dramatically from player to observer. But your presence still moves among us when somebody wistfully says.
“Dad would have said that” recalling an amusing story.
I feel your essence through their smiles.
Alas, the swing lies dormant but the fragrance of honeysuckle lingers on.
June
A.W.O.L.
No one gave you permission to go
Slipping away in the dead of night
Leaving us abandoned
A rudderless ship
Sometimes we imagine you playing truant
To return and sit in the naughty corner
Or hibernating until spring
When the grass needs cutting
We like to think of you elsewhere
Plodding along in our nothingness
Allowing ourselves the occasional laugh
Knowing you would want us to
Knowing you won’t be back
Lyn
Wasps
In the photo we’re bunched on a picnic bench
In the garden of the Huntsman’s Inn.
It would have been a Sunday evening, early.
Mum and gran have shandies; grandad grasps a half of mild
and I’ve got orange squash.
I can still taste it.
And crisps; the ones with the twist of blue paper containing salt.
I’m wearing new sandals, white socks and a cotton frock.
Two of my front teeth are missing.
We’ve strolled up Dunsford Hill and down Ide Lane
The bluebells are almost done
Among startlingly green grasses, Herb Robert,
dock leaves, nettles, buttercups, cautious brambles,
ladybirds, butterflies, thrips.
Sparrows bicker in the hedges; a distant woodpecker knocks on wood,
an invisible chiff-chaff tells us we’re nearly there.
Bees graze the cider apple blossom in a triangular field.
Gnats dance out their nuptials.
The stream at the edge of the garden
carries Dartmoor water
splashing over blue and red stones
under a cloud of mosquitoes.
Wasps suss out my sugary drink.
Gran makes a wasp trap in a used glass
with some beer and newspaper.
It works for a while
Then the wasps decide to swoop,
Surrounding me with spiky black and yellow darts.
“Ignore them. They’ll go away” says my gran.
I ignored them. They went away.
Now I hardly ever see a wasp
Or a mosquito, or a daddy-long-legs
Or even the once-ubiquitous house-fly.
Sharyn Owen
Body snatcher
I have two hearts beating in a syncopated rhythm.
Quite remarkable.
I know you are there.
Stretching the canvas of my thin skin.
You are measuring the scope of your world
hands palpating, knees against your chin.
already feeling for the way out,
which you never found.
None of that skin-to-skin stuff for this mother.
You were lifted into bright light by
white coats who did not know you - just needed you to breathe …
… … … … please.
I was cut hip to hip,
tied, stitched in a clumsy Frankenstein line.
My flaccid belly now so very quiet.
Already dismissed from your mind,
you left me empty- nested,
abandoned at birth,
and talked to your father.
Viv Longley
Will
The bedroom window has a view of the backyard. At first I don’t see Will, just the butterfly on that old tree, the truck blackened from the fire.
He doesn’t see me. He is facing the Morris’s place, standing empty; no children running in the yard – long since grown up and gone away. Mom and Pop Morris died last year and the house has stopped waiting for the family.
I wonder if he still carries a torch for Cindy Morris. They were inseparable. But Will left.
He moves and I know he is is listening to the cowbells. Will was a good dairyman; his cows fine and productive. But Will didn’t stay.
On mom’s dressing table is the letter Will wrote when he left home. Mom never told us what was in it. I am tempted to open it but resist. Instead, I take off my funeral clothes.
In half an hour I shout Will.
“Dinner’s ready.”
The hammock is empty. Will left.
Lesley
Behind closed doors
Yesterday was then, today is tomorrow
and the next day, it seems,
and every day after that.
You can’t dwell on the past
Get over it, grow up
And move on.
So I slammed the door shut.
Insistent knocking from behind the door,
Usually angry,
eventually died away, or so I thought.
Since then I’ve opened many other doors
Bobbing like Columbus’s galleon
But often delaying sailings sine die
Like he could not.
Not desiring wealth of riches
But just a calmer sea.
As life ticks by I sometimes wonder,
Should I have heeded sooner
those insistent knocks?
Recently I peeped around that door
To peep at a fabled misty world,
Both sweet and sad
Reflected on, now with smiles
and now with tears
A door to open and peer inside,
but not walk through.
John Seacome
The House That Jack Built
This is the house that Jack built.
This is the door where Jack came and went.
These are the stairs that creak in the night,
Scaring the woman now living alone
With absentees from times gone by,
That lived in the house that Jack built.
This is the woman who feels their presence
With every sip from their stained flowered cups,
To the tarnished tip of their blackened silver spoons,
To the hairline cracks in their ornamental plates,
Inside the house that Jack built.
This is the woman with time on her hands
Who winds the clock with the broken face,
That sits on the heavy unread tomes
Of war and religion, long since displaced,
That live in the house that Jack built.
This is the woman all alone
Who sits by the window that faces the sun,
Counting her hours until she becomes,
Another creak on the winding stair,
Inside the house that Jack built.
Larraine
Not In Service
Loss hits you and knocks you down
Eats you up and spits you out
Leaves you broken and half alive
And your days pass by
Like empty, ‘NOT IN SERVICE’ buses
On their way, late at night, back to the depot
Where they will rest, recharge and refresh
Ready to face another day
How I wish I
Was one such bus
Martyn Harrison
He Would Know That They Had Left This Job Too Late
That they should have been out
when the sun and the sky still held
a late remembrance,
when the leaves, brown and crisp,
skittered with each breath.
When those that cling to the resentful end
finally flutter to their clarty bed
he would know that tramping and
raking on the damp grass now
will only leave a deep wound grudge.
But the days of remonstration,
of railing against feckless youth
and leaving things too late
are gone.
You do your best and that’s your lot.
Now he would sit and watch
the robin on the moss-turned plot
and be the first to ask about tea
mashing in the pot.
John C
Prompt Number Nine: There Will Come Soft Rains
We are British therefore we love talking about the weather. We love writing about it too. How often has the weather featured in literature foreshadowing a change of fortunes for the protagonists or to indicate the overall mood or setting for a particular moment. Often writers ascribe human feelings to aspects of the weather e.g. the sun smiled upon me, a device called the pathetic fallacy. And that is what we are going to do in response to this week's prompt. Write a poem or a piece of prose which features some aspect of the weather. But make it do more than that, make it say something about the way we live, the human condition and try and avoid the obvious i.e. stormy weather = angry person. Why was Singin' in the Rain such a hit for instance? Or better still, why is the poem which follows so effective?
There Will Come Soft Rains
Sara Teasdale - 1884-1933
(War Time)
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
There Will Come Soft Rains
Sara Teasdale - 1884-1933
(War Time)
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
There Will Come Soft Rains Responses
Waiting for the Rain
Waiting, waiting, waiting for the rain
Thirst of the jungle and the arid plain
Tracing drops down the window pane
Hoping for salvation
Dry throated animals searching for pools
Blurred yearning visions of oasis jewels
Seeking the water that calms and cools
Hoping for refreshment
Old man sitting beneath the shade
Garden wilting, memories fade
Debts of life he never paid
Hoping for forgiveness
Children playing on the swings
Seeking ever higher things
Wanting what tomorrow brings.
Hoping for excitement
Listening for thunder, every day the same.
Why are we always waiting
For the rain?
Larraine
Rain
Rain demanded to come in.
She was jealous of kindly warmth
sitting either side of me.
Cat looked with cat disdain
and tucked her paws
more closely under.
Rain entreated east wind
and she pled loudly
on rain’s behalf.
Lamp and fire conspired
to make light glow
reaching every corner.
Rain asked hail “knock louder”
but onion soup bubbled
radio sang and
I shut the curtains.
Lesley
Spring Rain
When the soft rain falls like angel’s breath
And the pale primrose nestles secure in the hedgerow
And a cleansing wind sweeps the meadow
Hope is realised in azure skies
Come the day the viper’s tooth is drawn
And masked nightingales become white elephants
And the virtual world reveals the new dawn
Prayers answered
Purpose replaces grief
Then, Jubilant, upturned faces greet the healing shower
And skin touching skin
may skip
down
dappled lanes
again.
June
Under the Weather
We go into the timid woods
Under the grumble of the lowering sky
Bereft of joy, of birdsong.
He encapsulates the mood
For long he’s lived a silent life,
separated In his own domain.
And then he stops
And stands apart from me
under a massive beech,
The look in his eyes conveys
more than the darkened sky.
I shrink - what’s this all about?
He needs to live a fresh life
Without me standing in the way,
interfering with his freedom.
There’s someone else of course.
I’ll have to go.
Perhaps in answer to my prayer
a bolt from heaven
hurls down into the beech tree,
splits it from top to bottom.
Sulphurous smoke diffuses as
He falls lifeless to the ground.
No mobile signal, nor any inclination
Towards resuscitation either.
Search for a landline instead.
I walk up the rise, shivering with sleety rain
rejoicing in its purifying powers.
The soothing sun now shines
in sentence.
it crafts a rainbow, ending at
that riven giant of a beech.
John Seacome
The Wind Growled
The wind growled. The dog, at my side, flattened his ears. Often, we fear the hidden enemy more than the one we can see. We plodded onward, the trees waving their arms. Menacing gestures putting us on guard for danger in every shadow, anticipating a crack of a foot on a twig. A cheerless sky threatened a downpour. Soon enough icy shards bit into my face. I pulled my hood tighter, and we quickened our pace. Marching to the drumbeat of the rain. Leaves whisked into a frantic dance by a masterful wind.
We emerged from our tree lined tunnel, the shower over as quickly as it had started. The sun ,as on cue, broadcast it’s presence, bestowing on us a rainbow, an extravaganza of colour. What a chain reaction albeit a welcome one. The omnipotent weather, as ever, a barometer of moods. Back drop to the drama of our lives.
Lyn
He was Born with a Hole in his Heart
which surgeons skilfully mended,
but sometimes little holes reappeared
In the shapes of furry pets who had gone to heaven.
They healed eventually.
Grandparents and significant others
made bigger holes and left jagged scars
which were invisible to the world.
His life seemed mainly a happy one.
Gradually the holes found dark corners in his brain.
He no longer remembered what caused them
and that was a blessing. He went on being.
His holy soul went with him, through time.
Sharyn Owen
Hard Rain
The air turned blue
In the quiet before the storm
And rumbled on
Into the afternoon.
The conversation turned squally
But should die out before tea
And be completely pointless
By early evening
When prevailing conditions
Will be re- established
Following the status quo
Of unwritten rules
And the slow death
Of innovation, creativity and hope.
Hoping against hope
That the morning sun
Will drag itself across
The magnolia-proud bedroom wall
Once more.
Martyn Harrison
Weather the Weather
The storm is making its approach.
There is a moment when the air is limpid,
impending.
Mobbed mosquitos swim in senseless swarms
Sparrows mute with gaped beaks and splayed feathers
Pick, pick at their skin.
Bumble bees, leaden limbed
Weave drunkenly back home
pollen bombs loaded
regretting that last lily load.
Torpor
She turned, lifting her heavy hair
away from her sweating neck,
flexing her shoulders,
scenting her trail.
You caught her gesture.
The storm tumbled out of the clouds
sucking out the air
twisting the curtain out of the window,
a rattling chatter of gusting gritty dust
swept round the yard.
Sheet lightning blew the fuses.
I saw the quick exchange between them and
knew.
Time to open the black umbrella.
with its ribbon of type along the curved edge
‘Oh Shit … It’s Raining Again’.
Time to shield from the downpour,
and wait.
Viv Longley
Four Weddings a Funeral and Two Downpours
In broaching the possibility of a trip to the cinema, Jane mentioned the consistently good reviews, the literate script and the impressive cast of stars. She did not use the term Rom-Com.
Thus, they sat in the stalls watching the English actor with his trade mark floppy hairstyle almost flattened to his head and with his shirt plastered to his body as he bumbled his way through his final, declarative speech conceding that the one person he totally and utterly loved was the glamorously drenched Hollywood star standing opposite. She, in turn, could only ask, “Is it still raining?”
So, Jane and her partner, who had sat solidly throughout the film, made for the exits after the credits had rolled, only to be amazed at how life could imitate art and the extent of the downpour outside.
Holding hands as they raced across the flooded car park was an impediment rather than an assistance, and with collars drawn and shoulders hunched, they hurdled across puddles and darted between parked cars while hurling abuse at the elements and laughing.
Collapsing into the driver and front passenger seat of their own car, they gasped for breath and shook off the drops which had got everywhere. And Jane took stock of her date, her Mr Sensible of some years standing, her Mr I’m Not Going to Watch any Fatuous Rubbish, who had drips running down his face, neck and into his collar. She would risk a question about his enjoyment of the film.
“Was it worth getting a soaking?”
The car windows were steaming up and he had to wipe his own glasses but he turned to her and asked only,
“Is it still raining?”
John C
Waiting, waiting, waiting for the rain
Thirst of the jungle and the arid plain
Tracing drops down the window pane
Hoping for salvation
Dry throated animals searching for pools
Blurred yearning visions of oasis jewels
Seeking the water that calms and cools
Hoping for refreshment
Old man sitting beneath the shade
Garden wilting, memories fade
Debts of life he never paid
Hoping for forgiveness
Children playing on the swings
Seeking ever higher things
Wanting what tomorrow brings.
Hoping for excitement
Listening for thunder, every day the same.
Why are we always waiting
For the rain?
Larraine
Rain
Rain demanded to come in.
She was jealous of kindly warmth
sitting either side of me.
Cat looked with cat disdain
and tucked her paws
more closely under.
Rain entreated east wind
and she pled loudly
on rain’s behalf.
Lamp and fire conspired
to make light glow
reaching every corner.
Rain asked hail “knock louder”
but onion soup bubbled
radio sang and
I shut the curtains.
Lesley
Spring Rain
When the soft rain falls like angel’s breath
And the pale primrose nestles secure in the hedgerow
And a cleansing wind sweeps the meadow
Hope is realised in azure skies
Come the day the viper’s tooth is drawn
And masked nightingales become white elephants
And the virtual world reveals the new dawn
Prayers answered
Purpose replaces grief
Then, Jubilant, upturned faces greet the healing shower
And skin touching skin
may skip
down
dappled lanes
again.
June
Under the Weather
We go into the timid woods
Under the grumble of the lowering sky
Bereft of joy, of birdsong.
He encapsulates the mood
For long he’s lived a silent life,
separated In his own domain.
And then he stops
And stands apart from me
under a massive beech,
The look in his eyes conveys
more than the darkened sky.
I shrink - what’s this all about?
He needs to live a fresh life
Without me standing in the way,
interfering with his freedom.
There’s someone else of course.
I’ll have to go.
Perhaps in answer to my prayer
a bolt from heaven
hurls down into the beech tree,
splits it from top to bottom.
Sulphurous smoke diffuses as
He falls lifeless to the ground.
No mobile signal, nor any inclination
Towards resuscitation either.
Search for a landline instead.
I walk up the rise, shivering with sleety rain
rejoicing in its purifying powers.
The soothing sun now shines
in sentence.
it crafts a rainbow, ending at
that riven giant of a beech.
John Seacome
The Wind Growled
The wind growled. The dog, at my side, flattened his ears. Often, we fear the hidden enemy more than the one we can see. We plodded onward, the trees waving their arms. Menacing gestures putting us on guard for danger in every shadow, anticipating a crack of a foot on a twig. A cheerless sky threatened a downpour. Soon enough icy shards bit into my face. I pulled my hood tighter, and we quickened our pace. Marching to the drumbeat of the rain. Leaves whisked into a frantic dance by a masterful wind.
We emerged from our tree lined tunnel, the shower over as quickly as it had started. The sun ,as on cue, broadcast it’s presence, bestowing on us a rainbow, an extravaganza of colour. What a chain reaction albeit a welcome one. The omnipotent weather, as ever, a barometer of moods. Back drop to the drama of our lives.
Lyn
He was Born with a Hole in his Heart
which surgeons skilfully mended,
but sometimes little holes reappeared
In the shapes of furry pets who had gone to heaven.
They healed eventually.
Grandparents and significant others
made bigger holes and left jagged scars
which were invisible to the world.
His life seemed mainly a happy one.
Gradually the holes found dark corners in his brain.
He no longer remembered what caused them
and that was a blessing. He went on being.
His holy soul went with him, through time.
Sharyn Owen
Hard Rain
The air turned blue
In the quiet before the storm
And rumbled on
Into the afternoon.
The conversation turned squally
But should die out before tea
And be completely pointless
By early evening
When prevailing conditions
Will be re- established
Following the status quo
Of unwritten rules
And the slow death
Of innovation, creativity and hope.
Hoping against hope
That the morning sun
Will drag itself across
The magnolia-proud bedroom wall
Once more.
Martyn Harrison
Weather the Weather
The storm is making its approach.
There is a moment when the air is limpid,
impending.
Mobbed mosquitos swim in senseless swarms
Sparrows mute with gaped beaks and splayed feathers
Pick, pick at their skin.
Bumble bees, leaden limbed
Weave drunkenly back home
pollen bombs loaded
regretting that last lily load.
Torpor
She turned, lifting her heavy hair
away from her sweating neck,
flexing her shoulders,
scenting her trail.
You caught her gesture.
The storm tumbled out of the clouds
sucking out the air
twisting the curtain out of the window,
a rattling chatter of gusting gritty dust
swept round the yard.
Sheet lightning blew the fuses.
I saw the quick exchange between them and
knew.
Time to open the black umbrella.
with its ribbon of type along the curved edge
‘Oh Shit … It’s Raining Again’.
Time to shield from the downpour,
and wait.
Viv Longley
Four Weddings a Funeral and Two Downpours
In broaching the possibility of a trip to the cinema, Jane mentioned the consistently good reviews, the literate script and the impressive cast of stars. She did not use the term Rom-Com.
Thus, they sat in the stalls watching the English actor with his trade mark floppy hairstyle almost flattened to his head and with his shirt plastered to his body as he bumbled his way through his final, declarative speech conceding that the one person he totally and utterly loved was the glamorously drenched Hollywood star standing opposite. She, in turn, could only ask, “Is it still raining?”
So, Jane and her partner, who had sat solidly throughout the film, made for the exits after the credits had rolled, only to be amazed at how life could imitate art and the extent of the downpour outside.
Holding hands as they raced across the flooded car park was an impediment rather than an assistance, and with collars drawn and shoulders hunched, they hurdled across puddles and darted between parked cars while hurling abuse at the elements and laughing.
Collapsing into the driver and front passenger seat of their own car, they gasped for breath and shook off the drops which had got everywhere. And Jane took stock of her date, her Mr Sensible of some years standing, her Mr I’m Not Going to Watch any Fatuous Rubbish, who had drips running down his face, neck and into his collar. She would risk a question about his enjoyment of the film.
“Was it worth getting a soaking?”
The car windows were steaming up and he had to wipe his own glasses but he turned to her and asked only,
“Is it still raining?”
John C
Prompt Number Eight: The Road Not Taken
Well, we've all been there, especially during our lock-down wanderings. This road or that? Left or right? That path or this one here? Making decisions when we're out walking. I don't think that is what Robert Frost had in mind when he wrote the following poem, a poem written in 1916 , half way through the First World War. For him the road not taken was more likely to refer to life decisions. Did I do the right thing or not? So that's our prompt for this week. The Road Not Taken or life decisions. Read the poem and then write your answer to the prompt. Usual rules apply. Good luck everyone.
The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost - 1874-1963
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost - 1874-1963
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Prompt Number Eight: The Road Not Taken Responses
Tell it With a Sigh
Long after the chrysanthemums have wilted
I sit on the kerb-side
Haunted by the mist of time
You said “Grow old along with me the best is yet to be”
Yet I walk the silver path alone,
And flounder in a forest of what if’s
This is where I miss you most,
Your paint-stripping wit,
Bleeding the radiators,
Resetting the boiler,
And chasing squirrels off the roof.
I’ve binned the bucket list.
The winter road is cold deprived of your smile.
June
The Road Not Taken
Arthur stacked the last box. The shelves were full and front-faced; everything neat and tidy. This was the very best part of the night shift. He could see where he had been.
Work jacket on the peg and parka comfortable round his shoulders, he left the building. It was a grey sky and drizzily, just the sort of day to pull the curtains and sit cosily in his chair. Mary will have set off for work and there will be a note left next to the bread.
His cup of tea was just right and the toast ‘golden’. Now his ire could come out. In a new episode of Tom’s Talkie Podcast the host asked “didn’t anyone ever notice your potential when you were doing that dead-end job?”. The job was in a supermarket stacking shelves.
How dare they denigrate his job like that. When they went into a shop, they wanted to be able to find things easily and be treated efficiently, courteously and cheerfully. Were their jobs more important? Was his so “dead-end” as to not matter? They chose to follow their road, maybe their choices did not have the same end, but someone’s cul-de-sac is another’s avenue.
Arthur drank the last drop. His stomach was full. With heavy eyes he looked around the front room. It was comfortable, lived in and had been home for 35 years. This was where his road had taken him. Arthur Ward BSc, climbed upstairs to bed.
Lesley
The Island
Downstream where the raging river
Forks its indecisive way,
Lies a small and greening island
Watercolouring the grey.
Jostling trees compete in tangles,
Branches twist like fairy tales.
Heaven for the brave and princely,
Death for he who dares and fails.
River flowing ever faster,
Undercurrents force me on,
Reaching out to grasp the willows,
Futile as a siren’s song.
Backward glancing, sailing onwards,
Not for me this island home.
I must face the choice before me,
Baling out my boat alone.
Larraine
The fork in the road
All there at my feet, I was told
A life of glittering prizes.
Remind me now, what were they?
Oh, yes, Fellowship at Cambridge.
The ethos of the senior common room,
passing the port mid’st waspish feuds.
Finding civilization was created
in a dusty mound in Anatolia
had a much more glamorous ring.
Forget Egypt and Iraq
Was this really where it all began?
Dig a big hole and just keep digging.
No, I wished to spread my wings,
benefit mankind across the world.
Well, medicine was out.
Too often the clergy squinted at
eternity to stare this one in the face.
They say that politics is a dirty business,
Most polishing their egos.
I don’t disagree from what I’ve seen.
A low-gear, low-risk career,
does such exist? I’ve asked myself
four careers later, give or take.
But then if waiting ever bigger desks
Is not the purpose of your life.
What have you really lost?
So many times the pathway’s forked
Not like an Ordnance Survey plan
But more an Escher staircase
Changing direction with every step.
If you see where I dropped my plan
Just leave it there, no problem now.
John Seacome
The path that divides us
There lays before me, an end to existence
I can douse the candle, without assistance
The path is short and bares little resistance
And a light beckons, not far in the distance
The long path is steep and harder to travel
Scattered with potholes and uneven gravel
With a mountain of threads, for me to unravel
Enforced upon me, by the man, with the gavel
If the tentative path, I’m forced to choose
With its outdated methods and sterile views
And all those around me, are content to snooze
There’ll be nothing to gain and a whole lot to lose
So unwilling to accept, our part in this play
A turbulent world in the throws of decay
The core foundations, now blasted away
As we see this path in the cold light of day
Do I end it all now, while I can still remember
And avoid the path, I’d be forced to encumber
Or stay and join them, in ignorant slumber
Knowing we have drawn, the final number.
Mela
Self Help
We all face forks in the road
They’re a frequent event
Don’t lose sleep over which way to go
Not even for one moment
Own your own thinking
Spend no time wishing
Or longing for taking
A different bearing
Let calm overcome you
The route to clear thought
Your true essence will shine through
And fear count for nought
Hold on to your truth
It will serve you well
Accepting with gratitude
Your bestowed goodwill.
Martyn Harrison
Doing the Right Thing
There’s excitement in the air and a good deal of it is centred around me. A coming-of-age passage and I’m old enough now to take part. Something doesn’t sit right, but it is always easier to go with the crowd.
Making a collection is the first step. Down by the river the nice smooth ones have a lustrous blue vein. But bigger ones are better. Toss them up and down in your hand and feel the heft. Rough edges are no bad thing either.
Come the big event, don’t get carried away. Take your time, relax and be accurate. There’s no better feeling than the soft, squelchy smack of a direct hit to the head. Take pride in a blow for what’s right; it always gets a big cheer.
Some people call this practise savage. They call us a wild people. When we call it driving out sin.
John C.
Long after the chrysanthemums have wilted
I sit on the kerb-side
Haunted by the mist of time
You said “Grow old along with me the best is yet to be”
Yet I walk the silver path alone,
And flounder in a forest of what if’s
This is where I miss you most,
Your paint-stripping wit,
Bleeding the radiators,
Resetting the boiler,
And chasing squirrels off the roof.
I’ve binned the bucket list.
The winter road is cold deprived of your smile.
June
The Road Not Taken
Arthur stacked the last box. The shelves were full and front-faced; everything neat and tidy. This was the very best part of the night shift. He could see where he had been.
Work jacket on the peg and parka comfortable round his shoulders, he left the building. It was a grey sky and drizzily, just the sort of day to pull the curtains and sit cosily in his chair. Mary will have set off for work and there will be a note left next to the bread.
His cup of tea was just right and the toast ‘golden’. Now his ire could come out. In a new episode of Tom’s Talkie Podcast the host asked “didn’t anyone ever notice your potential when you were doing that dead-end job?”. The job was in a supermarket stacking shelves.
How dare they denigrate his job like that. When they went into a shop, they wanted to be able to find things easily and be treated efficiently, courteously and cheerfully. Were their jobs more important? Was his so “dead-end” as to not matter? They chose to follow their road, maybe their choices did not have the same end, but someone’s cul-de-sac is another’s avenue.
Arthur drank the last drop. His stomach was full. With heavy eyes he looked around the front room. It was comfortable, lived in and had been home for 35 years. This was where his road had taken him. Arthur Ward BSc, climbed upstairs to bed.
Lesley
The Island
Downstream where the raging river
Forks its indecisive way,
Lies a small and greening island
Watercolouring the grey.
Jostling trees compete in tangles,
Branches twist like fairy tales.
Heaven for the brave and princely,
Death for he who dares and fails.
River flowing ever faster,
Undercurrents force me on,
Reaching out to grasp the willows,
Futile as a siren’s song.
Backward glancing, sailing onwards,
Not for me this island home.
I must face the choice before me,
Baling out my boat alone.
Larraine
The fork in the road
All there at my feet, I was told
A life of glittering prizes.
Remind me now, what were they?
Oh, yes, Fellowship at Cambridge.
The ethos of the senior common room,
passing the port mid’st waspish feuds.
Finding civilization was created
in a dusty mound in Anatolia
had a much more glamorous ring.
Forget Egypt and Iraq
Was this really where it all began?
Dig a big hole and just keep digging.
No, I wished to spread my wings,
benefit mankind across the world.
Well, medicine was out.
Too often the clergy squinted at
eternity to stare this one in the face.
They say that politics is a dirty business,
Most polishing their egos.
I don’t disagree from what I’ve seen.
A low-gear, low-risk career,
does such exist? I’ve asked myself
four careers later, give or take.
But then if waiting ever bigger desks
Is not the purpose of your life.
What have you really lost?
So many times the pathway’s forked
Not like an Ordnance Survey plan
But more an Escher staircase
Changing direction with every step.
If you see where I dropped my plan
Just leave it there, no problem now.
John Seacome
The path that divides us
There lays before me, an end to existence
I can douse the candle, without assistance
The path is short and bares little resistance
And a light beckons, not far in the distance
The long path is steep and harder to travel
Scattered with potholes and uneven gravel
With a mountain of threads, for me to unravel
Enforced upon me, by the man, with the gavel
If the tentative path, I’m forced to choose
With its outdated methods and sterile views
And all those around me, are content to snooze
There’ll be nothing to gain and a whole lot to lose
So unwilling to accept, our part in this play
A turbulent world in the throws of decay
The core foundations, now blasted away
As we see this path in the cold light of day
Do I end it all now, while I can still remember
And avoid the path, I’d be forced to encumber
Or stay and join them, in ignorant slumber
Knowing we have drawn, the final number.
Mela
Self Help
We all face forks in the road
They’re a frequent event
Don’t lose sleep over which way to go
Not even for one moment
Own your own thinking
Spend no time wishing
Or longing for taking
A different bearing
Let calm overcome you
The route to clear thought
Your true essence will shine through
And fear count for nought
Hold on to your truth
It will serve you well
Accepting with gratitude
Your bestowed goodwill.
Martyn Harrison
Doing the Right Thing
There’s excitement in the air and a good deal of it is centred around me. A coming-of-age passage and I’m old enough now to take part. Something doesn’t sit right, but it is always easier to go with the crowd.
Making a collection is the first step. Down by the river the nice smooth ones have a lustrous blue vein. But bigger ones are better. Toss them up and down in your hand and feel the heft. Rough edges are no bad thing either.
Come the big event, don’t get carried away. Take your time, relax and be accurate. There’s no better feeling than the soft, squelchy smack of a direct hit to the head. Take pride in a blow for what’s right; it always gets a big cheer.
Some people call this practise savage. They call us a wild people. When we call it driving out sin.
John C.
Prompt Number Seven: Daffodils
"And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils."
William Wordsworth
"Wind wounds, spasms from the dark earth,
With their odourless metals,
A flamy purification of the deep grave's stony cold
As if ice had a breath"
Ted Hughes
And dances with the daffodils."
William Wordsworth
"Wind wounds, spasms from the dark earth,
With their odourless metals,
A flamy purification of the deep grave's stony cold
As if ice had a breath"
Ted Hughes
Now be careful with this one. Daffodils have often been visited in poetry and it is difficult to get a new slant, but our poetry and prose needs to be different. Make it new! Make it surprising! Our working title is: It was daffodils when we (they) first met. See what you can do with that. 300 words of prose or a short poem by Monday midnight please. Good luck!
Prompt Number Seven Responses: Daffodils
Rhymester Or Not?
‘Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly
Lavender’s green …’
‘Roses are red, dilly dilly
Violets are blue…’
Daffodils are…
Oh daffodils, why are you so awkward?
Daffodils, corduroy twills,
Drink spills, Mrs Mills,
Windmills, coffee refills,
Steep hills, Stephen Stills.
Daffodils, feathery quills,
Gas bills, smoking kills,
Cotton mills, carpentry skills,
Window sills, Jack and Jills.
Daffodils, ocean krills,
Ill wills, security grilles,
Heart pills, watery rills,
Evening chills, William Hills.
Daffodils, high speed drills,
Horrid evils, death bed wills,
Fish gills, opera shrills,
Photo stills, Arkwright’s tills.
Oh striped pyjamas, Dalai Lamas
I’ve had e…nough…
Odds and sods
Pop your clogs
Job done.
Martyn Harrison
Fiorre
They mark our coming into the world and our exit from it. Not to forget all the other special occasions in-between. There is a shape and shade for all. Slim, elegant lilies. Velvety, touch me red roses. Mop headed peonies or laughing pansies. Exotic foreign ladies with unpronounceable names. Pricky types or those who walk on the wild side. It takes all sorts.
There is one who says it all, its yellow trumpet fanfaring us on our path through life. Some may think it arrogant and egotistical. Who would deny its uplifting beauty? The humble daffodil. My favourite.
Lyn
Report No 77,550; Planet Earth, fauna
A temperate zone plant which grows in colonies.
Visible in the light range 570-590nanometers.
Bulbous root, spear-like leaves. Complex flower, unlike anything that grows on our home planet.
Not safe for humans to eat but may be a plentiful supply of food and shelter for us after colonisation. It seems to have no purpose for humans except to be admired. This may be a difficult concept to explain to our forward groups of colonisers.
Påskeliljer jonquille النرجس البري (narjis al-barri)
水仙花 (shuǐ xiān huā) Daffodil
It will be impossible for us to reproduce these physical sounds. Human speech is a completely unique means of communication. We may never be able to communicate effectively with them. Bur there are other species we might find more amenable to us, such as some forms of bacterial life.
Sharyn
It Was Daffodils When We First Met
It was daffodils when we first met. They were in a bunch and dripping. I think they might have been from his mam’s garden; they were certainly fresh.
I am not fussed about daffs. They are OK, not a pretty flower, just yellow really. People will say “Oh you know its spring when you see them,” then smile in a sort of satisfied way. I nod in agreement but have to disagree (not to their faces of course). Spring doesn’t begin until 21 March, I am certain about that, it is a date, not a flower.
No, daffs are just another flower that pops up when the weather grows warmer, only they aren’t as pretty or colorful as crocuses. Now there is a flower, showy and cheerful. Daffs stand like regimental soldiers and look glum.
So, every year, on our anniversary I get daffodils. The kids buy me them for Mothering Sunday and I pretend. I pretend they are the best flower and smile widely.
I really like freesias.
Lesley
Debra March 1st 1971
I wear a daffodil on my cardigan today,
In the school that smells of leeks,
In the classroom that swirls with long aproned skirts,
Wrapped in cosy knitted shawls
Topped with tall black bonnets
Frilled with sparkling white lace.
As singing voices fill my morning
With unpronounceable words.
But Debra Williams doesn’t have a daffodil or a leek.
She has no flowing skirts, no shawls,
No bonnets lovingly passed from mother to daughter.
Mouthing the songs she still cannot read
She looks at me and smiles.
At playtime I keep her back,
Offering her my daffodil
To pin on her unwashed clothes.
‘Thank you, Miss,’ she whispers.
I send her out to play,
Wishing I could give her more than daffodils
On this St David’s Day.
Larraine Harrison
Daffodils on my Wedding Day
Spring was late in ’72.
They should have been out by now,
but there was dad was on his knees in the front garden.
Clumps of nodding daffodils were being moved from the back
where they got the sun
to the front
where there was none.
They gave out yellow plastic daffodils
free
attached to Persil washing powder.
‘fresh as Spring’
Get it?
These daffs lived in a glass in the kitchen
Dusty with spots of mould inside the shape.
They looked real but
no thirst, no death.
My mother,
apron over her best alpaca wool suit
made for her by Ramsey the tailors,
rinsed the mustard yellow flutes under the tap,
poked them in the front garden
and dusted dad down.
The veined calyx shrivels
Exposing the stamen and the ovary
Swollen, pollen sticky surrounds.
Done with the bees.
The proud stalks soften.
The heads drop.
Daffodils die.
Viv Longley
Daffodils in the Square
The bonus of spring sunshine and the bursts of daffodils gave the Square an atmosphere of innocence and hope. An excellent time to get out of the office for half an hour.
One seat had a space. However, the other end was occupied by his junior colleague. “Don’t mind at all” she replied to his unasked question. She gave him one of her disarming smiles.
“Well, how’ve you been getting on?” he ventured. He didn’t mean to be so probing. But she had already billed an impressive level of fees.
“Well, the work really suits me. I’m glad I made the move”. There was a tentative streak in her reply. The senior partners’ consensus was that he’d made a good choice, headhunting her from a rival firm. Then “I’m actually a bit lonely and cut off,” she said.
He should have gently steered the conversation to safer ground. “Don’t you see the others outside the office?”
“Yes, but there’s something very special about you. I feel I owe you so much. “. The hook was now in his mouth, and she gently reeled him in. “Well, I’m free Thursday night.”
And so it started very quietly and surreptitiously. After three weeks it became a serious affair. No more sandwiches in the Square. The daffodils had withered.
After a few months she suggested a trip to the coast.
The cliff-top car park sloped towards an azure sea. She’d laced the coffee. Pleading a slight headache she stuck to mineral water. When he was fast asleep, she let go of the handbrake and the car rolled forward. But her door wouldn’t open. The remote key to the door lock was tucked away in his pocket.
“Lost a good person there, even if we’d have had to let him go.” the senior partners agreed.
John Seacome
Daffodil Destiny
It was daffodils when we went on our first proper date, one April Sunday in the early 50’s when I was seventeen.
At that point I was a dreamy-eyed ingenue hiding insecurity behind animated chit chat, being ever concerned about family reaction to random dating. We had partnered at the Saturday hop where with laughing eyes he’d suggested an outing to York.
“The train leaves at 12.05 from Kirkgate Station if you’re up for it?”
And then sensing my hesitation.
“The daffs are a treat at this time of year. We might pop in on Bertha.”
His maternal grandmother beamed when the light of her world walked in. We drank tea from her best China, eating pork pie and ham sandwiches. After which she said.
“That’s the end of the over!”
A phrase I was later to become familiar with. She had pulled on glasses and was perusing a newspaper, picking out ‘nags’ for her six-penny bet at Monday’s race meeting on the Knavesmire.
“You young people get off. Walk the walls”.
Hand in hand we strolled in silence by the river past the Bishop’s Palace towards Clifford’s Tower where we binged on swaths of gold cascading the slopes. A chain of yellow courted the sun in a backdrop of Lincoln green, on ramparts that bolstered the rough white of limestone walls; where Romans had enclosed the ancient city in the 13th century. Minds linked we climbed the steps and continued the trek nervous at making fragile thoughts audible.
Some sort of witchery was happening in the pit of my stomach, transferred from the hand that held mine so tightly.
That day amid the daffodils and air infused chocolate emitted from Rowntree’s factory, saw us cemented together on a Helter-skelter ride that lasted 60 years.
June
Narcissus
The first day of March. It had been two years ago today. He looked at the clock at the side of his bed. Just four hours to go and the day would begin. He would go to the mall, the place where he had first seen her, then he would retrace his steps; carefully, methodically. Nothing was to go wrong. He’d nearly slipped up last year. Completely forgetting that on Sundays, places closed earlier, he’d had to make a hasty decision, but not this time, everything was going to be just right.
He drove to the park, abandoned his car and headed off past the thicket to a small coppice deep into the woods. An open space surrounded by trees with a large crop of golden daffodils. The area had already been cut back to stimulate growth, so it was free from disturbances.
Even now, it would be hours before nightfall.
He stood visualising future events. The multi storey carparks. Jam-packed full of vehicles, but always, completely desolate. You could drive round for hours and never see a soul. He’d follow them back to their car, pay their ticket, then dump the car somewhere out of the way. It was so easy, his car would be clean.
The surrounding trees, still with their gangly bare branches, would allow the last bit of sun light to seep into this hallow canopy that he had help nourish.
It was strange the way the grass grew differently here; yet it was touching, even quite fitting, the way that the daffodils drooped their lustrous heads.
Like mourners around a grave.
Mela
It was daffodils when they first met
I
He had no idea about this strange procession,
this annual parade of snowdrop, crocus and daff,
until the yellow trumpet voluntary
belted out at every turn:
municipal park, the by-pass verge
and bins outside the Eight till Late,
rubber band-bunched, ridiculously cheap.
So he bought two
to say it, and how.
II
She had a firmer grip on the great wheel turning,
the mutability of primula, tulip and Canterbury bell,
knew how the petals could bloom and fall,
how the poppy’s sombre warning lay in wait.
So, she accepted the kiss planted on her cheek,
took each bunch, severed the bands,
and vased the daffs in cut glass.
Which would more than do
for now.
John C
‘Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly
Lavender’s green …’
‘Roses are red, dilly dilly
Violets are blue…’
Daffodils are…
Oh daffodils, why are you so awkward?
Daffodils, corduroy twills,
Drink spills, Mrs Mills,
Windmills, coffee refills,
Steep hills, Stephen Stills.
Daffodils, feathery quills,
Gas bills, smoking kills,
Cotton mills, carpentry skills,
Window sills, Jack and Jills.
Daffodils, ocean krills,
Ill wills, security grilles,
Heart pills, watery rills,
Evening chills, William Hills.
Daffodils, high speed drills,
Horrid evils, death bed wills,
Fish gills, opera shrills,
Photo stills, Arkwright’s tills.
Oh striped pyjamas, Dalai Lamas
I’ve had e…nough…
Odds and sods
Pop your clogs
Job done.
Martyn Harrison
Fiorre
They mark our coming into the world and our exit from it. Not to forget all the other special occasions in-between. There is a shape and shade for all. Slim, elegant lilies. Velvety, touch me red roses. Mop headed peonies or laughing pansies. Exotic foreign ladies with unpronounceable names. Pricky types or those who walk on the wild side. It takes all sorts.
There is one who says it all, its yellow trumpet fanfaring us on our path through life. Some may think it arrogant and egotistical. Who would deny its uplifting beauty? The humble daffodil. My favourite.
Lyn
Report No 77,550; Planet Earth, fauna
A temperate zone plant which grows in colonies.
Visible in the light range 570-590nanometers.
Bulbous root, spear-like leaves. Complex flower, unlike anything that grows on our home planet.
Not safe for humans to eat but may be a plentiful supply of food and shelter for us after colonisation. It seems to have no purpose for humans except to be admired. This may be a difficult concept to explain to our forward groups of colonisers.
Påskeliljer jonquille النرجس البري (narjis al-barri)
水仙花 (shuǐ xiān huā) Daffodil
It will be impossible for us to reproduce these physical sounds. Human speech is a completely unique means of communication. We may never be able to communicate effectively with them. Bur there are other species we might find more amenable to us, such as some forms of bacterial life.
Sharyn
It Was Daffodils When We First Met
It was daffodils when we first met. They were in a bunch and dripping. I think they might have been from his mam’s garden; they were certainly fresh.
I am not fussed about daffs. They are OK, not a pretty flower, just yellow really. People will say “Oh you know its spring when you see them,” then smile in a sort of satisfied way. I nod in agreement but have to disagree (not to their faces of course). Spring doesn’t begin until 21 March, I am certain about that, it is a date, not a flower.
No, daffs are just another flower that pops up when the weather grows warmer, only they aren’t as pretty or colorful as crocuses. Now there is a flower, showy and cheerful. Daffs stand like regimental soldiers and look glum.
So, every year, on our anniversary I get daffodils. The kids buy me them for Mothering Sunday and I pretend. I pretend they are the best flower and smile widely.
I really like freesias.
Lesley
Debra March 1st 1971
I wear a daffodil on my cardigan today,
In the school that smells of leeks,
In the classroom that swirls with long aproned skirts,
Wrapped in cosy knitted shawls
Topped with tall black bonnets
Frilled with sparkling white lace.
As singing voices fill my morning
With unpronounceable words.
But Debra Williams doesn’t have a daffodil or a leek.
She has no flowing skirts, no shawls,
No bonnets lovingly passed from mother to daughter.
Mouthing the songs she still cannot read
She looks at me and smiles.
At playtime I keep her back,
Offering her my daffodil
To pin on her unwashed clothes.
‘Thank you, Miss,’ she whispers.
I send her out to play,
Wishing I could give her more than daffodils
On this St David’s Day.
Larraine Harrison
Daffodils on my Wedding Day
Spring was late in ’72.
They should have been out by now,
but there was dad was on his knees in the front garden.
Clumps of nodding daffodils were being moved from the back
where they got the sun
to the front
where there was none.
They gave out yellow plastic daffodils
free
attached to Persil washing powder.
‘fresh as Spring’
Get it?
These daffs lived in a glass in the kitchen
Dusty with spots of mould inside the shape.
They looked real but
no thirst, no death.
My mother,
apron over her best alpaca wool suit
made for her by Ramsey the tailors,
rinsed the mustard yellow flutes under the tap,
poked them in the front garden
and dusted dad down.
The veined calyx shrivels
Exposing the stamen and the ovary
Swollen, pollen sticky surrounds.
Done with the bees.
The proud stalks soften.
The heads drop.
Daffodils die.
Viv Longley
Daffodils in the Square
The bonus of spring sunshine and the bursts of daffodils gave the Square an atmosphere of innocence and hope. An excellent time to get out of the office for half an hour.
One seat had a space. However, the other end was occupied by his junior colleague. “Don’t mind at all” she replied to his unasked question. She gave him one of her disarming smiles.
“Well, how’ve you been getting on?” he ventured. He didn’t mean to be so probing. But she had already billed an impressive level of fees.
“Well, the work really suits me. I’m glad I made the move”. There was a tentative streak in her reply. The senior partners’ consensus was that he’d made a good choice, headhunting her from a rival firm. Then “I’m actually a bit lonely and cut off,” she said.
He should have gently steered the conversation to safer ground. “Don’t you see the others outside the office?”
“Yes, but there’s something very special about you. I feel I owe you so much. “. The hook was now in his mouth, and she gently reeled him in. “Well, I’m free Thursday night.”
And so it started very quietly and surreptitiously. After three weeks it became a serious affair. No more sandwiches in the Square. The daffodils had withered.
After a few months she suggested a trip to the coast.
The cliff-top car park sloped towards an azure sea. She’d laced the coffee. Pleading a slight headache she stuck to mineral water. When he was fast asleep, she let go of the handbrake and the car rolled forward. But her door wouldn’t open. The remote key to the door lock was tucked away in his pocket.
“Lost a good person there, even if we’d have had to let him go.” the senior partners agreed.
John Seacome
Daffodil Destiny
It was daffodils when we went on our first proper date, one April Sunday in the early 50’s when I was seventeen.
At that point I was a dreamy-eyed ingenue hiding insecurity behind animated chit chat, being ever concerned about family reaction to random dating. We had partnered at the Saturday hop where with laughing eyes he’d suggested an outing to York.
“The train leaves at 12.05 from Kirkgate Station if you’re up for it?”
And then sensing my hesitation.
“The daffs are a treat at this time of year. We might pop in on Bertha.”
His maternal grandmother beamed when the light of her world walked in. We drank tea from her best China, eating pork pie and ham sandwiches. After which she said.
“That’s the end of the over!”
A phrase I was later to become familiar with. She had pulled on glasses and was perusing a newspaper, picking out ‘nags’ for her six-penny bet at Monday’s race meeting on the Knavesmire.
“You young people get off. Walk the walls”.
Hand in hand we strolled in silence by the river past the Bishop’s Palace towards Clifford’s Tower where we binged on swaths of gold cascading the slopes. A chain of yellow courted the sun in a backdrop of Lincoln green, on ramparts that bolstered the rough white of limestone walls; where Romans had enclosed the ancient city in the 13th century. Minds linked we climbed the steps and continued the trek nervous at making fragile thoughts audible.
Some sort of witchery was happening in the pit of my stomach, transferred from the hand that held mine so tightly.
That day amid the daffodils and air infused chocolate emitted from Rowntree’s factory, saw us cemented together on a Helter-skelter ride that lasted 60 years.
June
Narcissus
The first day of March. It had been two years ago today. He looked at the clock at the side of his bed. Just four hours to go and the day would begin. He would go to the mall, the place where he had first seen her, then he would retrace his steps; carefully, methodically. Nothing was to go wrong. He’d nearly slipped up last year. Completely forgetting that on Sundays, places closed earlier, he’d had to make a hasty decision, but not this time, everything was going to be just right.
He drove to the park, abandoned his car and headed off past the thicket to a small coppice deep into the woods. An open space surrounded by trees with a large crop of golden daffodils. The area had already been cut back to stimulate growth, so it was free from disturbances.
Even now, it would be hours before nightfall.
He stood visualising future events. The multi storey carparks. Jam-packed full of vehicles, but always, completely desolate. You could drive round for hours and never see a soul. He’d follow them back to their car, pay their ticket, then dump the car somewhere out of the way. It was so easy, his car would be clean.
The surrounding trees, still with their gangly bare branches, would allow the last bit of sun light to seep into this hallow canopy that he had help nourish.
It was strange the way the grass grew differently here; yet it was touching, even quite fitting, the way that the daffodils drooped their lustrous heads.
Like mourners around a grave.
Mela
It was daffodils when they first met
I
He had no idea about this strange procession,
this annual parade of snowdrop, crocus and daff,
until the yellow trumpet voluntary
belted out at every turn:
municipal park, the by-pass verge
and bins outside the Eight till Late,
rubber band-bunched, ridiculously cheap.
So he bought two
to say it, and how.
II
She had a firmer grip on the great wheel turning,
the mutability of primula, tulip and Canterbury bell,
knew how the petals could bloom and fall,
how the poppy’s sombre warning lay in wait.
So, she accepted the kiss planted on her cheek,
took each bunch, severed the bands,
and vased the daffs in cut glass.
Which would more than do
for now.
John C
Prompt Number 6: Travelling Through the Dark
Travelling Through the Dark responses
Over Exposure
With a surreptitious click
down comes the shutter
Propelled into darkness
my essence spread asunder
Just a latent image
as yet not revealed
Devoid of all substance
having no will to yield
Transposed on to film
like a defenceless fly
Immersed in emulsion
that is waiting to dry
A two-dimensional copy
with a translucent glow
I've become little more
than a faint distant echo
Then Dipped to restore
what colour there might be
Or bleached from existence
and it’s the end of me
Mela
We Made It Through The Night
In 1983 we didn’t have a great deal of money and holidays were cut to suit our cloth. Three days away on the South Coast in September was to be the big one.
Wednesday saw us set off with nothing booked and I had always wanted to go to Bognor Regis because of the funny name. We managed to get a room for one night in a B&B. Us “What time is breakfast?” Her “What time would you like it?” It was the most amazing breakfast for a B&B.
Thursday night and Eastbourne in a B&B again. The lodgings were dearer and every breakfast came set out in exactly the same pattern. We meandered along the coast, stopping at Brighton for lunch.
Friday night was Folkstone. A B&B but no breakfast and plenty of holes where old locks had been on the bedroom door – this was more of a truckers’ place. We chose it because it was near the ferries and we had decided to have a day in France.
Saturday came and our ferry left port late because of engine trouble. Our day in France was good and we bought baguettes and cheese and meats and ate them in a park. Before the return ferry, we visited the supermarket and loaded up with red wine – Côtes du Rhône and Châteauneuf-Du-Pape.
We couldn’t face another night in the B&B/Truck Stop so decided to travel back arriving home about 2:00 am. We live on the roadside and were fortunate to get a space in front of the house. I was inside and heard a loud bang! The handle of the holdall with the wine had broken.
We made it through the night but the wine didn’t. C’est la vie.
Lesley
A guide to Waitomo Caves
I
He tipped his hat back,
Shoved away the scratching dog,
windmilling at clouds of mosquitos.
The kettle took an age to boil
reluctant to the flames that kippered us.
The choice was tea or tea.
Smoked china.
No biscuits.
He had adapted his own agitating tool .
One handle, soldered with three spoons for simultaneous stirring
of three cups of tea.
II
Hand flexed against the dripping stone ceiling
he gently pulled the boat forward
into the dark black.
Instructed to breathe quietly and make NO NOISE and
sit
still
keep your pheromones to yourself.
A real turn off.
The cave revealed itself.
One, two hundreds thousands.
Candelabras strung across the cave hooked in a milky buttercup way
Glow worms Mexican waving
Twinkling for a mate
in the dark.
Viv Longley
Going Through Tunnels Between Exeter and Teignmouth
On summer Saturdays we went to Teignmouth on the seaside express - a black, sweating monster which graunched to a halt, brakes juddering and shrieking, terrifying the babies with its power and hiss. Kids were deposited on the string luggage racks, clutching a penn’orth of sweets, legs dangling, wearing immaculate shorts and clean white socks. Mums balanced woven baskets of plain picnics on their knees. Dads carried leather bags with Thermoses, towels, bathers and the Daily Mirror, which was turned into sun hats after it was read.
At each tunnel mouth the dads quickly shut the train windows, hauling on the leather belt, which we were forbidden to touch in case it took our fingers off. That kept out the sooty air and coal-tainted steam. We counted down the lightless tunnels - all different lengths - heard the change in the pitch and tone of the train’s roar, braced ourselves against each turn and jolt, and the claustrophobic silence of the adults.
We held our breath, closed our eyes and did some practice screams, releasing the pent-up excitement, waiting for the moment when the train emerged into the sun.
Soon, we knew, we would be released from clothing, the terror over. We could run into the waves, savour the slipping sand between our toes, feel the wind on our faces and wash off all the soot.
Sharyn Owen
Pro-life
Of course, we’ve all agreed.
Clearing the highway
Is the right call, Just get it done
Think of Mom, Pop and the kids
Returning from a family reunion.
Maybe a bit the worse for wear.
Their smould’ring tomb
Marked by a cruel sapphire necklace.
patrol cars, fire tenders, ambulances.
But the unborn is still warm.
In a few days maybe hours
It’d have snuzzled at its mother’s breast.
But not now.
Where’s the nearest veterinarian
Open this late hour?
I guess the other guys’ll say
He’s trashed our weekend shoot
of turkey buzzards in the mountains
‘Goddam snowflake’.
Their feelings only stretch
To an image of the unborn child.
The car revs up and I heave the bodies over.
John Seacome
Travelling Through the Dark
The light from the alarm clock cast a lurid blue glow.
I bang my head against the pillow yet again.
There was no sign of life through the open curtains.
Thirty minutes passed. An hour.
The words tumbled around my head.
A washing machine on full spin.
Enough.
The floor was cold as I plodded towards the kitchen.
Hands warmed by the hot mug, I observed indecision etched on the face
Staring back at me through the window.
The dark familiar garden shapes menacing.
I watched the sky turn golden, then blue.
That morning. Beside the breakfast bar, I hesitated.
The laptop hummed into life.
I pressed the send button.
Lyn
The Farm 1995
Ten o’clock on a winter’s night.
Headlights on full beam.
Blinding sleet arrowing the windscreen.
I throw my files onto the passenger seat,
Peeling off work, like layers from an onion.
I approach the motorway,
Heading for the Pennines,
Snaking across the unforgiving moors
From red rose to white,
Bleakness snapping my heels
Like a baying dog.
Fast cars overtake.
Lorries crawl the hills.
I’m in the middle lane,
Trapped between speed and spray.
I tense up.
Fingers grip the wheel.
Eyes strain.
Head throbs.
Then suddenly I see it.
The farm that caused the mighty motorway to part.
A symbol of calmness amid the panic.
I move in behind the lorries.
Relax and breathe again.
As I travel through the dark,
I hope such simple things will always have the power
To split the road in two.
Larraine
Through the Dark
Empty bed! Given the hour where could she have gone? Once he would have known her every movement. For God’s sake! Once! They had been telepathic tuning in on every thought. Always he had found her reliance on him endearing.
But during these past months she had drawn shutters on their togetherness, clinging on to hurt, nursing his indiscretion. Up to then a lover’s moon was the only triangle in their lives.
He had floundered in contrition. Sorry. Inadequate. Retiring to the spare room in self -flagellation. Oh, how he missed the comfort of their nearness. Her infectious laughter and diligence working charcoal sketchers of kittiwake and tern......Ah.
His car headlights scoured the verges ahead, not a sign of life in sight only the motorway drone from the underpass. He pulled off-road where the railing fenced the beach descent, leaving behind a necklace of shore lights
He peered over the barrier on to deserted shingle and picked out a lone figure silhouetted against the frill of the tide.
God ! Don’t let her plunge the waves.
He stumbled, ran, slid, down the descent, recovering composure on firm ground. It was imperative he imbued an air of calm.
Sensing his presence, she turned, moving hesitantly towards him echoing his silence. This fragile truce quelled his dread. Roughly he pulled off his parka and placed it about her shoulders, holding her tightly in his arms breathing in the musk of her skin, repossessing her spirit.
Voice breaking on the words “Let’s get you home!” He steered them up the ascent.
At the top, breathless, they paused to gaze at the receding moon. And as a vestige of dawn emasculated the dark, she casually hooked her leg round his ankle and hurtled him to the rocks below.
June
Stuck at the Crossing...
You get used to it but it’s never easy
Fighting demons as you roll along. Don’t get me wrong.
One man’s danger is another man’s thrill,
It’s the same journey just a different path you’re on…
Old style railway crossing.
From mine to mainline.
Gatekeeper fighting diagonal rain
Closing gates that meet mid-line.
Skies dark and heavy on village edge
Where houses and fields meet and part.
Day meeting night in middle life,
Desolate times, affairs of the heart.
Gates opening, rainy windscreen
Wind howling hiding scream.
Horns beeping, time for going
Tears falling, stuck…
At the crossing…
You don’t get chance to choose direction
When embarking on life’s highway.
For some it’s plain sailing right from the start,
For others heavy weather looming.
If you’re one of the lucky ones
You’ll avoid the deepest pitfalls.
And that will colour the rest of your days
And to travel you’ll be eager for.
But if you’re one of the less fortunates,
Luck won’t shine your way.
And every setback will set you back
And your days will not be OK.
They will stretch out before you, rule your next step
And you’ll be stuck going nowhere fast.
Where darkening skies and failing light,
Fail to light your path.
Stuck…
At the crossing…
The luck you are dealt is in the shuffle of the pack
Not genes nor wealth no it’s more than that.
It’s the love and care, conversation and sharing,
Joy of life in its many guises, some… mundane…, some …surprises…
And if you don’t get fair share right from the start
There’s a fair to middling chance that you will be,
Travelling through the dark for a long time to come,
Fighting demons as you roll along.
Stuck…
At the crossing…
Martyn Harrison
With a surreptitious click
down comes the shutter
Propelled into darkness
my essence spread asunder
Just a latent image
as yet not revealed
Devoid of all substance
having no will to yield
Transposed on to film
like a defenceless fly
Immersed in emulsion
that is waiting to dry
A two-dimensional copy
with a translucent glow
I've become little more
than a faint distant echo
Then Dipped to restore
what colour there might be
Or bleached from existence
and it’s the end of me
Mela
We Made It Through The Night
In 1983 we didn’t have a great deal of money and holidays were cut to suit our cloth. Three days away on the South Coast in September was to be the big one.
Wednesday saw us set off with nothing booked and I had always wanted to go to Bognor Regis because of the funny name. We managed to get a room for one night in a B&B. Us “What time is breakfast?” Her “What time would you like it?” It was the most amazing breakfast for a B&B.
Thursday night and Eastbourne in a B&B again. The lodgings were dearer and every breakfast came set out in exactly the same pattern. We meandered along the coast, stopping at Brighton for lunch.
Friday night was Folkstone. A B&B but no breakfast and plenty of holes where old locks had been on the bedroom door – this was more of a truckers’ place. We chose it because it was near the ferries and we had decided to have a day in France.
Saturday came and our ferry left port late because of engine trouble. Our day in France was good and we bought baguettes and cheese and meats and ate them in a park. Before the return ferry, we visited the supermarket and loaded up with red wine – Côtes du Rhône and Châteauneuf-Du-Pape.
We couldn’t face another night in the B&B/Truck Stop so decided to travel back arriving home about 2:00 am. We live on the roadside and were fortunate to get a space in front of the house. I was inside and heard a loud bang! The handle of the holdall with the wine had broken.
We made it through the night but the wine didn’t. C’est la vie.
Lesley
A guide to Waitomo Caves
I
He tipped his hat back,
Shoved away the scratching dog,
windmilling at clouds of mosquitos.
The kettle took an age to boil
reluctant to the flames that kippered us.
The choice was tea or tea.
Smoked china.
No biscuits.
He had adapted his own agitating tool .
One handle, soldered with three spoons for simultaneous stirring
of three cups of tea.
II
Hand flexed against the dripping stone ceiling
he gently pulled the boat forward
into the dark black.
Instructed to breathe quietly and make NO NOISE and
sit
still
keep your pheromones to yourself.
A real turn off.
The cave revealed itself.
One, two hundreds thousands.
Candelabras strung across the cave hooked in a milky buttercup way
Glow worms Mexican waving
Twinkling for a mate
in the dark.
Viv Longley
Going Through Tunnels Between Exeter and Teignmouth
On summer Saturdays we went to Teignmouth on the seaside express - a black, sweating monster which graunched to a halt, brakes juddering and shrieking, terrifying the babies with its power and hiss. Kids were deposited on the string luggage racks, clutching a penn’orth of sweets, legs dangling, wearing immaculate shorts and clean white socks. Mums balanced woven baskets of plain picnics on their knees. Dads carried leather bags with Thermoses, towels, bathers and the Daily Mirror, which was turned into sun hats after it was read.
At each tunnel mouth the dads quickly shut the train windows, hauling on the leather belt, which we were forbidden to touch in case it took our fingers off. That kept out the sooty air and coal-tainted steam. We counted down the lightless tunnels - all different lengths - heard the change in the pitch and tone of the train’s roar, braced ourselves against each turn and jolt, and the claustrophobic silence of the adults.
We held our breath, closed our eyes and did some practice screams, releasing the pent-up excitement, waiting for the moment when the train emerged into the sun.
Soon, we knew, we would be released from clothing, the terror over. We could run into the waves, savour the slipping sand between our toes, feel the wind on our faces and wash off all the soot.
Sharyn Owen
Pro-life
Of course, we’ve all agreed.
Clearing the highway
Is the right call, Just get it done
Think of Mom, Pop and the kids
Returning from a family reunion.
Maybe a bit the worse for wear.
Their smould’ring tomb
Marked by a cruel sapphire necklace.
patrol cars, fire tenders, ambulances.
But the unborn is still warm.
In a few days maybe hours
It’d have snuzzled at its mother’s breast.
But not now.
Where’s the nearest veterinarian
Open this late hour?
I guess the other guys’ll say
He’s trashed our weekend shoot
of turkey buzzards in the mountains
‘Goddam snowflake’.
Their feelings only stretch
To an image of the unborn child.
The car revs up and I heave the bodies over.
John Seacome
Travelling Through the Dark
The light from the alarm clock cast a lurid blue glow.
I bang my head against the pillow yet again.
There was no sign of life through the open curtains.
Thirty minutes passed. An hour.
The words tumbled around my head.
A washing machine on full spin.
Enough.
The floor was cold as I plodded towards the kitchen.
Hands warmed by the hot mug, I observed indecision etched on the face
Staring back at me through the window.
The dark familiar garden shapes menacing.
I watched the sky turn golden, then blue.
That morning. Beside the breakfast bar, I hesitated.
The laptop hummed into life.
I pressed the send button.
Lyn
The Farm 1995
Ten o’clock on a winter’s night.
Headlights on full beam.
Blinding sleet arrowing the windscreen.
I throw my files onto the passenger seat,
Peeling off work, like layers from an onion.
I approach the motorway,
Heading for the Pennines,
Snaking across the unforgiving moors
From red rose to white,
Bleakness snapping my heels
Like a baying dog.
Fast cars overtake.
Lorries crawl the hills.
I’m in the middle lane,
Trapped between speed and spray.
I tense up.
Fingers grip the wheel.
Eyes strain.
Head throbs.
Then suddenly I see it.
The farm that caused the mighty motorway to part.
A symbol of calmness amid the panic.
I move in behind the lorries.
Relax and breathe again.
As I travel through the dark,
I hope such simple things will always have the power
To split the road in two.
Larraine
Through the Dark
Empty bed! Given the hour where could she have gone? Once he would have known her every movement. For God’s sake! Once! They had been telepathic tuning in on every thought. Always he had found her reliance on him endearing.
But during these past months she had drawn shutters on their togetherness, clinging on to hurt, nursing his indiscretion. Up to then a lover’s moon was the only triangle in their lives.
He had floundered in contrition. Sorry. Inadequate. Retiring to the spare room in self -flagellation. Oh, how he missed the comfort of their nearness. Her infectious laughter and diligence working charcoal sketchers of kittiwake and tern......Ah.
His car headlights scoured the verges ahead, not a sign of life in sight only the motorway drone from the underpass. He pulled off-road where the railing fenced the beach descent, leaving behind a necklace of shore lights
He peered over the barrier on to deserted shingle and picked out a lone figure silhouetted against the frill of the tide.
God ! Don’t let her plunge the waves.
He stumbled, ran, slid, down the descent, recovering composure on firm ground. It was imperative he imbued an air of calm.
Sensing his presence, she turned, moving hesitantly towards him echoing his silence. This fragile truce quelled his dread. Roughly he pulled off his parka and placed it about her shoulders, holding her tightly in his arms breathing in the musk of her skin, repossessing her spirit.
Voice breaking on the words “Let’s get you home!” He steered them up the ascent.
At the top, breathless, they paused to gaze at the receding moon. And as a vestige of dawn emasculated the dark, she casually hooked her leg round his ankle and hurtled him to the rocks below.
June
Stuck at the Crossing...
You get used to it but it’s never easy
Fighting demons as you roll along. Don’t get me wrong.
One man’s danger is another man’s thrill,
It’s the same journey just a different path you’re on…
Old style railway crossing.
From mine to mainline.
Gatekeeper fighting diagonal rain
Closing gates that meet mid-line.
Skies dark and heavy on village edge
Where houses and fields meet and part.
Day meeting night in middle life,
Desolate times, affairs of the heart.
Gates opening, rainy windscreen
Wind howling hiding scream.
Horns beeping, time for going
Tears falling, stuck…
At the crossing…
You don’t get chance to choose direction
When embarking on life’s highway.
For some it’s plain sailing right from the start,
For others heavy weather looming.
If you’re one of the lucky ones
You’ll avoid the deepest pitfalls.
And that will colour the rest of your days
And to travel you’ll be eager for.
But if you’re one of the less fortunates,
Luck won’t shine your way.
And every setback will set you back
And your days will not be OK.
They will stretch out before you, rule your next step
And you’ll be stuck going nowhere fast.
Where darkening skies and failing light,
Fail to light your path.
Stuck…
At the crossing…
The luck you are dealt is in the shuffle of the pack
Not genes nor wealth no it’s more than that.
It’s the love and care, conversation and sharing,
Joy of life in its many guises, some… mundane…, some …surprises…
And if you don’t get fair share right from the start
There’s a fair to middling chance that you will be,
Travelling through the dark for a long time to come,
Fighting demons as you roll along.
Stuck…
At the crossing…
Martyn Harrison
Travelling Through the Dark
Is that literal travelling through the dark or metaphorical? What is there to guide us when we are travelling through the dark?
Read William Stafford’s poem carefully and then consider all of the implications. The prompt then is to write a piece under the working title of Travelling Through the Dark.
Don’t simply look to produce a “cover version,” instead try and look for a different angle. Who were the people in the car? Where were they travelling to, and what for? What was the state of the relationship between these people? Is there anything about the incident with the deer which might trigger off an old argument or allow an ancient grudge to resurface? From whose viewpoint do you intend to write?
Poetry or prose, the choice is yours, but remember please that there is a 300 word limit on the responses.
We have a longer time frame for this. Submissions are due by midnight on Monday 22nd February and they will be posted the following day.
Good luck everyone!
Traveling through the Dark
Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.
By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.
My fingers touching her side brought me the reason--
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.
The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.
I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.
William Stafford
Is that literal travelling through the dark or metaphorical? What is there to guide us when we are travelling through the dark?
Read William Stafford’s poem carefully and then consider all of the implications. The prompt then is to write a piece under the working title of Travelling Through the Dark.
Don’t simply look to produce a “cover version,” instead try and look for a different angle. Who were the people in the car? Where were they travelling to, and what for? What was the state of the relationship between these people? Is there anything about the incident with the deer which might trigger off an old argument or allow an ancient grudge to resurface? From whose viewpoint do you intend to write?
Poetry or prose, the choice is yours, but remember please that there is a 300 word limit on the responses.
We have a longer time frame for this. Submissions are due by midnight on Monday 22nd February and they will be posted the following day.
Good luck everyone!
Traveling through the Dark
Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.
By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.
My fingers touching her side brought me the reason--
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.
The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.
I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.
William Stafford
Prompt Number 5: Man Lying on a Wall
Prompt Number Five
Well, here we go with Lowry as the man of the moment. The prompt is simply Lowry’s picture, Man Lying on a Wall.
Respond as you will. You could write an observational piece as in what you saw that day when a man lay on the wall. You could write a first-person piece from the point of view of the man or anyone else present. What did the man’s wife/mother/neighbour think? Or you could simply write about the painting and the response it kindles in you. The choice is yours.
Remember you can write poetry or prose but prose writers are respectfully requested to keep their responses to 300 words or less.
The deadline, as always, is Monday 8th at midnight and the website will be updated on Tuesday morning. Good luck everyone.
J.
Well, here we go with Lowry as the man of the moment. The prompt is simply Lowry’s picture, Man Lying on a Wall.
Respond as you will. You could write an observational piece as in what you saw that day when a man lay on the wall. You could write a first-person piece from the point of view of the man or anyone else present. What did the man’s wife/mother/neighbour think? Or you could simply write about the painting and the response it kindles in you. The choice is yours.
Remember you can write poetry or prose but prose writers are respectfully requested to keep their responses to 300 words or less.
The deadline, as always, is Monday 8th at midnight and the website will be updated on Tuesday morning. Good luck everyone.
J.
Prompt 5 Responses
Strange bed
I make my bed beneath the softness of clouds
Pillowed with feathered dust
Fashioned in ancient clays
Fired into rigidity.
Lying high on the top of the wall
I hear the shriek of a gull’s desperate call
But all I can feel is the wind on my face
And all I can see is the sky.
Neither left nor right, black nor white,
Resting easy along the great divide.
No decisions, no clutter, no pain.
Just dreams that whirl inside my head
As I lie secure and peaceful,
On the solid bricks
Of my strange bed.
Larraine Harrison
Heaven Forbid
I lay on a wall, my head in a daze
In a state of shock, I am truly dismayed
I look to the sky, in a hope I might find
Answers to thoughts, that cloud my mind
What I've just seen, i can barely believe
Or is it my eyes, that were being deceived
Stopped in my footsteps, at a church, is a sign
Not the words you’d expect, from one so divine
Letters two foot high, on a bright blue square
‘We’re here on Facebook, to answer your prayer’
Is this a test of my faith, or some sort of joke
Or just a bad dream, which I haven't awoke
Is God in the heavens, or in cyberspace
Is this God’s house, or a giant database
It won’t be death, that will now, worries me
But where I'll end up, or what I will be.
Cause if God's on Facebook,
Where in hell, does that leave me
Mela
The Man on the Wall
That’s not something you see every day. A tall thin man lying on a hard, thin wall. Funereal in his Sunday Best. Bowler hat, a respectful symbol on his chest, shoed feet pointing heavenwards. A roll to the right, then a rapid descent into the Rochdale Canal. Who knows his intention? I watched.
The smoke from his cigarette drifted upwards in a straight line. My eyes followed its path to a clear sky, unusual in this part of the world. I too stared, listened. Nothing but the occasional rumble of wheels on cobbles. I pondered this vast emptiness. For how long I don’t know, five minutes, ten. When was the last time I had paused to stop and think? I could feel the gentle rise and fall of my ribs. I felt at one with the man on the wall.
The grumble of the approaching tram brought me back to earth. I boarded and left the man to his meditation.
Lyn Graham
Contemplation
A Chaplinesque figure reclining on a brick wall on a sweltering day might appear ridiculous! The sky has taken on a cloak of mauve smoke, belched from the high mill chimney. The sun penetrates scorching pavements. My feet have become gridirons. I am being choked wearing starched collar and tie, attire suitable in which to canvas insurance. I tip the bowler over my eyes and rest awhile.
When I was young, I thought the future would be a beautiful place filled with happiness. It still could be...
However, my vision is not a big hit with people laid off work in the ‘slump’. Many answer my knock with hunched shoulders, resignation in their eyes. Prepared to brave breathing in cotton dust and defy machine injuries, for their daily bread. To them happiness has a practical meaning...Work. The mill is not an enemy wringing out their last drop of energy, but the mechanism that pumps their life’s blood.
I still have Norton St and Jessop’s Place to knock on. Oh for a job where I don’t have to persuade people to part with money they do not have, with the assurance of not being in penury when a partner dies. They smile and sigh, reluctant to part with their coin, but are all too aware of the fragility of life surrounding them.
Dorothy winks at me over pans bubbling away on the kitchen stove, hair damp on her forehead.
With braces falling on the vest, sitting on the back step, feet in a bowl of soapy water, I draw deeply on a cigarette. She throws me a towel and squeezes my shoulder then calls the kids in to hand wash before eating together.
My cup runneth over.
June
As good as any that wall, I suppose
Just a wall!
Now, listen.
Can you hear me?
Walls, walls.
They keep things in
They keep things out
Defining the ancient divisions between theirs and ours.
Benign dry stone walls basking like snakes in the sun.
High crenellations for spying round and seeing enemies
Or pouring golden hair down.
For whispering secrets through.
Stone with enough majesty to make the skyward walls of mighty cathedrals with leering gargoyles and clanging bells
Slab sided walls fashioned for ancient worship, casting patterns in the circulating sun.
Walls sunk deep in the ground sweating dampness and the blood of those imprisoned, carrying match stick counts of the days and scratched messages across the centuries.
Framing cool Persian courtyards echoing with the slap of slippers and plashing water.
Walls built to resist the winter scourging battery of spuming seas while souwestered faces shine out from tossing boats
Some walls are canvases and support fierce violent images or the more delicate acts of gentle worship from medieval hands wielding precious paints rather than spray cans.
The best of all walls carry sluices and waterfalls
Jade green weeds floating in the current
Flowing out and down.
Water plunging heavily into deep pools at the feet of cliffs.
Time spent pressed against the back watching the wavering images of water interrupted by the knife edge of walls transported into other worlds.
Walls have been figured and measured into being knowing that the building they are crafting will not be seen by them but act as a beacon for pilgrims measuring the miles the ever poor and hungry seeking comfort.
Walls are my constant companion – silent and always speaking to me.
For sitting on and under, leaning on their steady regularity.
Respecting the hands that crafted them.
Viv Longley
L S Lowry ‘Man lying on a wall’: A Tribute
Walls divide us, walls protect.
We’ve seen them all:
Sea walls, castle walls, Trump walls, Berlin walls,
Aztec, Inca, Jericho and Roman walls,
Korean walls, Great Wall of China walls.
We’ve seen wall falls, Humpty Dumpty wall falls too,
But what a relief to find
Lowry’s ‘Man lying on a wall’ wall.
It says it all, it’s been left to us all.
But what does it mean? What did it mean to him?
Dig deep, tunnel under, drone over,
Push thoughts, demand answers,
Become participants.
Help true works of art live again.
So here’s a song for Mr Lowry:
Long long ago in times of olden
Lived a tall unusual man
In the smoke filled murky air
On the streets of Lancashire.
In your work I see a record
Of your travels far and wide
And each one truly captures
Life and times on t‘other side.
Oh fare thee well my dearest old friend
I feel I know thee very well.
In my thoughts you live forever
In the scenes of Manchester.
(Song written to the tune of ‘Coast of Malabar’ by Ry Cooder and The Chieftains )
Martyn Harrison
Thoughts from on high
No more knocking on unwelcoming doors today.
You can’t blame them though.
In the giant red ant hill down below,
the siren commands
the attendance of its ants,
then drives them out and home to supper.
If I were Gracie Fields I’d sing my way out of the mill;
Was Blackpool the only Nirvana?
This coping stone is not that wide,
A long drop on one side,
A mucky pavement on the other.
A life choice; best stick with this one for now.
High in the sky I see
Redemptive blue above the dirty lemon air.
There’s something better than this
but how to find it?
No-one stops to bother me
Does the pipe makes me look normal?
But it’s the only non-smoking chimney in town.
The ash would set my moustache on fire.
Mother wouldn’t like that at all.
John Seacome
Mrs Lowry and Son
He lies to his mother.
He tells her she’ll get well.
He tells her “Its sausages for tea, Mother.”
That’s true, that bit.
She tells him his paintings are rubbish
and to get a proper job
so she can move out of Pendlebury.
She lives desolately in the past.
He lives within the confines of her needs
and his attic, where he can paint the truth
and beauty of the miraculous everyday–
the factory’s rhythmic boom and its stolid whistle,
the neighbours’ arguments
the pitter-patter of rain on his umbrella,
the background clatter of clogs on cobbles.
The bearded woman on the bus.
He venerates the tallest chimney,
The narrow viaducts, cobbled steps,
bent figures, their kids, cats and dogs.
They are his wild forest and his fairyland
Sharyn Owen
Man Lying on a Wall
I’m sweating. I’m tired, almost too tired to think. The briefcase she bought me, the one with my initials, sags with today’s takings. My umbrella, she always insisted on my taking it and has remained unfurled for weeks now, stands propped beside it.
I smoke
Work beckons
I dream
Life beckons
I smoke
I lie on a wall
And sweat.
Lesley
Man Lying On A Wall
Of course, now and again
we’d all like a day off,
the toad work and all that…
But he lay there oblivious
as the church bells tolled
and the factory made its exodus.
To see him lying there
brolly and briefcase neatly propped,
freed from the cares of the office,
fag pointing at the sky
and his hands indecorously folded
above his trouser fly.
To see him lying there
bowler on his belly
and his eyelids firmly closed.
A brick and mortar divan
the only support
my god, my god,
my old man.
John C
I make my bed beneath the softness of clouds
Pillowed with feathered dust
Fashioned in ancient clays
Fired into rigidity.
Lying high on the top of the wall
I hear the shriek of a gull’s desperate call
But all I can feel is the wind on my face
And all I can see is the sky.
Neither left nor right, black nor white,
Resting easy along the great divide.
No decisions, no clutter, no pain.
Just dreams that whirl inside my head
As I lie secure and peaceful,
On the solid bricks
Of my strange bed.
Larraine Harrison
Heaven Forbid
I lay on a wall, my head in a daze
In a state of shock, I am truly dismayed
I look to the sky, in a hope I might find
Answers to thoughts, that cloud my mind
What I've just seen, i can barely believe
Or is it my eyes, that were being deceived
Stopped in my footsteps, at a church, is a sign
Not the words you’d expect, from one so divine
Letters two foot high, on a bright blue square
‘We’re here on Facebook, to answer your prayer’
Is this a test of my faith, or some sort of joke
Or just a bad dream, which I haven't awoke
Is God in the heavens, or in cyberspace
Is this God’s house, or a giant database
It won’t be death, that will now, worries me
But where I'll end up, or what I will be.
Cause if God's on Facebook,
Where in hell, does that leave me
Mela
The Man on the Wall
That’s not something you see every day. A tall thin man lying on a hard, thin wall. Funereal in his Sunday Best. Bowler hat, a respectful symbol on his chest, shoed feet pointing heavenwards. A roll to the right, then a rapid descent into the Rochdale Canal. Who knows his intention? I watched.
The smoke from his cigarette drifted upwards in a straight line. My eyes followed its path to a clear sky, unusual in this part of the world. I too stared, listened. Nothing but the occasional rumble of wheels on cobbles. I pondered this vast emptiness. For how long I don’t know, five minutes, ten. When was the last time I had paused to stop and think? I could feel the gentle rise and fall of my ribs. I felt at one with the man on the wall.
The grumble of the approaching tram brought me back to earth. I boarded and left the man to his meditation.
Lyn Graham
Contemplation
A Chaplinesque figure reclining on a brick wall on a sweltering day might appear ridiculous! The sky has taken on a cloak of mauve smoke, belched from the high mill chimney. The sun penetrates scorching pavements. My feet have become gridirons. I am being choked wearing starched collar and tie, attire suitable in which to canvas insurance. I tip the bowler over my eyes and rest awhile.
When I was young, I thought the future would be a beautiful place filled with happiness. It still could be...
However, my vision is not a big hit with people laid off work in the ‘slump’. Many answer my knock with hunched shoulders, resignation in their eyes. Prepared to brave breathing in cotton dust and defy machine injuries, for their daily bread. To them happiness has a practical meaning...Work. The mill is not an enemy wringing out their last drop of energy, but the mechanism that pumps their life’s blood.
I still have Norton St and Jessop’s Place to knock on. Oh for a job where I don’t have to persuade people to part with money they do not have, with the assurance of not being in penury when a partner dies. They smile and sigh, reluctant to part with their coin, but are all too aware of the fragility of life surrounding them.
Dorothy winks at me over pans bubbling away on the kitchen stove, hair damp on her forehead.
With braces falling on the vest, sitting on the back step, feet in a bowl of soapy water, I draw deeply on a cigarette. She throws me a towel and squeezes my shoulder then calls the kids in to hand wash before eating together.
My cup runneth over.
June
As good as any that wall, I suppose
Just a wall!
Now, listen.
Can you hear me?
Walls, walls.
They keep things in
They keep things out
Defining the ancient divisions between theirs and ours.
Benign dry stone walls basking like snakes in the sun.
High crenellations for spying round and seeing enemies
Or pouring golden hair down.
For whispering secrets through.
Stone with enough majesty to make the skyward walls of mighty cathedrals with leering gargoyles and clanging bells
Slab sided walls fashioned for ancient worship, casting patterns in the circulating sun.
Walls sunk deep in the ground sweating dampness and the blood of those imprisoned, carrying match stick counts of the days and scratched messages across the centuries.
Framing cool Persian courtyards echoing with the slap of slippers and plashing water.
Walls built to resist the winter scourging battery of spuming seas while souwestered faces shine out from tossing boats
Some walls are canvases and support fierce violent images or the more delicate acts of gentle worship from medieval hands wielding precious paints rather than spray cans.
The best of all walls carry sluices and waterfalls
Jade green weeds floating in the current
Flowing out and down.
Water plunging heavily into deep pools at the feet of cliffs.
Time spent pressed against the back watching the wavering images of water interrupted by the knife edge of walls transported into other worlds.
Walls have been figured and measured into being knowing that the building they are crafting will not be seen by them but act as a beacon for pilgrims measuring the miles the ever poor and hungry seeking comfort.
Walls are my constant companion – silent and always speaking to me.
For sitting on and under, leaning on their steady regularity.
Respecting the hands that crafted them.
Viv Longley
L S Lowry ‘Man lying on a wall’: A Tribute
Walls divide us, walls protect.
We’ve seen them all:
Sea walls, castle walls, Trump walls, Berlin walls,
Aztec, Inca, Jericho and Roman walls,
Korean walls, Great Wall of China walls.
We’ve seen wall falls, Humpty Dumpty wall falls too,
But what a relief to find
Lowry’s ‘Man lying on a wall’ wall.
It says it all, it’s been left to us all.
But what does it mean? What did it mean to him?
Dig deep, tunnel under, drone over,
Push thoughts, demand answers,
Become participants.
Help true works of art live again.
So here’s a song for Mr Lowry:
Long long ago in times of olden
Lived a tall unusual man
In the smoke filled murky air
On the streets of Lancashire.
In your work I see a record
Of your travels far and wide
And each one truly captures
Life and times on t‘other side.
Oh fare thee well my dearest old friend
I feel I know thee very well.
In my thoughts you live forever
In the scenes of Manchester.
(Song written to the tune of ‘Coast of Malabar’ by Ry Cooder and The Chieftains )
Martyn Harrison
Thoughts from on high
No more knocking on unwelcoming doors today.
You can’t blame them though.
In the giant red ant hill down below,
the siren commands
the attendance of its ants,
then drives them out and home to supper.
If I were Gracie Fields I’d sing my way out of the mill;
Was Blackpool the only Nirvana?
This coping stone is not that wide,
A long drop on one side,
A mucky pavement on the other.
A life choice; best stick with this one for now.
High in the sky I see
Redemptive blue above the dirty lemon air.
There’s something better than this
but how to find it?
No-one stops to bother me
Does the pipe makes me look normal?
But it’s the only non-smoking chimney in town.
The ash would set my moustache on fire.
Mother wouldn’t like that at all.
John Seacome
Mrs Lowry and Son
He lies to his mother.
He tells her she’ll get well.
He tells her “Its sausages for tea, Mother.”
That’s true, that bit.
She tells him his paintings are rubbish
and to get a proper job
so she can move out of Pendlebury.
She lives desolately in the past.
He lives within the confines of her needs
and his attic, where he can paint the truth
and beauty of the miraculous everyday–
the factory’s rhythmic boom and its stolid whistle,
the neighbours’ arguments
the pitter-patter of rain on his umbrella,
the background clatter of clogs on cobbles.
The bearded woman on the bus.
He venerates the tallest chimney,
The narrow viaducts, cobbled steps,
bent figures, their kids, cats and dogs.
They are his wild forest and his fairyland
Sharyn Owen
Man Lying on a Wall
I’m sweating. I’m tired, almost too tired to think. The briefcase she bought me, the one with my initials, sags with today’s takings. My umbrella, she always insisted on my taking it and has remained unfurled for weeks now, stands propped beside it.
I smoke
Work beckons
I dream
Life beckons
I smoke
I lie on a wall
And sweat.
Lesley
Man Lying On A Wall
Of course, now and again
we’d all like a day off,
the toad work and all that…
But he lay there oblivious
as the church bells tolled
and the factory made its exodus.
To see him lying there
brolly and briefcase neatly propped,
freed from the cares of the office,
fag pointing at the sky
and his hands indecorously folded
above his trouser fly.
To see him lying there
bowler on his belly
and his eyelids firmly closed.
A brick and mortar divan
the only support
my god, my god,
my old man.
John C
Prompt Number 4: A well known figure and food
Prompt No. 4 Responses
The last sunset
I strolled through Auvers-sur-Oise on a warm July evening. The brightly lighted terrace of L’Auberge Ravoux drew my attention and pulled me in. Outside sat a man and I asked if I might share his table. He waved a hand toward the direction of a vacant seat.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” he said.
“No. How did you know?”
“I worked in London for a while.”
He had the look of a man just returned from war. His clothes were drab and dishevelled and I could see he hadn’t eaten for a while. He had red hair, blue eyes and wore a beard. A scar on his left hand resembled a burn and he’d lost his left ear. Whether in part or completely it was masked by the dark felt hat that he wore. But his English was good; obviously he was a well-educated man.
“You don’t sound local yourself. Where are you from?”
“Nuenen. Do you know it?”
I didn’t. I noticed his glass was empty and called for a waiter. “Drink garçon. And one for my friend ....” I paused looking toward him in anticipation of his name.
“Vincent.”
As we sat and sipped cheap wine, he told me of his time in England. Watching him relay his travels I saw a man gripped with sadness. I enquired as to some sketches that laid upon the table and he obliged my curiosity leaving behind a sole letter.
“These are very good, Are they yours?”
“Yes.” he said reluctantly, even apologetically as if ashamed.
As I handed them back his arm brushed the letter and I glimpsed the butt of a revolver.
As I tried to hide my despair, I could see my intrusion in his eyes.
With the utmost courtesy he politely wished me goodnight.
Mela
Dreamings For Dreamers
Would I want to eat with the stars?
Have small talk over lunch?
What might we have in common?
Beats me.
Would I want to meet up with celebrity?
Have drinks on the terrace?
Zero interest is not a good start.
Face facts.
Would I want to spend time with a hero?
Have a chat in the open air?
Maybe I’m warming to that.
WAKE UP.
Would I want to make a difference?
To help others along the way?
‘Meeting the famous won’t cut it,’
I say.
Would I want to improve my knowledge
And understanding of myself?
Yes, you’ve got my interest.
I’ll start now.
Must we look back to progress?
In my case, yes.
For unless you know yourself true,
You cannot start anew.
Martyn
Drinking a Manhattan in Manhattan with Mahatma Ghandi
His drink was virgin
So he was holding a glass
Neither half full nor half empty
We were nibbling at olives
Me, afraid to take too deep a bite
Him because he didn’t want to crack his last tooth on the stone.
We had gone through the usual small talk, kids, pets, holidays:
Now we were onto the heavy stuff.
World peace, inequality, climate change;
He said not to worry my pretty little head
about any of those things.
We both looked at our watches.
Sharyn Owen
Hidden Fruit
Promise of learning life’s lift and fall
I found myself ‘neath Newton’s tree
“How did you serve your fruit?”I said
“Spiced, defining gravity”said he.
Pursuing sage revelation I learned how to fly
Gliding like geese over marsh
Struedelled in Strasbourg
Relished American pie
Searched out orchards
savoured each dish
I should probably mention that
The sweetest pippin I have found
Is close beside me on the ground
June
Dear John Peel
I wrote something
Ponderous, boring
And overly long
It was just wrong
So instead
Dear John Peel
Let’s have a meal
At my nan’s house
It would be Scouse
Because it is Saturday.
Lesley
Tea and matchsticks
I arrive early for afternoon tea.
Bearing a gift, like one of the Magi:
The paper bag limp
With the dregs of Manchester rain.
I hand him the box of Matchmaker chocolates.
He gives me a wry smile,
Passing it on to his housekeeper
Rather too quickly.
I watch him consume the wafer thin sandwiches
Against the backdrop of photos of his late mother
Enshrined on the mantlepiece.
‘I always came back from London, in time to make her tea,’
He says, as he wipes his fingers on the starched napkin.
Once ridiculed for his paintings, he sips his sugared tea,
Drinking in the sweetness of his recently acquired fame
Disguising the bitterness of his loss.
‘I shall continue to paint,’ he announces, as he grasps a small cake
From the fondant array.
‘I’m sure she would want that,’ I say tactfully.
I look around for the ‘matchstick men’
But there are none on display here.
He keeps them in a studio
At the top of the house
At the top of his world
Where real life can’t reach them.
Larraine
The free lunch
Light lunch on-line with a famous lady
I should dress for the occasion
Rugged masculine in check shirt and denim jacket
Or man about town in casual jacket?
Millions might be watching or might not.
We meet on Zoom
We’d ordered from our local takeaway.
Mine’s a chicken and bacon sarnie
Her’s a salad with peach slices.
While I down my Diet Coke
She toys with a soda spritzer whose bubbles
Are reflected in her brown eyes.
Younger looking than I thought
A dimple in her cheek I didn’t see before
I started to wish this wasn’t on-line.
I thought she’d talk about herself.
But it’s me she’s so interested in.
I feel100 feet tall, but it isn’t the Diet Coke.
Her eyes twinkle and we laugh together.
Then an off-screen cough - two minutes to go.
Did we swap numbers - well she took mine.
When I move to kiss her on the cheek,
She suddenly leaves the meeting.
Radio Times says Channel 4 at 10.
Oh, one of those programmes.
I’ll still ring Interflora though.
John Seacome
Julie Christie in my Bedroom
That sit up in bed
Christmas magic is real
after all feeling.
I tell her I saw her.
Billy Liar.
Her monochrome stride and promise
of life beyond cobbles.
Rooting through books on shelves
Glancing, turning pages, putting them back.
There are things I want to show her.
All that time ago?
Faintly amused
Mockery in her eyes.
Lara, Bathsheba
Shampoo is not worth a mention
But I grieve still at her
Funereal black in Venice.
Really?
Nobody saw Afterglow
I thought it, and you, were great.
Gauche, always gauche
and I want to pull out my tongue.
A graciously raised eyebrow.
Your Gertrude
had to act to keep her place,
I mean, love isn’t everything…
But she’s gone.
Sudden and tragic
as Old Hamlet’s ghost.
John C
I strolled through Auvers-sur-Oise on a warm July evening. The brightly lighted terrace of L’Auberge Ravoux drew my attention and pulled me in. Outside sat a man and I asked if I might share his table. He waved a hand toward the direction of a vacant seat.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” he said.
“No. How did you know?”
“I worked in London for a while.”
He had the look of a man just returned from war. His clothes were drab and dishevelled and I could see he hadn’t eaten for a while. He had red hair, blue eyes and wore a beard. A scar on his left hand resembled a burn and he’d lost his left ear. Whether in part or completely it was masked by the dark felt hat that he wore. But his English was good; obviously he was a well-educated man.
“You don’t sound local yourself. Where are you from?”
“Nuenen. Do you know it?”
I didn’t. I noticed his glass was empty and called for a waiter. “Drink garçon. And one for my friend ....” I paused looking toward him in anticipation of his name.
“Vincent.”
As we sat and sipped cheap wine, he told me of his time in England. Watching him relay his travels I saw a man gripped with sadness. I enquired as to some sketches that laid upon the table and he obliged my curiosity leaving behind a sole letter.
“These are very good, Are they yours?”
“Yes.” he said reluctantly, even apologetically as if ashamed.
As I handed them back his arm brushed the letter and I glimpsed the butt of a revolver.
As I tried to hide my despair, I could see my intrusion in his eyes.
With the utmost courtesy he politely wished me goodnight.
Mela
Dreamings For Dreamers
Would I want to eat with the stars?
Have small talk over lunch?
What might we have in common?
Beats me.
Would I want to meet up with celebrity?
Have drinks on the terrace?
Zero interest is not a good start.
Face facts.
Would I want to spend time with a hero?
Have a chat in the open air?
Maybe I’m warming to that.
WAKE UP.
Would I want to make a difference?
To help others along the way?
‘Meeting the famous won’t cut it,’
I say.
Would I want to improve my knowledge
And understanding of myself?
Yes, you’ve got my interest.
I’ll start now.
Must we look back to progress?
In my case, yes.
For unless you know yourself true,
You cannot start anew.
Martyn
Drinking a Manhattan in Manhattan with Mahatma Ghandi
His drink was virgin
So he was holding a glass
Neither half full nor half empty
We were nibbling at olives
Me, afraid to take too deep a bite
Him because he didn’t want to crack his last tooth on the stone.
We had gone through the usual small talk, kids, pets, holidays:
Now we were onto the heavy stuff.
World peace, inequality, climate change;
He said not to worry my pretty little head
about any of those things.
We both looked at our watches.
Sharyn Owen
Hidden Fruit
Promise of learning life’s lift and fall
I found myself ‘neath Newton’s tree
“How did you serve your fruit?”I said
“Spiced, defining gravity”said he.
Pursuing sage revelation I learned how to fly
Gliding like geese over marsh
Struedelled in Strasbourg
Relished American pie
Searched out orchards
savoured each dish
I should probably mention that
The sweetest pippin I have found
Is close beside me on the ground
June
Dear John Peel
I wrote something
Ponderous, boring
And overly long
It was just wrong
So instead
Dear John Peel
Let’s have a meal
At my nan’s house
It would be Scouse
Because it is Saturday.
Lesley
Tea and matchsticks
I arrive early for afternoon tea.
Bearing a gift, like one of the Magi:
The paper bag limp
With the dregs of Manchester rain.
I hand him the box of Matchmaker chocolates.
He gives me a wry smile,
Passing it on to his housekeeper
Rather too quickly.
I watch him consume the wafer thin sandwiches
Against the backdrop of photos of his late mother
Enshrined on the mantlepiece.
‘I always came back from London, in time to make her tea,’
He says, as he wipes his fingers on the starched napkin.
Once ridiculed for his paintings, he sips his sugared tea,
Drinking in the sweetness of his recently acquired fame
Disguising the bitterness of his loss.
‘I shall continue to paint,’ he announces, as he grasps a small cake
From the fondant array.
‘I’m sure she would want that,’ I say tactfully.
I look around for the ‘matchstick men’
But there are none on display here.
He keeps them in a studio
At the top of the house
At the top of his world
Where real life can’t reach them.
Larraine
The free lunch
Light lunch on-line with a famous lady
I should dress for the occasion
Rugged masculine in check shirt and denim jacket
Or man about town in casual jacket?
Millions might be watching or might not.
We meet on Zoom
We’d ordered from our local takeaway.
Mine’s a chicken and bacon sarnie
Her’s a salad with peach slices.
While I down my Diet Coke
She toys with a soda spritzer whose bubbles
Are reflected in her brown eyes.
Younger looking than I thought
A dimple in her cheek I didn’t see before
I started to wish this wasn’t on-line.
I thought she’d talk about herself.
But it’s me she’s so interested in.
I feel100 feet tall, but it isn’t the Diet Coke.
Her eyes twinkle and we laugh together.
Then an off-screen cough - two minutes to go.
Did we swap numbers - well she took mine.
When I move to kiss her on the cheek,
She suddenly leaves the meeting.
Radio Times says Channel 4 at 10.
Oh, one of those programmes.
I’ll still ring Interflora though.
John Seacome
Julie Christie in my Bedroom
That sit up in bed
Christmas magic is real
after all feeling.
I tell her I saw her.
Billy Liar.
Her monochrome stride and promise
of life beyond cobbles.
Rooting through books on shelves
Glancing, turning pages, putting them back.
There are things I want to show her.
All that time ago?
Faintly amused
Mockery in her eyes.
Lara, Bathsheba
Shampoo is not worth a mention
But I grieve still at her
Funereal black in Venice.
Really?
Nobody saw Afterglow
I thought it, and you, were great.
Gauche, always gauche
and I want to pull out my tongue.
A graciously raised eyebrow.
Your Gertrude
had to act to keep her place,
I mean, love isn’t everything…
But she’s gone.
Sudden and tragic
as Old Hamlet’s ghost.
John C
Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis
It was a dream I had last week
And some kind of record seemed vital.
I knew it wouldn't be much of a poem
But I love the title.
Wendy Cope
So there we go, picking up the cue from Wendy Cope. Let's imagine we met a famous person from either the present or the past and we shared some sort of food or drink with them. Can you imagine eating spaghetti with Sophia Loren or sharing a carton of chips with David Beckham?
Let your imagination flow, but remember that we'll probably learn more about the person through what they say and do, than the foodstuff.
I promised poetry this week but this could be either a poem or a piece of prose with a 300 word maximum limit.
Responses, as always, by midnight on Monday please.
It was a dream I had last week
And some kind of record seemed vital.
I knew it wouldn't be much of a poem
But I love the title.
Wendy Cope
So there we go, picking up the cue from Wendy Cope. Let's imagine we met a famous person from either the present or the past and we shared some sort of food or drink with them. Can you imagine eating spaghetti with Sophia Loren or sharing a carton of chips with David Beckham?
Let your imagination flow, but remember that we'll probably learn more about the person through what they say and do, than the foodstuff.
I promised poetry this week but this could be either a poem or a piece of prose with a 300 word maximum limit.
Responses, as always, by midnight on Monday please.
Prompt Number 3: Flight
Flight means being able to fly, right? But we also have flights of fancy, flights into exile and flights of stairs.
So, this prompt allows us to interpret flight as widely and as imaginatively as possible.
However, there are some significant rule changes this week. Our responses are limited to exactly 100 words not including the title.
These will be prose pieces where you are looking to use the concise form for maximum effect.
Use your own title and then remember: exactly one hundred words from there.
Good luck everyone.
So, this prompt allows us to interpret flight as widely and as imaginatively as possible.
However, there are some significant rule changes this week. Our responses are limited to exactly 100 words not including the title.
These will be prose pieces where you are looking to use the concise form for maximum effect.
Use your own title and then remember: exactly one hundred words from there.
Good luck everyone.
Flight (responses)
- She Wanted to Fly - Jules Guest
She had to get out. Rain was tap dancing on the pavements, but she couldn’t stay in a moment longer. She grabbed her cagoule from the hook, rammed her arms into the sleeves and pulled the hood over her head. She strode out of the door into the wet, leaving all of the chaos behind her.
As she walked the rain set a rhythm on her hood. Her feet followed the beat. She felt light and graceful, sliding over mud, gliding through puddles and hopping over stiles. Laughing aloud, she thought, so this is what it’s like dancing with Gene Kelly.
2. The End - Lesley Moore
For Ashley, today was the end. They call it fight or flight but there was no fight left.
This morning there had been the usual silent inspection of the draining breakfast dishes and there it was – lipstick on the rim of a cup. The blow left Ashley sucking for air.
As Ashley sat down at the desk, bag stowed hurriedly underneath, Sarah at the next workstation said “Is that a gym bag? Are you giving keep fit a go?”
Ashley slowly undid the immaculately ironed cuffs and rolled them up, revealing the bruises.
“I am not a punchbag” he whispered.
3. Blue Heaven - June Hurst
Leaving Lombardy lakes, the Monarch banked and soared above the Alps, glistening marigold in the evening rays. My husband’s sleepy head warm on my shoulder. Snug in my seat. Lulled by the muffle of collected trays, drink trolley clank, cloaked in wafts of cigar smoke; I filtered thought. My gaze drifted into indigo nothingness.
Evanescent, our sick friend’s beautiful face emerged outside the window. Released from oxygen paraphernalia, her gentle eyes were pain free.
Half awake, my dream floated like thistledown drifting on the verge of time.
Before the sad message arrived, my weeping heart already visualised goodbye.
4. Captivated - John C
She had been entranced by the sight of his huge physical form. The man who dug, lifted and hauled for a living. How tenderly he edged his way into the aviary to stroke a great finger over the crown and nape of his birds; to tend and coo.
Look how delicately he spread the azure and lemon primaries and secondaries. My girls, my girls.
That was then, this is now when she too is perched on his finger as he whispers, my beauty, my beauty. Tending and cooing. She is captivated when what she really wants to do is fly.
5. Flights of Fancy - Sharyn Owen
Birds bones are hollow to make them light. Most birds we see today are survivors from the age of the dinosaur. Remember that, when you buy a budgie, take up falconry or collect eggs from a chicken.
At college we argued a lot about whether the book ‘Jonathan Livingston Seagull’ was clever and metaphysical, a parable, or whether it was a load of pretentious rot. We never really ended that argument. Too late now.
My flight of fancy is to be reincarnated as a seagull. Maybe if I became a Bhuddist…
6. Fight and Flight - Viv Longley
I knew we had a problem when he refused to look me in the eye. We had disagreed before but never on this scale. I heard him put on his coat and puff while doing up the buttons.
‘I’m going …. leaving …. I’ve got everything in my bag.’
I turned to the sink, shrugged my shoulders and watched him step down the drive with more purpose than usual.
I carried on peeling the carrots and turned the chips in the oven.
I felt a gust of air as the front door opened again.
‘OK. I’ll eat the fish fingers.
7. Turbulence - Larraine Harrison
The destination is set. The date is booked. Barring an ‘Act of God’, the decision is now irreversible. Fear trickles through me like upturned sand in an hour glass, spawning sleepless nights when imagination morphs the possible into the probable.
Gazing enviously at the confident swoop and dive of birds, I picture my white-knuckled hands inside a tube of humanity, hurtling skywards. Panoramic views escape my eyes as I track the faces of the crew, wince at every clunk of the engine and jump at every chime.
Despite an uneventful flight, my mind is condemned to turbulence.
8. Mission Impossible - Martyn Harrison
Nice things don’t happen to me. The warning was clear: ‘Who can you trust?’
But I was swept off my feet.
‘Her head’s in the clouds.’ ‘Concentrate. Are you listening?’
But I was away. Wanting and hoping were messing my head and what I hear and what was said. Friends told me he’s ‘flighty’, but that’s not what I heard. My imagination was as free as a bird: uniforms, prestige. Nothing plain for me. I was built up, let down. My descent was steep. Grounded. And all for the love of a flight lieutenant.
Hope sure is unreliable.
9. Destiny - John Seacome
Such pain I’ve never known before. She looks at me. She is struggling too.
Out of the city past mocking crowds, occasionally a compassionate glance, sometimes even tinged with envy.
The incense of adoration from the warming pine trees purifies and restores us. Above the tree line just the stony track. The valedictory cry of mountain curlews. Pilgrim-like on hands and knees, but from exhaustion not piety.
At the top, we stare down at the city and smile at each other. We are aware of an all-consuming light. This light breathes away all our pain.
And then…
There's always light if we are brave enough to see it
There's always light if we are brave enough to be it.
Amanda Gorman
It’s always darkest before the dawn
The doleful light was draining from the sky. We’d exhausted the Netflix library, and the customary glass or two of wine and takeaway pizza had long lost its appeal.
I said, “Well I’m off to bed.”
“I don’t feel like going to bed, I shan’t sleep anyway.”
“Well, at least neither of us will be sleeping.”
“Look. My mum is looking after the kids so we can talk about us” she replied with sudden ferocity.
Next time I see the old thing, I’ll give her a genuine hug, that is, if she wants to hug me.
The insidious mist which for so long shrouded our real feelings now began to lift.
So, we talked, and talked.
She brought up my affair. Actually, it was a one-night fling and there were two of them. I countered with her affair. A tearful reply “He was just a friend, no more. I had to talk to someone after your fling.”
But that one struck home.
There was my job. “I must get this done for Monday morning,” “I’ll be late home from work”, and so on.
An interlude for milky coffee.
Then she brought up how she’d had to shelve her career prospects. No-one seems prepared to care for each other’s children on our ‘modern’ executive estate.
She’d put me and the family first.
My side of the marriage balance sheet didn’t look good.
The sky was beginning to lighten. She went out onto the veranda. I joined her. A first beam of sunlight hit the treetops. “It’s a bit nippy’’. So I put my arm round her waist. After a few minutes she responded.
A very long silence.
Much later we woke up, together again. It really was a glorious day. Croissants and coffee on the veranda.
“Mum will give the kids tea” she said. I don’t deserve her.
John Seacome
Last night I fought a tiger
Last night I fought a tiger
In the jungle of my dreams.
Its claws pierced deep into my flesh
Like pins into a seam.
Gripping me
With suffocating tightness.
I draw a breath as deep as any
I have ever drawn.
One last attempt to free myself
As infants to be born
Battling fangs
With bloodstained crimson tinges.
The odds are stacked against me.
But a chorus can be heard
And nothing scares my tiger
Like the singing of a bird.
Lightening dark
With thinly warbled promise
Larraine
The Darkness in Our Minds
Darkness descends, rolling in without notice, swallowing up all that is day. Up ahead in the night sky a cloud wavers and the moon gives up a small glimmer of light. Just enough to reveal its allies, the allies that make the darkness relentless.
Deformed trees stand arms stretched, towering over a surrounding landscape. Looming in readiness, they manifest grotesque skeletal, deceptively gnarled fingers, equipped to snare the merest pray.
The screech of an owl echoes from all directions and jet black, hideous shadows, dance in a trail of mist. The ground stirs up a discordant commotion. Scratching and scurrying, rummaging and running, carefully manoeuvring and manipulating a path to an unsuspecting quarry.
At the height of this overture the moon descends, leaving only a deathly, eerie silence. Darkness tightens its malevolent grip, as its victim succumbs to the haunting and merciless stillness. Able only to endure the hellish nightmare, we eagerly await dawn, that the evil spell might break.
T Van Olffen
Darkest Hour
They say that the darkest hour is before dawn.
Just a normal day in the Mid-east. A media reporter was cautiously driving past blackened vines and the careless destruction of a war-scarred region. Edging along the road was a long trail of destitute humanity, escaping the bleeding land of their livelihood.
For them progress was slow, tramping the road as in the pogroms of yesteryear, carrying their salvaged possessions.
Bringing up the rear, one of the women flagged with the weight of her
burden, so he offered her a lift to catch up with the others. And drove her to the top of the line.
Where she was rebuked and ordered out of the truck, because she had not asked for permission from her husband.
It is going to be a long hazardous journey before the dawn breaks.
June
The Darkest Hour
If you have had a sleepless night
And you really wanted to sleep,
You will know why they say:
‘The darkest hour is just before dawn’.
(First in print: 1650 Thomas Fuller)
If you are troubled and your mind is aching
And you have tossed and turned and tried to sleep,
You will understand through your experience
Why they say what they say.
But who are they:
They who say what they say?
What have they been denied?
The Mamas And The Papas knew (1967),
(‘Dedicated to the one I love,’ Pauling & Bass 1957),
But I’m with Iris Dement:
I’ll just ‘Let the mystery be’ (1992).
Martyn
Optimism
Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope.
Helen Keller
Shaman, soothsayers, seers. Mysterious men in dark suits avowing it would get worse before it gets better. Harbingers of doom and gloom. She fully expected the crows to come a crawing. Peck, peck pecking. She flicked the switch.
An antidote was needed. Mud squelched under her wellington boots. The pansies pulled glum faces, huddled together in the biting north easterly. Early daffodils still tightly hatted waived her on. And there they were, in the corner in the shelter of the wall. Snowdrops. What a journey they made, battling upwards through dark and mud to feel the sunshine. A lesson to be learned.
A smile on her face. She returned indoors for a FULL cup of tea and a biscuit
Lyn
I Ching in the Silent Hour Before Dawn
snores
Radio 4 turned low
toilet flush,
water in pipes swush
Grandfather clock bongs
door squeaks
fridge light clicks
microwave closes ker-klucktch
hums, revolves
kettle-fill echoes boiling
mugs of tea greet each other with a gentle ching
crush of slippers on carpet
Breakfast TV jingle
breeze moving curtains
cats purring
hearts beating
sun shining
bird-song
Sharyn Owen
They Say the Darkest Hour is Before the Dawn
In February 1967, The Mamas & the Papas released their version of the “5” Royales song “Dedicated to the One I Love” and Michelle Phillips was given the lead on this single instead of Cass Elliot. Four lines in and she sings “And the darkest hour is just before dawn (The “5” Royales sang “day”). This is what I heard when I read the Prompt for this week.
Thomas Fuller was the original ‘they’ to commit these words or a version of them to paper. He wrote a book, a travel guide to Palestine in 1650 and said “It is always darkest just before Day dawneth.” Through time, other ‘theys’ have used these words to encourage and direct those feeling low and in a ‘dark’ place, to look forward to tomorrow and a new dawn and a new start.
I have found recent newspaper articles using the phrase to talk about the Covid Vaccines and the waiting and anticipation for it to be administered. About waiting for the Vaccine and the improvement in the labour markets. Waiting for the Vaccine and keeping a community together. Very different takes on the phrase, but I suppose all looking forward.
This exercise has made me look with fresh eyes at the phrases we use that roll glibly off the tongue.
Lesley
Evidence for the Prosecution
They each, in turn, dug up bodies from bitter disputes of their past, striking low. They were dealing now in carrion for recrimination. Gerry, who had once rolled up his trouser legs to wade into a swollen river to rescue a blow-away scarf, for Joan, who had protested and then laughed at such gallantry.
But now, faced with the grinning skulls of skeletons, it was the dark time, due to become darker yet. Too dark to see the faint figure of reconciliation approaching the front door to lift the heavy knocker and let it drop.
John C
The doleful light was draining from the sky. We’d exhausted the Netflix library, and the customary glass or two of wine and takeaway pizza had long lost its appeal.
I said, “Well I’m off to bed.”
“I don’t feel like going to bed, I shan’t sleep anyway.”
“Well, at least neither of us will be sleeping.”
“Look. My mum is looking after the kids so we can talk about us” she replied with sudden ferocity.
Next time I see the old thing, I’ll give her a genuine hug, that is, if she wants to hug me.
The insidious mist which for so long shrouded our real feelings now began to lift.
So, we talked, and talked.
She brought up my affair. Actually, it was a one-night fling and there were two of them. I countered with her affair. A tearful reply “He was just a friend, no more. I had to talk to someone after your fling.”
But that one struck home.
There was my job. “I must get this done for Monday morning,” “I’ll be late home from work”, and so on.
An interlude for milky coffee.
Then she brought up how she’d had to shelve her career prospects. No-one seems prepared to care for each other’s children on our ‘modern’ executive estate.
She’d put me and the family first.
My side of the marriage balance sheet didn’t look good.
The sky was beginning to lighten. She went out onto the veranda. I joined her. A first beam of sunlight hit the treetops. “It’s a bit nippy’’. So I put my arm round her waist. After a few minutes she responded.
A very long silence.
Much later we woke up, together again. It really was a glorious day. Croissants and coffee on the veranda.
“Mum will give the kids tea” she said. I don’t deserve her.
John Seacome
Last night I fought a tiger
Last night I fought a tiger
In the jungle of my dreams.
Its claws pierced deep into my flesh
Like pins into a seam.
Gripping me
With suffocating tightness.
I draw a breath as deep as any
I have ever drawn.
One last attempt to free myself
As infants to be born
Battling fangs
With bloodstained crimson tinges.
The odds are stacked against me.
But a chorus can be heard
And nothing scares my tiger
Like the singing of a bird.
Lightening dark
With thinly warbled promise
Larraine
The Darkness in Our Minds
Darkness descends, rolling in without notice, swallowing up all that is day. Up ahead in the night sky a cloud wavers and the moon gives up a small glimmer of light. Just enough to reveal its allies, the allies that make the darkness relentless.
Deformed trees stand arms stretched, towering over a surrounding landscape. Looming in readiness, they manifest grotesque skeletal, deceptively gnarled fingers, equipped to snare the merest pray.
The screech of an owl echoes from all directions and jet black, hideous shadows, dance in a trail of mist. The ground stirs up a discordant commotion. Scratching and scurrying, rummaging and running, carefully manoeuvring and manipulating a path to an unsuspecting quarry.
At the height of this overture the moon descends, leaving only a deathly, eerie silence. Darkness tightens its malevolent grip, as its victim succumbs to the haunting and merciless stillness. Able only to endure the hellish nightmare, we eagerly await dawn, that the evil spell might break.
T Van Olffen
Darkest Hour
They say that the darkest hour is before dawn.
Just a normal day in the Mid-east. A media reporter was cautiously driving past blackened vines and the careless destruction of a war-scarred region. Edging along the road was a long trail of destitute humanity, escaping the bleeding land of their livelihood.
For them progress was slow, tramping the road as in the pogroms of yesteryear, carrying their salvaged possessions.
Bringing up the rear, one of the women flagged with the weight of her
burden, so he offered her a lift to catch up with the others. And drove her to the top of the line.
Where she was rebuked and ordered out of the truck, because she had not asked for permission from her husband.
It is going to be a long hazardous journey before the dawn breaks.
June
The Darkest Hour
If you have had a sleepless night
And you really wanted to sleep,
You will know why they say:
‘The darkest hour is just before dawn’.
(First in print: 1650 Thomas Fuller)
If you are troubled and your mind is aching
And you have tossed and turned and tried to sleep,
You will understand through your experience
Why they say what they say.
But who are they:
They who say what they say?
What have they been denied?
The Mamas And The Papas knew (1967),
(‘Dedicated to the one I love,’ Pauling & Bass 1957),
But I’m with Iris Dement:
I’ll just ‘Let the mystery be’ (1992).
Martyn
Optimism
Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope.
Helen Keller
Shaman, soothsayers, seers. Mysterious men in dark suits avowing it would get worse before it gets better. Harbingers of doom and gloom. She fully expected the crows to come a crawing. Peck, peck pecking. She flicked the switch.
An antidote was needed. Mud squelched under her wellington boots. The pansies pulled glum faces, huddled together in the biting north easterly. Early daffodils still tightly hatted waived her on. And there they were, in the corner in the shelter of the wall. Snowdrops. What a journey they made, battling upwards through dark and mud to feel the sunshine. A lesson to be learned.
A smile on her face. She returned indoors for a FULL cup of tea and a biscuit
Lyn
I Ching in the Silent Hour Before Dawn
snores
Radio 4 turned low
toilet flush,
water in pipes swush
Grandfather clock bongs
door squeaks
fridge light clicks
microwave closes ker-klucktch
hums, revolves
kettle-fill echoes boiling
mugs of tea greet each other with a gentle ching
crush of slippers on carpet
Breakfast TV jingle
breeze moving curtains
cats purring
hearts beating
sun shining
bird-song
Sharyn Owen
They Say the Darkest Hour is Before the Dawn
In February 1967, The Mamas & the Papas released their version of the “5” Royales song “Dedicated to the One I Love” and Michelle Phillips was given the lead on this single instead of Cass Elliot. Four lines in and she sings “And the darkest hour is just before dawn (The “5” Royales sang “day”). This is what I heard when I read the Prompt for this week.
Thomas Fuller was the original ‘they’ to commit these words or a version of them to paper. He wrote a book, a travel guide to Palestine in 1650 and said “It is always darkest just before Day dawneth.” Through time, other ‘theys’ have used these words to encourage and direct those feeling low and in a ‘dark’ place, to look forward to tomorrow and a new dawn and a new start.
I have found recent newspaper articles using the phrase to talk about the Covid Vaccines and the waiting and anticipation for it to be administered. About waiting for the Vaccine and the improvement in the labour markets. Waiting for the Vaccine and keeping a community together. Very different takes on the phrase, but I suppose all looking forward.
This exercise has made me look with fresh eyes at the phrases we use that roll glibly off the tongue.
Lesley
Evidence for the Prosecution
They each, in turn, dug up bodies from bitter disputes of their past, striking low. They were dealing now in carrion for recrimination. Gerry, who had once rolled up his trouser legs to wade into a swollen river to rescue a blow-away scarf, for Joan, who had protested and then laughed at such gallantry.
But now, faced with the grinning skulls of skeletons, it was the dark time, due to become darker yet. Too dark to see the faint figure of reconciliation approaching the front door to lift the heavy knocker and let it drop.
John C
Prompt Number 2: The Darkest Hour
They say that the darkest hour is before dawn
"The darkest hour is before dawn" is a cliche, right? Okay, but note that our prompt this week has a subtle addition i.e. the three words at the beginning: "They say that." Who says that? Who are the "they"? Are they people in a position of power? Does "they" refer to widely held popular opinion? And why are "they" always anonymous and yet held to be the purveyors of truth? And is that particular phrase true? Literally true? Or is it some kind of fable meaning that the worst must be endured before we witness better times?
Whatever you make of it, that is this week's prompt:
They say that the darkest hour is before dawn.
Respond to that as imaginatively as you like. Write a poem or a piece of prose of 300 words maximum and send it in before the Monday midnight deadline. Good luck!
"The darkest hour is before dawn" is a cliche, right? Okay, but note that our prompt this week has a subtle addition i.e. the three words at the beginning: "They say that." Who says that? Who are the "they"? Are they people in a position of power? Does "they" refer to widely held popular opinion? And why are "they" always anonymous and yet held to be the purveyors of truth? And is that particular phrase true? Literally true? Or is it some kind of fable meaning that the worst must be endured before we witness better times?
Whatever you make of it, that is this week's prompt:
They say that the darkest hour is before dawn.
Respond to that as imaginatively as you like. Write a poem or a piece of prose of 300 words maximum and send it in before the Monday midnight deadline. Good luck!
Note to a Stranger responses
Latch-key Kids
This is a posthumous thank you to a neighbour whose kindness helped me through a harrowing experience, in 1944, following my tenth birthday. That day we were fed breakfast at dawn and packed off to school, because my mother had started a new job. My task was to collect my two younger siblings from the nursery at lunch time, carefully steer them home, and let us into the house.
Unfortunately, I had misplaced the key. Consequently, our lunch remained on the cold, stone slab in the pantry. While we three huddled together like waifs on the front door step. My stomach dropped round my ankles.
Not only was I reluctant to return to school before bell time, having been ticked-off first thing for arriving too early, but I had let my mother down.
I knew she was frowned upon for being a bit out of step, for taking on menial jobs to eke out her housekeeping money.
During WW11 women took on men’s work in aid of the war effort. Other than that, they were expected to be housewives. Husband the breadwinner. For money they were to rely on the generosity of the spouse.
Trailing about with holes in our shoes was testament to how well that policy worked in our family
However, my friend’s mother, lower down the cul-de-sac, was a housewife par excellent, her husband away serving in the RAF.
She led us into her immaculate sitting room, and despite the rarity of foods on ration, plied us with sandwiches and squash. I pushed my handkerchief in to my little brother’s hand to stop him using his sleeve, while my sister’s bottom lip trembled, afraid of the friendly dog salivating for crumbs at our feet.
I warmed to the woman who was none judgemental, shown in her kindly spirit.
June
A Perfect Stranger in the Crowd
(or The Insurrection that Just Keeps Giving)
The horns of a small buffalo(?) caught our attention.
The first reaction was to smile
Then laugh.
But we’ve stopped laughing.
Red, white and blue face paint,
Indian feathers, furs, deerskin culottes,
Horns. We’ve already mentioned the horns.
Did you shoot that deer and skin and cure it yourself
or did you get them everything from a dime store?
You chose your outfit carefully because you had been invited to the Senate.
The most exciting thing that ever happened to you.
Maybe.
You were Twittered and Parlered
You pay allegiance to a false flag,
Remind us of the contradictions
Of Colonel Custer, Robert E Lee, Uncle Tom,
Davy Crockett, John Wain and The Lone Ranger.
Cowboy, pioneer, roustabout, narcissist,
Culturally challenged, histrionic idiot.
You’ve been sold up the river
Without a canoe
Soldier Blue
Sharyn Owen
A Dear John Letter with a Difference
Dear John
I first saw you in 1973. Immediately I was taken by your blond, pudding basin hair, round glasses and that big beaming smile; it was “Far Out!”. You had a happy personality and boy did you laugh. Sunday nights had a new highlight.
With your friends Bill and Taffy Danoff you brought a new style of music to me. And I loved the audience participation. I wish I could have been there to experience your undoubted enthusiasm. The next best thing, was that I got your album for Christmas that year. I must dig it out and give it a play.
Anyway, we were never to meet. Maybe because your dad had been in the Air Force (that was something we had in common), that you loved planes so much. Perhaps your untimely end in 1997 in an experimental aircraft was a fitting way to go. I will never know.
You left on a plane, not a jet, but we do know you won’t be back again. Good-bye John.
Yours ever so truly
Lesley
On Being Asked to Write a Letter to A Stranger
I wish I knew a stranger I could thank for being kind,
For saving me from danger or for calming down my mind.
But as I leaf the pages of my life as it is set
I can only find the strangers whom I’d rather just forget.
The unkind woman on the bus,
The bullying midwife in a rush,
The jobsworth conductor on the train
The dentist who wouldn’t believe the pain
I fear that if I write to them, I may not see for tears.
Some things are better left unsaid to mellow with the years.
Larraine
Note to a stranger on the train
It was just after lockdown. Some of us had to be at our desks, and some had to use public transport. But the trains now had spare seats.
My station was in leafy South London, hers was not quite so leafy but good enough. For some reason, she sat opposite me. Her clothes and shoes didn’t come via DPD.
We both had masks, so I couldn’t normally see her face. Her eyes looked nice but one day her mask slipped, and she repositioned it, but not before I’d had a chance to take in her lovely soft face and the all-too-brief smile that followed. I felt as though I’d stepped onto the third rail, and my heart started thumping almost uncontrollably, even more when her eyes flashed a soothing message in response.
This is London and etiquette dictates that passengers do not speak to each other, virus or no virus. Why otherwise were Kindles, text messages and computer games invented? But she was unconventional enough to actually read a book, written in French, and my French is abysmal.
One day a platform notice was displayed. Trains from my station would no longer stop at hers, ‘to provide a better service to our customers at this difficult time’ it said.
The day before the timetable changed, I wrote a note to her with my mobile number on it. In the distance the Shard was a reproving figure pointing at me. I got up a bit early to reach for my coat from the rack and surreptitiously slipped the note in her coat pocket. I gave her a brief nod and she nodded back. I thought I saw a tear in her eye.
Hope springs eternal in the heart of a lonely middle-aged woman.
John Seacome
This is a posthumous thank you to a neighbour whose kindness helped me through a harrowing experience, in 1944, following my tenth birthday. That day we were fed breakfast at dawn and packed off to school, because my mother had started a new job. My task was to collect my two younger siblings from the nursery at lunch time, carefully steer them home, and let us into the house.
Unfortunately, I had misplaced the key. Consequently, our lunch remained on the cold, stone slab in the pantry. While we three huddled together like waifs on the front door step. My stomach dropped round my ankles.
Not only was I reluctant to return to school before bell time, having been ticked-off first thing for arriving too early, but I had let my mother down.
I knew she was frowned upon for being a bit out of step, for taking on menial jobs to eke out her housekeeping money.
During WW11 women took on men’s work in aid of the war effort. Other than that, they were expected to be housewives. Husband the breadwinner. For money they were to rely on the generosity of the spouse.
Trailing about with holes in our shoes was testament to how well that policy worked in our family
However, my friend’s mother, lower down the cul-de-sac, was a housewife par excellent, her husband away serving in the RAF.
She led us into her immaculate sitting room, and despite the rarity of foods on ration, plied us with sandwiches and squash. I pushed my handkerchief in to my little brother’s hand to stop him using his sleeve, while my sister’s bottom lip trembled, afraid of the friendly dog salivating for crumbs at our feet.
I warmed to the woman who was none judgemental, shown in her kindly spirit.
June
A Perfect Stranger in the Crowd
(or The Insurrection that Just Keeps Giving)
The horns of a small buffalo(?) caught our attention.
The first reaction was to smile
Then laugh.
But we’ve stopped laughing.
Red, white and blue face paint,
Indian feathers, furs, deerskin culottes,
Horns. We’ve already mentioned the horns.
Did you shoot that deer and skin and cure it yourself
or did you get them everything from a dime store?
You chose your outfit carefully because you had been invited to the Senate.
The most exciting thing that ever happened to you.
Maybe.
You were Twittered and Parlered
You pay allegiance to a false flag,
Remind us of the contradictions
Of Colonel Custer, Robert E Lee, Uncle Tom,
Davy Crockett, John Wain and The Lone Ranger.
Cowboy, pioneer, roustabout, narcissist,
Culturally challenged, histrionic idiot.
You’ve been sold up the river
Without a canoe
Soldier Blue
Sharyn Owen
A Dear John Letter with a Difference
Dear John
I first saw you in 1973. Immediately I was taken by your blond, pudding basin hair, round glasses and that big beaming smile; it was “Far Out!”. You had a happy personality and boy did you laugh. Sunday nights had a new highlight.
With your friends Bill and Taffy Danoff you brought a new style of music to me. And I loved the audience participation. I wish I could have been there to experience your undoubted enthusiasm. The next best thing, was that I got your album for Christmas that year. I must dig it out and give it a play.
Anyway, we were never to meet. Maybe because your dad had been in the Air Force (that was something we had in common), that you loved planes so much. Perhaps your untimely end in 1997 in an experimental aircraft was a fitting way to go. I will never know.
You left on a plane, not a jet, but we do know you won’t be back again. Good-bye John.
Yours ever so truly
Lesley
On Being Asked to Write a Letter to A Stranger
I wish I knew a stranger I could thank for being kind,
For saving me from danger or for calming down my mind.
But as I leaf the pages of my life as it is set
I can only find the strangers whom I’d rather just forget.
The unkind woman on the bus,
The bullying midwife in a rush,
The jobsworth conductor on the train
The dentist who wouldn’t believe the pain
I fear that if I write to them, I may not see for tears.
Some things are better left unsaid to mellow with the years.
Larraine
Note to a stranger on the train
It was just after lockdown. Some of us had to be at our desks, and some had to use public transport. But the trains now had spare seats.
My station was in leafy South London, hers was not quite so leafy but good enough. For some reason, she sat opposite me. Her clothes and shoes didn’t come via DPD.
We both had masks, so I couldn’t normally see her face. Her eyes looked nice but one day her mask slipped, and she repositioned it, but not before I’d had a chance to take in her lovely soft face and the all-too-brief smile that followed. I felt as though I’d stepped onto the third rail, and my heart started thumping almost uncontrollably, even more when her eyes flashed a soothing message in response.
This is London and etiquette dictates that passengers do not speak to each other, virus or no virus. Why otherwise were Kindles, text messages and computer games invented? But she was unconventional enough to actually read a book, written in French, and my French is abysmal.
One day a platform notice was displayed. Trains from my station would no longer stop at hers, ‘to provide a better service to our customers at this difficult time’ it said.
The day before the timetable changed, I wrote a note to her with my mobile number on it. In the distance the Shard was a reproving figure pointing at me. I got up a bit early to reach for my coat from the rack and surreptitiously slipped the note in her coat pocket. I gave her a brief nod and she nodded back. I thought I saw a tear in her eye.
Hope springs eternal in the heart of a lonely middle-aged woman.
John Seacome
2021 Prompt No 1. Note to a Stranger
Here's one to appeal to your imagination: Writing a Note to a Stranger. What would cause such a note to be written? It may be a complaint or a note of thanks. It may be an offer of help a desperate plea. You can decide for yourself. You can also decide which genre you will use: poetry, prose, fiction or non fiction. However, the usual rules pertain about length. If you are writing prose please keep it to less than 300 words. Brevity from poets is also appreciated.
Need a kick start? The following piece by Ian McMillan appeared in the i newspaper on Christmas Eve. Read, weep and enjoy.
Note to a stranger: To the nurse who gave my dying dad a Christmas present
By Ian McMillan
Hello. You don’t know me and you won’t remember this because it was years ago and I was just another tense and tired face and you were the nurse with tinsel in her hair, doing your job as best you could.
It was Christmas Eve 2001 and my dad, or a fading sketch of the man who had once been my dad, was lying in a hospital bed. His frame had been battered by strokes and falls and the gradual shutting down of boilers that happens when the body starts to long to be away.
The spirit was still there, though; I could see it in those eyes that had seen so many horizons during all those long years in the Navy. My dad loved Christmas and he loved Christmas Eve best of all; he would always sing Silent Night, or as many of the lines as he could before he burst into tears.
I felt that he wasn’t long for this world and I said to the nurse “How is he?”. The tinsel in her hair shone in the bright practical lighting. She held my gaze. “If you’re asking me if he’ll die tonight, then I don’t think he will. But I think he might die tomorrow. I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t the news I wanted but it was the news I expected. Tears prickled my eyes because, like my dad always was, I’m a great weeper.
I held his hand. It felt loose and slack. I talked to him about the kids, about Christmas, about my mother at home, her own body ailing. Somewhere Christmas carols played, unless they played in my head. “He knows you’re there,” they’d told me, and I was sure he did. His breathing was assisted and laboured but I felt a very slight squeeze of my hand.
The nurse had left us alone for a moment but she came back in with a parcel bright in Christmas wrapping. She handed it to me. “It’s a present for him,” she said, smiling. “It’s something we do for all the patients who are in here at Christmas.”
I didn’t know what to do. “Open it for him, he can’t do it himself.” She left again.
I said “Look, Dad. A present. I know it’s not Christmas Day but let’s open it anyway,” and I did. Aftershave and deodorant from the Co-op; I held them up to him. “Look,” I said, “look what they got you,” and my tears flowed all the way to my own horizons of grief.
He died early the next morning but I always think of him crossing that final ocean smelling fragrant, and maybe singing Silent Night. So thank you nurse, for reminding me that love and compassion know no bounds and a gift is always a gift even if you can’t open it yourself. Merry Christmas.
Need a kick start? The following piece by Ian McMillan appeared in the i newspaper on Christmas Eve. Read, weep and enjoy.
Note to a stranger: To the nurse who gave my dying dad a Christmas present
By Ian McMillan
Hello. You don’t know me and you won’t remember this because it was years ago and I was just another tense and tired face and you were the nurse with tinsel in her hair, doing your job as best you could.
It was Christmas Eve 2001 and my dad, or a fading sketch of the man who had once been my dad, was lying in a hospital bed. His frame had been battered by strokes and falls and the gradual shutting down of boilers that happens when the body starts to long to be away.
The spirit was still there, though; I could see it in those eyes that had seen so many horizons during all those long years in the Navy. My dad loved Christmas and he loved Christmas Eve best of all; he would always sing Silent Night, or as many of the lines as he could before he burst into tears.
I felt that he wasn’t long for this world and I said to the nurse “How is he?”. The tinsel in her hair shone in the bright practical lighting. She held my gaze. “If you’re asking me if he’ll die tonight, then I don’t think he will. But I think he might die tomorrow. I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t the news I wanted but it was the news I expected. Tears prickled my eyes because, like my dad always was, I’m a great weeper.
I held his hand. It felt loose and slack. I talked to him about the kids, about Christmas, about my mother at home, her own body ailing. Somewhere Christmas carols played, unless they played in my head. “He knows you’re there,” they’d told me, and I was sure he did. His breathing was assisted and laboured but I felt a very slight squeeze of my hand.
The nurse had left us alone for a moment but she came back in with a parcel bright in Christmas wrapping. She handed it to me. “It’s a present for him,” she said, smiling. “It’s something we do for all the patients who are in here at Christmas.”
I didn’t know what to do. “Open it for him, he can’t do it himself.” She left again.
I said “Look, Dad. A present. I know it’s not Christmas Day but let’s open it anyway,” and I did. Aftershave and deodorant from the Co-op; I held them up to him. “Look,” I said, “look what they got you,” and my tears flowed all the way to my own horizons of grief.
He died early the next morning but I always think of him crossing that final ocean smelling fragrant, and maybe singing Silent Night. So thank you nurse, for reminding me that love and compassion know no bounds and a gift is always a gift even if you can’t open it yourself. Merry Christmas.
The Quiet (Responses to the prompt)
The Quiet
She didn't hear him arrive
He sneaked up on people. He was an outsider. He wanted to be her friend.
She learned at church to be kind to people, but surely, they didn’t mean people as disgusting as this scruffy old man. They meant smiley, black babies photographed wearing bright jumpers. She collected pennies for each photo she sold, to send to Africa.
He followed her home after church. She angrily asked him to stop following her. He looked stricken. “Just making sure you get home safely,” he said.
The words tattooed her like lettering inside seaside rock and she despised herself. His name was Henry Fowler and she hated it when he came to church.
Sharyn Owen
The Quiet
She didn’t hear him arrive.
His movements were reptilian, slithering into the house, owning the seat. Dialogue was toxic, otherwise pregnant silence. He gained vicarious pleasure by throwing her off guard with his probes, stone-walling her to insignificance. He was a piddling precise man who wore a pocket watch, to which he constantly referred grinning gold fillings. He cast a malignant shadow turning her stomach to woodworm. She feared for her imprudent mother, sitting provocatively close, face flushed, soaking in his every word. She narrowed her eyes breathing deeply. Given the hour she resolved to scuttle his machinations; praying to match his cunning.
June
She Didn’t
She didn’t hear him arrive. Nerves had taken hold and she became oblivious to everything but the folder with her poems in.
This was to be her first time of reading in front of the group. She had faithfully attended the fortnightly meeting and had held back with her own offerings. All of the group, barring one member, were supportive of each other. The ‘one’ was critical and tutted and shut his eyes in boredom. Some of his comments were valid but delivered in an authoritative tone. He would then say how it should have been written. Strangely though, he never ever shared his work.
His name was Henry Fowler and she hated it when he came.
Lesley Moore
The Quiet
She didn't hear him arrive. He walked quietly along the hall. Gently he pushed on the swing door. She was stood at the sink rinsing a pan. As he let the door go it made a pulsing thud noise as it swung back and forth before finally coming to rest.
She turned with a start; the pan hit the floor.
‘I didn’t hear you. You should have knocked.’
‘Perhaps I did.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘The door was open.’
She felt sure it was locked. ‘You could have waited.’
‘But you didn’t hear me.’
‘It's custom to assume that no-one’s home.’
‘But you are.’
His name was Henry Fowler and she hated it when he came.
T.van Olffen
The Quiet
She didn’t hear him arrive. But she knew he was there. The cloying smell of patchouli and mandarin. The aroma of cigarette smoke creeping upwards. Senses on high alert, she heard the distinct pssst as he tugged at the ring pull. She had fifteen minutes. Would it be Black Sabbath or Bach? His choice would determine her decision.
The rest of the house was still. Sleeping. Couldn’t they feel the tension? Smell her fear? The first notes sounded. She slipped her phone in her jeans pocket. Slid her arms into her thick coat. Trainers in hand she tip-toed into the cold. It was going to be a long night.
She hated it when he came.
Lyn
The Visitor
She didn’t hear him arrive. The squeak of the floor boards under his heavy frame betrayed his presence in the room above. She looked at the clock. He was early. Muffled voices seeped through the ceiling, floating just out of reach like children’s bubbles. Opening the small window, she leaned out to see his car parked in Maria’s allotted space, abandoned at an angle as if in a hurry. She reached for her phone. It was time to be strong. Time to act.
His name was Harry Fowler and she hated it when he came.
Larraine
The Trainer
She didn’t hear him arrive. The front door just opened.
“You ready, Sandra?”
“I thought you were coming tomorrow, Patrice.”
“Sorry sweetheart, my smartphone says today”
She’d made a mistake.
“Well, I’ve got some coffee on. Help yourself while I get changed.”
The session itself went well. Sandra squatted, stretched, ran on the spot, and kicked out her legs and arms.
“Nice, but we’ll get your abs and glutes looking tiptop for Instagram - and don’t forget those press-ups.”
At the door he turned “Bye, sweety. Same time next week?”
“Yes”. Afterwards, “Well-recommended and affordable, but I’ll see what Jackie thought of him.”
It turned out his name was Henry Fowler and she hated it when he came.
John Seacome
She didn't hear him arrive
He sneaked up on people. He was an outsider. He wanted to be her friend.
She learned at church to be kind to people, but surely, they didn’t mean people as disgusting as this scruffy old man. They meant smiley, black babies photographed wearing bright jumpers. She collected pennies for each photo she sold, to send to Africa.
He followed her home after church. She angrily asked him to stop following her. He looked stricken. “Just making sure you get home safely,” he said.
The words tattooed her like lettering inside seaside rock and she despised herself. His name was Henry Fowler and she hated it when he came to church.
Sharyn Owen
The Quiet
She didn’t hear him arrive.
His movements were reptilian, slithering into the house, owning the seat. Dialogue was toxic, otherwise pregnant silence. He gained vicarious pleasure by throwing her off guard with his probes, stone-walling her to insignificance. He was a piddling precise man who wore a pocket watch, to which he constantly referred grinning gold fillings. He cast a malignant shadow turning her stomach to woodworm. She feared for her imprudent mother, sitting provocatively close, face flushed, soaking in his every word. She narrowed her eyes breathing deeply. Given the hour she resolved to scuttle his machinations; praying to match his cunning.
June
She Didn’t
She didn’t hear him arrive. Nerves had taken hold and she became oblivious to everything but the folder with her poems in.
This was to be her first time of reading in front of the group. She had faithfully attended the fortnightly meeting and had held back with her own offerings. All of the group, barring one member, were supportive of each other. The ‘one’ was critical and tutted and shut his eyes in boredom. Some of his comments were valid but delivered in an authoritative tone. He would then say how it should have been written. Strangely though, he never ever shared his work.
His name was Henry Fowler and she hated it when he came.
Lesley Moore
The Quiet
She didn't hear him arrive. He walked quietly along the hall. Gently he pushed on the swing door. She was stood at the sink rinsing a pan. As he let the door go it made a pulsing thud noise as it swung back and forth before finally coming to rest.
She turned with a start; the pan hit the floor.
‘I didn’t hear you. You should have knocked.’
‘Perhaps I did.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘The door was open.’
She felt sure it was locked. ‘You could have waited.’
‘But you didn’t hear me.’
‘It's custom to assume that no-one’s home.’
‘But you are.’
His name was Henry Fowler and she hated it when he came.
T.van Olffen
The Quiet
She didn’t hear him arrive. But she knew he was there. The cloying smell of patchouli and mandarin. The aroma of cigarette smoke creeping upwards. Senses on high alert, she heard the distinct pssst as he tugged at the ring pull. She had fifteen minutes. Would it be Black Sabbath or Bach? His choice would determine her decision.
The rest of the house was still. Sleeping. Couldn’t they feel the tension? Smell her fear? The first notes sounded. She slipped her phone in her jeans pocket. Slid her arms into her thick coat. Trainers in hand she tip-toed into the cold. It was going to be a long night.
She hated it when he came.
Lyn
The Visitor
She didn’t hear him arrive. The squeak of the floor boards under his heavy frame betrayed his presence in the room above. She looked at the clock. He was early. Muffled voices seeped through the ceiling, floating just out of reach like children’s bubbles. Opening the small window, she leaned out to see his car parked in Maria’s allotted space, abandoned at an angle as if in a hurry. She reached for her phone. It was time to be strong. Time to act.
His name was Harry Fowler and she hated it when he came.
Larraine
The Trainer
She didn’t hear him arrive. The front door just opened.
“You ready, Sandra?”
“I thought you were coming tomorrow, Patrice.”
“Sorry sweetheart, my smartphone says today”
She’d made a mistake.
“Well, I’ve got some coffee on. Help yourself while I get changed.”
The session itself went well. Sandra squatted, stretched, ran on the spot, and kicked out her legs and arms.
“Nice, but we’ll get your abs and glutes looking tiptop for Instagram - and don’t forget those press-ups.”
At the door he turned “Bye, sweety. Same time next week?”
“Yes”. Afterwards, “Well-recommended and affordable, but I’ll see what Jackie thought of him.”
It turned out his name was Henry Fowler and she hated it when he came.
John Seacome
The Quiet
She didn’t hear him arrive.
The wind was up and the rain was thundering down on the tin roof like a shower of stones and in the midst of all the noise she didn’t hear the rattle of his buggy approaching. She didn’t hear the scrape of his iron-rimmed wheels on the track, the soft thump of his feet in the wet dust. She didn’t know he was there until she looked up from her bucket of soapy water and saw his face at her window, his pale green eyes with their tiny black pin-prick pupils blinking at her through the glass.
His name was Henry Fowler and she hated it when he came.
Carys Davies (from The Redemption of Galen Pike. Salt Publications)
She didn’t hear him arrive.
The wind was up and the rain was thundering down on the tin roof like a shower of stones and in the midst of all the noise she didn’t hear the rattle of his buggy approaching. She didn’t hear the scrape of his iron-rimmed wheels on the track, the soft thump of his feet in the wet dust. She didn’t know he was there until she looked up from her bucket of soapy water and saw his face at her window, his pale green eyes with their tiny black pin-prick pupils blinking at her through the glass.
His name was Henry Fowler and she hated it when he came.
Carys Davies (from The Redemption of Galen Pike. Salt Publications)
The Quiet
She didn't hear him arrive.
This is the beginning of a short story. This first sentence is followed by exactly 100 words of prose until the following sentence:
His name was Henry Fowler and she hated it when he came.
Your task is to provide the intervening 100 words. You will not be attempting to write a complete short story in those hundred words but simply build up situation and character. What on earth can come between that first sentence and the second one quoted?
Poets are invited to write a poem about a quiet arrival which builds up to a feeling of hatred at the end.
Good luck with that everyone. The submission deadline is midnight, Monday 4th January.
This is the beginning of a short story. This first sentence is followed by exactly 100 words of prose until the following sentence:
His name was Henry Fowler and she hated it when he came.
Your task is to provide the intervening 100 words. You will not be attempting to write a complete short story in those hundred words but simply build up situation and character. What on earth can come between that first sentence and the second one quoted?
Poets are invited to write a poem about a quiet arrival which builds up to a feeling of hatred at the end.
Good luck with that everyone. The submission deadline is midnight, Monday 4th January.
Winter Solstice Responses
By four we’ve closed the shutters
By four we’ve closed the shutters
Light’s fled the skies
Throughout the ailing autumn
We watched it go sadly and painfully
Now blessed solstice dawns
Not just the shortest day
But life’s rebirth itself
A time for celebration.
The sun’s stood still, thinking
will it descend again for light and warmth,
Or leave us in perpetual gloomy cold?
Light the yule log
Conquer the darkness, cast out the evil spirits
Tack holly to the walls.
Hang the mistletoe for impish fun.
Drag in the squawking fatted goose
Grease the spit and stoke up the fire
Bake the sweetmeats
Broach the barrel
Tune the fiddle
Blow the dust off the pipes
Let us rejoice!
As the days get longer the colder will get stronger
Just put aside that thought for now.
We’ll wrap up and make the best of it
Pray, Sir Sun, we do beseech you
Please descend and lighten our darkness.
John Seacome
Winter Solstice
Clouds like spectres slithered over rooftops. Peeped into the darkened windows. The wind growled, tossing up the remnants of autumn leaves, A reluctant moon snatched a glance at the scene below. I too took refuge, eyes watching the slow climb of the handle up the clock face, Listening to the silence. Praying for an end to the witching hours.
I imagined those age-old folk, with their pagan rituals, awaiting the rising of the sun. The ancient stones perfectly aligned to best capture the rising sun in all its brilliance. Banishing evil spirits, bringing light, bringing hope. And I was at on with them. It might be the shortest day but welcomed. The sun will rise resolutely rise each day. And so will I.
Lyn Graham
Deus Ex Machina
Not again.
Every now and again her up there tells me to move
tilt
dammit.
I’m just getting used to moving one way
and she says move the other.
Shove your butt.
I’ll help…….
……………..
There you are.
That wasn’t so bad was it.
Now you feel your tides turn neep,
see my lemon ellipse axis turn up its corners,
start smiling again.
Throw a curve here and there
tantalise the snowdrops
the witch hazel and
the jasmine.
Feel the love.
Viv
How strange
How strange we have abandoned
The Winter Solstice.
As if standing on the precipice from dark to light
Is of no real significance.
As if the promise of light that skims
The shining holly on the bough,
That kisses the mistletoe
With faint affection
That clings upon the curls of ivy
Promising growth,
Is of little worth.
How strange we celebrate instead
The translated words of ancient men
From distant lands,
Telling of fairy tales
That claim a monopoly on significance.
Larraine
Logs Falling
I sit with my feet on the hearth; my eyes closed.
The children are asleep. The house is drowsing.
Logs in the grate sigh; contemplating their fall
into nothingness and the impermanence of trees.
The quiet is luxurious, precious,
not broken by ringing or pinging
or a random request for a clean towel
or whether we can have more sweets.
The logs don’t care. They lock me into their fiery minuet
and random shenanigans. They dance out humble beginnings
of sun falling on Cycads, Cedars and Metasequoia,
of cloudburst, storm and lightning. They dance for joy.
Sharyn Owen
Winter Solstice
What the season holds for me.
Jack Frost’s monochrome filigree
Painting a Christmas card dream
While plump brown bulbs cold awake
Thrust their swords toward the beam
And statuesque trees resplendent white
Proudly offset the evergreen
And as ground suffocates ‘neath the snow
Red nosed, caps and mufflers in sleigh rides glow
And decorate homes in glistening bauble
And delightfully dish the turkey
And rags hunched in doorway beds rely on soup-kitchen cheer
And energy-companies clap their hands
And cook the goose each year.
June
Mid-winter events
Today is my birthday, three scores, but not ten
Though another ten years could well see the end
The events of this year may not quite be done
But today is my day. A day second to none
Between November 22nd and December 21st
comes December 15th, the day of my birth
I now have two star signs, one more than most
Ophiuchus and Sagittarius are both mine to boast
My reigning constellation is soon to descend
As the Winter Solstice brings it to an end
There's a lifetime of history contained in my past
But now the BIG six zero, falls upon me, at last.
T. van Olffen
Winter Solstice
He arrives at the door with barely a whisper and enters unbidden looking pale. I can offer him a strong cup of tea, but no, he is not stopping.
Still, it’s good to see you, I say without conviction.
Lifting a rheumy eye towards me he says that he hasn’t got long and then he fixes on the sprig of mistletoe hanging from the wall. Have you got any, I say, are you putting it to good use?
There is a pause before he replies. There was a time, there was a time, he says beginning to laugh. But this turns into the agony of extended coughing and I want to put an arm around him, but he shrugs me off. I haven’t got long.
And he leaves so soon after he arrived. A black dot against the pencil line of the grey horizon; lost against the charcoal scribble of bare branches and black trunks.
John C
Winter Solstice
The Winter Solstice approaches. Monday 21st December will be the shortest day of the year when West Yorkshire is due to receive about seven hours of daylight. Sunrise will be at 8.21 am and sunset will be at 3.48 pm.
There was an old Norse belief that the sun was the wheel that changed the seasons. The Norse word for wheel, Houl is where we get our word Yule from.
Yule time marked the mid-point of Winter when celebrations took place; bonfires were lit, stories were told and sweet ale was drunk. Druids cut mistletoe from the trees and gave it out as a blessing as the winter fruit of mistletoe was regarded as a symbol of life in the winter gloom. Yule logs were lit to conquer the darkness and banish evil spirits. Fire and light were traditional symbols of celebrations held at the darkest time of the year and many of these practices were incorporated into Christian and secular celebrations of Christmas.
This year, on December 21st , Jupiter and Saturn will appear to be closer to earth than at any time since 1226 AD. That was around Genghis Khan's time . Together, the two planets will form a rare Christmas star and it will be possible to fit them both in the same telescopic field of view.
So that is going to be our writing prompt: Winter Solstice. You might find something in the above information from which to take your inspiration, or you may choose simply to write some poetry or prose about Winter Solstice 2020. Or you might like to personify the Solstice and describe how it arrives, spends the day and then goes away again. An interview with Winter Solstice? It could work. Or someone reflecting at the mid point of Winter. What has happened and what is to come? Whatever you choose to write, keep it sharp, keep it short and make it different. Good luck!
There was an old Norse belief that the sun was the wheel that changed the seasons. The Norse word for wheel, Houl is where we get our word Yule from.
Yule time marked the mid-point of Winter when celebrations took place; bonfires were lit, stories were told and sweet ale was drunk. Druids cut mistletoe from the trees and gave it out as a blessing as the winter fruit of mistletoe was regarded as a symbol of life in the winter gloom. Yule logs were lit to conquer the darkness and banish evil spirits. Fire and light were traditional symbols of celebrations held at the darkest time of the year and many of these practices were incorporated into Christian and secular celebrations of Christmas.
This year, on December 21st , Jupiter and Saturn will appear to be closer to earth than at any time since 1226 AD. That was around Genghis Khan's time . Together, the two planets will form a rare Christmas star and it will be possible to fit them both in the same telescopic field of view.
So that is going to be our writing prompt: Winter Solstice. You might find something in the above information from which to take your inspiration, or you may choose simply to write some poetry or prose about Winter Solstice 2020. Or you might like to personify the Solstice and describe how it arrives, spends the day and then goes away again. An interview with Winter Solstice? It could work. Or someone reflecting at the mid point of Winter. What has happened and what is to come? Whatever you choose to write, keep it sharp, keep it short and make it different. Good luck!
The Guy in the Hammock Responses
The Lad on the Common
I fling myself beneath a cloudless blue,
and envy a tiny black speck, the lark effortlessly
trilling the air above.
Raised on my elbow I see the Cathedral
resting on a hazy grey sky-line.
A flash of green snake slips like quicksilver
Into a clump of couch grass.
Adjoining a field of yellow a growling tractor
paints brown strips on the land.
And the caw-caw of circling gulls add screech
to cacophonies.
Into the drone of afternoon, a rabbit ventures out,
stares, sees me, and bolts into distant camouflage.
I breath in the smell of hay drying in the heat of day.
My body smiles akin with the earth.
Here, I know who I am.
June
Perhaps analysis is the problem
Perhaps I should’ve tried a hammock,
Taken the step from safe to unsure,
Wobbled a bit.
Perhaps I should’ve pushed the boat out,
Dipped my toe in the deep, deep water,
Shivered a bit.
Perhaps I should’ve felt the rush of air,
Tasted danger and the joy of surprise,
Trembled a bit.
Perhaps I should’ve opened my eyes,
Looked beyond the near and far,
Drifted a bit.
Perhaps…Perhaps.
Perhaps I should’ve thought more,
About life and time,
About rules and social norms,
About expectations,
About winning and losing,
About failure,
But hey, let’s relax a bit.
I could get used to a hammock.
Martyn
Hammock
In the secret garden of my crowded mind,
I sway suspended in a hammock, secured
‘Twixt the branches of two sturdy trees,
Where birds flutter inside the twists of chirping hedgerows
And soft-footed cows tongue the grass of pecked meadows.
Here Summer shines eternal in the hammock of my days.
But on the factory floor of life,
Cogs whizz to a different tune,
Clanking on cold steel,
Screeching against buffers,
Piercing the light,
Where birds hunch like statues on branched plinths
And anaemic cows seek dry hay in the darkness of barns.
Here Winter blows nocturnal in the frenzy of my ways.
And I yearn to be back once more
In the secret garden of my mind,
Swaying in the hammock of a faithless Summer,
Clinging on to a false belief in the permanence of trees.
Larraine
The Waiting Game
The Hamock Rocked
Dappled light fell across his face
He imagined himself a baby
No cares or worries
The sun climbed up the sky
Birds zig zagged
In the distance the chugg of the ferry
Approaching the quay
He closed his eyes, dozed
The bark of the dog
The crack of a twig
Time to make a decision
Lyn
Testimony of an Able-Seaman After the Battle of Trafalgar
They blasted us with all they had: it wasn’t enough. We outgunned them.
My ears were still ringing, but that was a small price to pay compared with what Nelson did that day. God rest his soul. He didn’t last the night.
Shot by a French sniper, but we got them back, didn’t we? And we lived to fight another day.
God Bless the King.
I remember when we pulled our bedrolls out, they were flecked with wood splinters and lead-shot. But we didn’t mind. And we didn’t mind the reek of gunpowder and blood. Once you’d slung your hammock on its hook, got the tension right and climbed in, you were snug as a bug in a rug. There wasn’t much space between the creaking cannons, but we were happy. They gave us extra rum all round.
We’d get to see Portsmouth again and go back to cheers and beers and any woman we wanted.
We slept soundly.
Sharyn
Hammocked
I am side lined
idling through
sidling, swinging by
hammocked.
Standing on the bank
feet shuffling
fully clothed.
The other is polka dot bikinied
hair in bunches.
Splashing
Deep private swimming.
Slipping and sliding through
waving green
startling fish
disturbing pebbles
rivermaid
no costume.
Wavering view through a waterfall
Pushing through to the neck of the ocean
Slam, bang
no thank you
Ma’am
Viv
The Guy in the Hammock
Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota
Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly
Asleep on the black trunk,
blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year's horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.
James Wright
Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly
Asleep on the black trunk,
blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year's horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.
James Wright
This week's exemplar poem comes from the the Penguin Book of Contemporary American Poetry, a book I bought as a teenager and smuggled into the house. (It was before I had come out as a poet.) But this poem stood out from first reading and had stayed with me ever since.
I laughed when I first read it. That guy in the hammock? What a waster! The cowbells follow one another and presumably the work of the farm continues as someone, William Duffy? works to keep things on track, and yet the guy in the hammock just lies there looking at a butterfly. The evening is darkening and coming on and a chicken hawk floats over, looking for home. Life lacks any urgency and the guy has nothing to show for it. He reaches a telling conclusion.
And yet, the poem is full of colour; bronze , green and golden, while the natural world is perfectly itemised. The narrative voice of the poem is perfectly in tune with nature and worldly success does not feature. The guy is at peace and this suggests that his life has been far from wasted.
So there you go, two very different readings of the same poem. Our job, as writers, is to imagine we are observing the man in the hammock and produce 300 words of prose or a poem under the working title of The Guy in the Hammock. Or we could broaden our focus and write about any person anywhere lying in a hammock.
Enjoy the task and good luck.
I laughed when I first read it. That guy in the hammock? What a waster! The cowbells follow one another and presumably the work of the farm continues as someone, William Duffy? works to keep things on track, and yet the guy in the hammock just lies there looking at a butterfly. The evening is darkening and coming on and a chicken hawk floats over, looking for home. Life lacks any urgency and the guy has nothing to show for it. He reaches a telling conclusion.
And yet, the poem is full of colour; bronze , green and golden, while the natural world is perfectly itemised. The narrative voice of the poem is perfectly in tune with nature and worldly success does not feature. The guy is at peace and this suggests that his life has been far from wasted.
So there you go, two very different readings of the same poem. Our job, as writers, is to imagine we are observing the man in the hammock and produce 300 words of prose or a poem under the working title of The Guy in the Hammock. Or we could broaden our focus and write about any person anywhere lying in a hammock.
Enjoy the task and good luck.
Whispered Words responses
Deathly Whisper
Random voices emanated from various parts of the whispering gallery. There was a certain eeriness that gave Amy a cold shiver. As she turned the page of her book, she thought she’d heard someone call her name. She looked up, but there was no-one there.
‘Amy.’
She looked up again, no one. Quite obviously another Amy. There were other people here and it was a common enough name. She resumed reading.
‘Oh A_my.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Remember me?’
This time she stood up. She looked out across the gilded balustrade and surveyed the gallery. It wasn’t particularly busy. There was a young couple with two small children; an old woman sat against the wall with her head slumped forward, most probably having forty winks and another younger couple - that were sat a few yards from her - appeared to be in the throes of courtship, completely oblivious to their surroundings. Who could it be? Where were they?
She heard her name again, but this time she grabbed her things and ran straight for the stairs, and as she exited the building she turned back to see if anyone was following her.
Back in the safety of her home she felt calmer now. She collected her thoughts and tried to think clearly about what had happened. Surely she wasn’t being stalked. It had to be some kind of prank. Then she remembered reading something about paranormal activity. There was something about gazing upon Kitchener’s memorial and a sudden chill could be felt, a sign of the resident ghost ‘Whistler’, an elderly clergyman that walks the cathedral. There was also and a woman kneeling in one of the aisles apparently searching for something then disappearing.
She knew she had return. Was someone there or was it a remnant of the past.
T. van Olffen
The Bike
The vicar’s visit recruiting for his Family Guidance team left me pondering. Life was hectic enough juggling a job, lively children, dog and the main concern, a husband to please. Therefore, heeding my mother’s ancient advice on marital affairs, ‘if you have anything unsavoury to impart serve up the meal first’, I waited till we’d done the washing up.
“There’s something I need to tell you”.
“Sounds ominous what have you been up to”.
“Nothing! I’m not the one the bike is visiting most afternoons. The man has been parking the dammed thing down our drive for weeks and I feared that somebody is going to tip you off, give you the wrong idea.”
“You kept that quiet. Am I to assume there’s a bit of hanky-panky afoot next door?”
“Your powers of deduction are enviable. Anyway, apparently the bloke leaving the bike is a big friend of her husband and helping them to decorate. She is keen to assure me that they have never had intercourse. Her word for it! Also that her husband is impotent. And having three children together, is proof only that intercourse has happened three times.”
“I hope you are not bloody naive enough to swallow this fiction”.
Later, conscience comfortably cleared, I settled back to the safety of ignoring the moral values of others. Until chalk white faces resembling a wake turned up next door. Bike, complete with wife and daughter was slowly drinking sherry in my neighbour’s kitchen.
There to help clear up an emotional mess.
The victim in this soap opera had taken an overdose and was due home from the psychiatric ward totally demoralised.
I must contact the vicar.
While I know how not to burn the custard, I’m not so sure about fixing broken wings.
June
‘There’s something I need to tell you…”’
The call came early.
7.40am on a Sunday.
Our son’s birthday.
Jotting details with green biro in the haze
The news hung in the air
Then drifted with inevitable stillness
No rehearsals could touch.
‘Martyn. It’s Rose from the Croft.
Your mum passed away in the night.
Mark discovered her.
The paramedics have just gone.
We are waiting for the police.’
Grief, the price of love,
Makes words fail.
Martyn
Just Yet
‘Listen
There’s something I need to tell you…”
STOP
Do not speak these words
Just yet.
Let me stay awhile, sleeping soft
Under the blissful covers of ignorance,
Protected inside the pregnant pause
Between the syllables of your last word
And the next.
As frost calls HALT to the flowing stream
Let me stay a while, paralysed
Inside the tide
Frozen in time.
Let me stay a while, spinning
Like a child’s top
Humming with rainbow colours, going nowhere.
Like the stillness of
The pendulum on a broken clock
Let me stay forever in this timeless moment.
Wound down to nothing.
Do not speak these words
Just yet.
Larraine
There’s something I need to tell you …
I turned away in a dark corner,
wrapped in a cobwebbed pall.
All I could feel was
absence.
She thrust a large fuchsia box at me.
Stared.
No arguments, just bury them in the garden.
Now.
It was raining hard.
I struggled into my black mac,
searched out the rusty spade and started
carving out the dark soil,
slice by slice.
Our local robin, smart in scarlet
joined me,
shouting and foraging.
The wind-swept rain and wet leaves
shoved at me.
The planting instructions tried to fly out of reach
I caught them on the hop.
It announced parrot tulips,
dozens of them
with coppered skins and frayed, stringy roots,
all wrapped in purple tissue paper.
I placed them in the clean muddy patch
pointy side up.
And then
waited
beginning
to feel .
Something small packed tight with layers
was growing into a carnival of red and white frilled exuberance,
to blow in the Spring
air.
Viv Longley
Alt Control Delete
She bent her head towards him the better to hear the whispered words,
"There's something I need to tell you. The canister was cracked when I found it.”
Then he turned his dear face away and gazed far out towards the hills, travelling in his mind past all the dried-up rivers, the barren fields, the silent trees, over the deserts and the stumps where there used to be rain forests.
“I wrapped it up. Put it in my pocket. Knew if any of the bacterium had escaped …...”
He stopped to gather his last strength.
“Water.” He managed to say. She gave him a sip through a straw.
“Walked into … city.” He went on. “Got ... lift to … roof of …. highest building.”
“You opened the canister. Why?” She said.
“… save the planet”. He said.
Sharyn Owen
To the Headland
They walked over the downs towards the Headland. The sky was pearly pink, flecked with green and blue.
The sheep-grazed grass was changing from emerald to Brunswick Green, as the daylight drained out of it. The light was beginning to fade.
Not long to go till the café with its welcome leaf teas and freshly made scones, with cakes for the easily tempted.
He quickened his pace and she struggled slightly to keep up. The usual word game “Steady Alistair, I’m not quite as young as I was” followed with barely a pause for breath by “and you should take care too after what the doctor told you” and the customary rebuff “nonsense, I’m fit as a fiddle”.
The café was only a hundred yards ahead when he stopped and seemed to stagger slightly. Then he collapsed on the gravel path, groaning softly.
“Oh, Alistair, I told you to take more care”. But she knew these words were worse than useless the moment she uttered them. She was able to pull out her mobile phone which mercifully still had a signal. “We’re on our way” they said.
He was trying to say something. She bent her head towards him, the better to hear the whispered words, "There's something I need to tell you."
” Shush, dear, don’t talk, the ambulance is on its way”
He feebly pulled her closer “Don’t forget the dog’s inoculation”.
“It’s alright darling, everything’s alright” She bent down to hug him as the last flicker of life disappeared from his face.
When she eventually stood up, the soft sea air blew comfortingly across her face while the sun disappeared below the horizon in a shimmering orange glow, the like of which she couldn’t remember.
John Seacome
Listen, there’s something I need to tell you
“What, now?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No. I need to say this.”
“D’you think we could finish our tea first?”
“That’s you all over, isn’t it? Everything will be okay after a cup of tea.”
“I think I know what you’re gonna say. We should drink our tea first.”
“This needs to be said.”
“So you say. But it’s not gonna be those three little words, is it?”
“No. You know it isn’t.”
(PAUSE)
Then let’s finish our tea.
John C.
Random voices emanated from various parts of the whispering gallery. There was a certain eeriness that gave Amy a cold shiver. As she turned the page of her book, she thought she’d heard someone call her name. She looked up, but there was no-one there.
‘Amy.’
She looked up again, no one. Quite obviously another Amy. There were other people here and it was a common enough name. She resumed reading.
‘Oh A_my.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Remember me?’
This time she stood up. She looked out across the gilded balustrade and surveyed the gallery. It wasn’t particularly busy. There was a young couple with two small children; an old woman sat against the wall with her head slumped forward, most probably having forty winks and another younger couple - that were sat a few yards from her - appeared to be in the throes of courtship, completely oblivious to their surroundings. Who could it be? Where were they?
She heard her name again, but this time she grabbed her things and ran straight for the stairs, and as she exited the building she turned back to see if anyone was following her.
Back in the safety of her home she felt calmer now. She collected her thoughts and tried to think clearly about what had happened. Surely she wasn’t being stalked. It had to be some kind of prank. Then she remembered reading something about paranormal activity. There was something about gazing upon Kitchener’s memorial and a sudden chill could be felt, a sign of the resident ghost ‘Whistler’, an elderly clergyman that walks the cathedral. There was also and a woman kneeling in one of the aisles apparently searching for something then disappearing.
She knew she had return. Was someone there or was it a remnant of the past.
T. van Olffen
The Bike
The vicar’s visit recruiting for his Family Guidance team left me pondering. Life was hectic enough juggling a job, lively children, dog and the main concern, a husband to please. Therefore, heeding my mother’s ancient advice on marital affairs, ‘if you have anything unsavoury to impart serve up the meal first’, I waited till we’d done the washing up.
“There’s something I need to tell you”.
“Sounds ominous what have you been up to”.
“Nothing! I’m not the one the bike is visiting most afternoons. The man has been parking the dammed thing down our drive for weeks and I feared that somebody is going to tip you off, give you the wrong idea.”
“You kept that quiet. Am I to assume there’s a bit of hanky-panky afoot next door?”
“Your powers of deduction are enviable. Anyway, apparently the bloke leaving the bike is a big friend of her husband and helping them to decorate. She is keen to assure me that they have never had intercourse. Her word for it! Also that her husband is impotent. And having three children together, is proof only that intercourse has happened three times.”
“I hope you are not bloody naive enough to swallow this fiction”.
Later, conscience comfortably cleared, I settled back to the safety of ignoring the moral values of others. Until chalk white faces resembling a wake turned up next door. Bike, complete with wife and daughter was slowly drinking sherry in my neighbour’s kitchen.
There to help clear up an emotional mess.
The victim in this soap opera had taken an overdose and was due home from the psychiatric ward totally demoralised.
I must contact the vicar.
While I know how not to burn the custard, I’m not so sure about fixing broken wings.
June
‘There’s something I need to tell you…”’
The call came early.
7.40am on a Sunday.
Our son’s birthday.
Jotting details with green biro in the haze
The news hung in the air
Then drifted with inevitable stillness
No rehearsals could touch.
‘Martyn. It’s Rose from the Croft.
Your mum passed away in the night.
Mark discovered her.
The paramedics have just gone.
We are waiting for the police.’
Grief, the price of love,
Makes words fail.
Martyn
Just Yet
‘Listen
There’s something I need to tell you…”
STOP
Do not speak these words
Just yet.
Let me stay awhile, sleeping soft
Under the blissful covers of ignorance,
Protected inside the pregnant pause
Between the syllables of your last word
And the next.
As frost calls HALT to the flowing stream
Let me stay a while, paralysed
Inside the tide
Frozen in time.
Let me stay a while, spinning
Like a child’s top
Humming with rainbow colours, going nowhere.
Like the stillness of
The pendulum on a broken clock
Let me stay forever in this timeless moment.
Wound down to nothing.
Do not speak these words
Just yet.
Larraine
There’s something I need to tell you …
I turned away in a dark corner,
wrapped in a cobwebbed pall.
All I could feel was
absence.
She thrust a large fuchsia box at me.
Stared.
No arguments, just bury them in the garden.
Now.
It was raining hard.
I struggled into my black mac,
searched out the rusty spade and started
carving out the dark soil,
slice by slice.
Our local robin, smart in scarlet
joined me,
shouting and foraging.
The wind-swept rain and wet leaves
shoved at me.
The planting instructions tried to fly out of reach
I caught them on the hop.
It announced parrot tulips,
dozens of them
with coppered skins and frayed, stringy roots,
all wrapped in purple tissue paper.
I placed them in the clean muddy patch
pointy side up.
And then
waited
beginning
to feel .
Something small packed tight with layers
was growing into a carnival of red and white frilled exuberance,
to blow in the Spring
air.
Viv Longley
Alt Control Delete
She bent her head towards him the better to hear the whispered words,
"There's something I need to tell you. The canister was cracked when I found it.”
Then he turned his dear face away and gazed far out towards the hills, travelling in his mind past all the dried-up rivers, the barren fields, the silent trees, over the deserts and the stumps where there used to be rain forests.
“I wrapped it up. Put it in my pocket. Knew if any of the bacterium had escaped …...”
He stopped to gather his last strength.
“Water.” He managed to say. She gave him a sip through a straw.
“Walked into … city.” He went on. “Got ... lift to … roof of …. highest building.”
“You opened the canister. Why?” She said.
“… save the planet”. He said.
Sharyn Owen
To the Headland
They walked over the downs towards the Headland. The sky was pearly pink, flecked with green and blue.
The sheep-grazed grass was changing from emerald to Brunswick Green, as the daylight drained out of it. The light was beginning to fade.
Not long to go till the café with its welcome leaf teas and freshly made scones, with cakes for the easily tempted.
He quickened his pace and she struggled slightly to keep up. The usual word game “Steady Alistair, I’m not quite as young as I was” followed with barely a pause for breath by “and you should take care too after what the doctor told you” and the customary rebuff “nonsense, I’m fit as a fiddle”.
The café was only a hundred yards ahead when he stopped and seemed to stagger slightly. Then he collapsed on the gravel path, groaning softly.
“Oh, Alistair, I told you to take more care”. But she knew these words were worse than useless the moment she uttered them. She was able to pull out her mobile phone which mercifully still had a signal. “We’re on our way” they said.
He was trying to say something. She bent her head towards him, the better to hear the whispered words, "There's something I need to tell you."
” Shush, dear, don’t talk, the ambulance is on its way”
He feebly pulled her closer “Don’t forget the dog’s inoculation”.
“It’s alright darling, everything’s alright” She bent down to hug him as the last flicker of life disappeared from his face.
When she eventually stood up, the soft sea air blew comfortingly across her face while the sun disappeared below the horizon in a shimmering orange glow, the like of which she couldn’t remember.
John Seacome
Listen, there’s something I need to tell you
“What, now?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No. I need to say this.”
“D’you think we could finish our tea first?”
“That’s you all over, isn’t it? Everything will be okay after a cup of tea.”
“I think I know what you’re gonna say. We should drink our tea first.”
“This needs to be said.”
“So you say. But it’s not gonna be those three little words, is it?”
“No. You know it isn’t.”
(PAUSE)
Then let’s finish our tea.
John C.
Whispered words prompt
A very simple prompt this week. Simply read the extract printed in yellow below and take it wherever it leads you. You can respond in either poetry or prose.You can alter the gender of the characters, you can choose your own context; last week's spy story was popular for instance, but please remember that we have a 300 word limit and a Monday 12 pm deadline. Good luck!
She bent her head towards him the better to hear the whispered words, "There's something I need to tell you."
She bent her head towards him the better to hear the whispered words, "There's something I need to tell you."
Cafe de Luxe responses
La collecte
The smell of Parisian coffee drifted along the cobbled streets of Rue du Pot de Fer.
It had been some time since Charles' last visit. Random tables were decked out with tacky glass receptacles containing lumps of wax which one could have illuminated for 5 centimes.
This meeting shouldn’t take long, straight in and straight out.
He sat himself down at one of the empty tables. The chatter and laughter inside the cafe brought a welcome warmth to the chill outside. He placed a well used fedora on the table and took up a newspaper.
A voice asked if the seat at the table was vacant which he dismissed in an aloof manner without even a glance.
‘Do you have a light? I appear to be without.’
This time he looked up.
A young woman stood poised; a slimline cigarette holder lay delicately balanced between two white gloved fingers. His eyes followed the contours of her hourglass body and came to rest at the opposite edge of the table. He slowly reached out and lit the end of her cigarette as he surveyed the scenery.
There wasn’t much missing from where he was sat. So was this his contact? Christ only knows where she could be hiding the exchange. Perhaps this was going to take longer than he’d anticipated.
T. van Olffen
Tate A Tete Madeira
The coach trundled past fields of plantain
ripening in scorching sun. In the distance
Funchal was a hazy spot by the sea as we
made the descent, halting at a tiny village of dry
stone dwellings. Air infused with a tang of
cough mixture emitted from Eucalyptus pines.
Their emerald leaves smeared with powder-blue
bloom, failed to shadow the balcony.
We lazed on a grey-stone wall startled by basking
lizards, who darted over cracks disappearing into
clumps of scarlet flowers.
Down on the waterfront, evenings were spent sauntering
by the harbour where we were encouraged to dine on
moored boats by the smiling boatmen
However, our preferred spot to eat was a secluded
cafe in a quiet street hung with lanterns.
Greeted in by a young woman who wore unobtrusive
customary black clothes. Flickering flames gave the
room a cosy glow, her way of cupping her hands to
light the candle at our table, a touching ritual.
We were offered an aperitif before trying the local
delicacy, the evil looking black skinned fish Espada.
This was cooked to perfection by the woman’s husband
who popped his smiling head out from the kitchen.
Everything presented with loving care.
The walls were dotted with postcards from people
like us who had enjoyed the gentle intimacy of this
enchanting place.
June
The Game
Over by the gilded juke box in Giovanni’s cafe, stand a group of schoolgirls, fresh from an evening speech day. Ties loosened, navy blue blazers draped carelessly over red swivelling bar stools like moulting feathers. Music pulsates as boys gather to stare. Boys with sky-high quiffs, drainpipe trousers and over- sized boots, feigning disinterest as they strain to hear conversations, giggled behind flowing hair.
A young couple at a corner table sip coffee from small transparent cups, as Giovanni hums to the music of his new Espresso machine. Bright lights dance and shimmer across marble surfaces, obscuring the darkening skies outside, like sunshine blots out shadows.
As the town hall clock strikes nine, two leathered bikers burst through the door, strolling across the chess-board floor tiles like knights in armour. The girls reach for their blazers, flying away into the night. The couple drain the last dregs of comfort from their cups and leave without a word. But the quiffed boys stand and wait.
Tension builds hot, like coffee under froth. And the game begins.
Larraine
Tinleys Café, Cathedral Square, Exeter
Wafer-thin flaky pastry, wrapped tightly around salty meat and potato – the best Devon pasty in the county. I was in the comptometer section of the National Provincial Bank next door with a flock of other girls. We worked every third Saturday morning, and were given an extra-long coffee break. We sat on Windsor chairs and were served by waitresses in black dresses with white pinnies. It was usually sunny and the Cathedral facade was calm and bright.
We had milky coffee while we waited for the pasties to arrive on small plates with no garnish. A strange combination of flavours the first time – sweet and sour. The whole place smelled of baking because they made the pasties on the premises and the Danish pastries, Chelsea Buns and cheese straws.
It’s a Pizza Express now but in those days it was Quaint: Parts of the building dated back to the 16th century. We took best view of the historic Cathedral for granted. We were only there for the pasties and the Danish pastries.
Sharyn Owen
Waiting for the Seacat
100 miles back in Carlisle the night had been stormy. We drove in through the harbour security gates, handed in our tickets, definitely no passports, and parked. The entrance hall was full, and not a big place either. Those who could, grabbed a seat and looked stoical. Others just sat on their backpacks and suitcases. Then we noticed our 2.30 sailing was delayed till 7.30. Could we go and view the coastline in the meantime? No, we’d passed security and there was absolutely no way out except by Seacat.
We’d never been to Northern Ireland before. Southern Ireland yes, being greeted by bored customs officers in scruffy jeans and trainers. The uniformed harbour security guards here meant business, and the stout chain-link fence round the harbour reinforced their attitude. We stared through at the free world. The waters in the Loch were still ‘fresh to moderate’, swathed in sea spray.
So we waited, sometimes by the wire, sometimes in the entrance hall. Most of the passengers were returning home. No shouting but always the patient resigned expressions. The paper and gift stand had shut but the amiable feller with the trolley kept up our spirits as he sold us coffee and sandwiches from his rapidly diminishing stock.
Near dusk the Seacat appeared in a majestic cloud of spray and people shifted into their cars or to the passenger-only channel. Like Leviathan it rose off its belly to battle the North Channel beyond Milleur Point on its way to a land of British pillar boxes, road signs and British money, where police drove reinforced Land Rovers, and where Union Jacks were more familiar than hanging baskets, but not where we were heading that rainswept night.
John Seacome
Cafe de Luxe prompt
Read the following extract from Night Boat to Tangier by Kevin Barry
At the Café Central, in the Plaza de la Constitucion, he drank café solo and waited. Around him there was the ceaseless hum of the old Andulusians’ talk. They balled up their napkins and threw them to the tiled floor. The old men spat, narrowing their faces. Their skins of almond shade. The air was blue with cigarette smoke that rose in slow drifts. The old ladies wore ankle-length fur coats for the winter sun. They had high comical arched eyebrows painted on and looked perpetually startled. The coffee machines laughed and spat also. The patrons drank café solo and con leche and cortado and hot chocolate, and ate sugary lengths of long, twisted churros. A woeful fat man from Birmingham arrived just a few minutes late. He had a look of high moral injury as he took a seat opposite Maurice Hearne. His great, fleshy frame came to rest in a soft stack of complaint.
Some people have described this extract as comic; the old Andulusians are grotesque, the ladies are absurd and the "woeful fat man from Birmingham" is incongruously gross. Others have said that it is a masterful depiction designed to repel and discomfort the reader.
The task this week is to produce a piece of poetry or prose based around a cafe. (Remember, those places where you could sit and have a coffee and chat to other people?) This cafe will be vividly portrayed almost the point where the cafe becomes a character in its own right. It may be a place of nostalgia or it may have remained in the memory for more ominous reasons.
(Anyone writing about hand jiving or breaking out into spontaneous dancing the Cliff Richard music on the juke box will be awarded bonus marks.)
Good luck everyone.
At the Café Central, in the Plaza de la Constitucion, he drank café solo and waited. Around him there was the ceaseless hum of the old Andulusians’ talk. They balled up their napkins and threw them to the tiled floor. The old men spat, narrowing their faces. Their skins of almond shade. The air was blue with cigarette smoke that rose in slow drifts. The old ladies wore ankle-length fur coats for the winter sun. They had high comical arched eyebrows painted on and looked perpetually startled. The coffee machines laughed and spat also. The patrons drank café solo and con leche and cortado and hot chocolate, and ate sugary lengths of long, twisted churros. A woeful fat man from Birmingham arrived just a few minutes late. He had a look of high moral injury as he took a seat opposite Maurice Hearne. His great, fleshy frame came to rest in a soft stack of complaint.
Some people have described this extract as comic; the old Andulusians are grotesque, the ladies are absurd and the "woeful fat man from Birmingham" is incongruously gross. Others have said that it is a masterful depiction designed to repel and discomfort the reader.
The task this week is to produce a piece of poetry or prose based around a cafe. (Remember, those places where you could sit and have a coffee and chat to other people?) This cafe will be vividly portrayed almost the point where the cafe becomes a character in its own right. It may be a place of nostalgia or it may have remained in the memory for more ominous reasons.
(Anyone writing about hand jiving or breaking out into spontaneous dancing the Cliff Richard music on the juke box will be awarded bonus marks.)
Good luck everyone.
Goin' Back: Responses to the Prompt
No Goin’ Back
I recognised him in poet’s corner at the library,
scythe, large eye sockets black hoodie.
Nobody else appeared to notice a chill as he hovered close.
We’ve all heard about stalkers no doubt,
so I picked up
“Hope is a Thing with Feathers”
and hastened out.
Later outside the cafe a magpie chanced its luck and
swooped down to grab a crust from the dust.
People spilled out of the Cathedrals’
“Light up a Life” appeal,
filtering the air with ancient candle musk.
I rested on a wall by moss covered flag stones
then sank my teeth into a warm pasty from Greg’s
And faced a gaunt head under a pile of rags slumped
in a doorway, ignored by human ants, busy scrutinising,
picking up bargains.
I spotted the scythe again, poking through mistletoe
outside Mark’s where a busker belted out
“All I want for Christmas Is you”.
I gazed in broken wonder at the charade played out
before me,
And was pulled by a powerful urge to genuflexion
the earth was never so sweet.
Of course he was there as I expected,
Waiting at the pick-up point passed the water display
Standing by the taxi cab
I dropped my baggage on the floor
And stepped right through the open door.
June
Thick Socks and Two Jumpers
My sixth press on the button, accompanied by a prayer, did not have the desired effect. No reassuring pop and whirr, no flickering blue light in the tiny window. Baxi has taken her last breath. Pound signs floated in front of my eyes as I pulled on another jumper.
Hands around a warming mug of tea, I surveyed my redundant fireplace. A vase, candles, a plant. No kindling, no rolled up tapers of the Wakefield Express, no matches. An image of a roaring fire came to mind. Orange, yellow and an occasional blue dancing flame, so hot we had to retreat. A thick curtain over the door to protect us from the howling north easterly. However, Woe betide us if we need a call of nature. Not for us a quick trip up carpeted stairs but a torch lit dash across the yard, A fraught struggle with the latch, an over whelming smell of paraffin from the little lamp ferociously trying to stop the pipes from freezing. I recall the snowflake patterns on the inside of the bedroom windows, as we shivered into our clothes.
Do I want to go back to that time? Perhaps not. I pull on thick socks and two jumpers as I wait for the repair man.
Lyn Graham
The Theatre of Life
I dreamt last night about the theatre of my childhood.
Not decked in Edwardian glamour
no gilt cherubs or swags of flowers.
The foyer was now more glass and shiny metal.
But where were the actors whom I cheered and hissed,
The plot of youth, explicable and reassuring,
The young lads who chased each other
Round the auditorium
whenever the story seemed to flag?
The sweet young actresses whom I dreamed
Duetting with the prettier Principal Boys
How would I see them now?
The dastardly villain who
at the end got his just desserts.
And transformed into a fawning acolyte
And life and optimism filled the palace scene
With happy thoughts to take home
Like a goody bag.
The ice cream tubs and sweet wrappers
Of childhood, concealed under flip-up seats
Now swept away by usherettes.
Some of the cast moved onto further stages.
Many quietly left through life’s stage door.
Unfamiliar scenery and different props
To welcome next week’s sell-out show.
And I don’t have a ticket.
John Seacome
Going Back
1944
Dear Gordon
Thank you for your post card. We’re glad you’re coming back for your birthday. Winnie and Beryl are asking if you have any silk stockings for them. When they went up to London for the celebrations, someone sat Beryl on one of the lions in Trafalgar Square and she nearly fell off. Dad is still working at the Jolly Gardners but he’s lodging there during the week now because the trolleys don’t run late at night and it’s too far to walk back.
Bye for now
Love from Mum
I put the letter in my pocket as I left the ship. It had been a long cold voyage and I was looking forward to going back home.
Since the bus route passed the Jolly Gardners, I decided to call in to see my dad before going home.
A young woman about my age was cleaning glasses behind the bar as I walked in.
‘Is Charlie around?’ I asked.
The young woman pointed to a door at the back of the bar. ‘Through there and up the stairs,’ she said, reaching for a half-smoked cigarette balanced on a nearby ashtray.
To say my dad was surprised was an understatement. His face drained of colour when he saw me.
‘Not a bad room for lodgings,’ I said, looking round at the comfy chairs.
He smiled but seemed edgy. ‘When did you get back? Do they still call you Ginger? D’you want a beer?’
As we sat drinking, a young boy with red hair popped his head round the door.
‘Mum’s back from the shops Dad,’ he said. ‘She says you’re needed in the bar.’
‘Dad?’ I said. ‘Why’s he calling you Dad?’
And that was when my home coming got a lot more interesting.
Larraine
No trousers
Jerking like Andy Pandy,
Flat eye contact with Little Weed,
this is living in a two-d sort of way
in the corner of a room.
If you are not careful you say too much
without opening your mouth.
There is the harried CEO
with a background of snarled coat hangers
on a wardrobe door with a shirt sleeve reaching out.
The camera slicing open the head full of random denials.
And what about the man in the spare room
acting as a studio with cabbage roses all in green
wall to wall,
and an open door from Psycho.
Kitchen to die for complete with mortar and pestle –
granite of course – on a poured and polished concrete work surface.
‘We did it ourselves you know’
Ah, there is Ottolenghi pushed to the front with vintage Elizabeth David.
Bright white chef’s apron, all casual like on the back of a chair.
Nowadays you can buy books by the metre,
colour coded in shades of Save-the-NHS rainbows.
Orange Penguins are very popular.
Apparently.
But some people have twigged,
branching out into alternative realities.
Airbrush make up complete,
hair coiffed at the front.
Shelves behind
just so
with potted plants,
but not so much as to distract
from the staring eyes panning right and left -
and back again,
shifting lip twitch
non synchronous mouthings.
Viv Longley
My time with Herbert George
I leaned back in my rocking chair and wondered how I would approach my next writing task.
As my mind filled with of the writings of those who influenced me - my literary heroes - eyes closed, images of flashing lights flooded through the transparency of my eyelids; then, a strange swirling noise.
Unsure of what may have occurred or even my sanity, slowly, I examined my surroundings.
In a large room, light poured through a massive Georgian window dressed with heavy floor to ceiling curtains. A tall secretary bureau dominated a large wall, filled with books behind glass display doors. What would probably resemble now, a large chair-side, open coffee table, housed some extremely thick volumes.
In the centre of the room sat a large writing desk with a rather distinguished looking gentleman who looked vaguely familiar. I myself appeared to be sat in, what was to me an antique wooden chair.
He turned and looked at me.
Awkwardly I blurted out 'I believe that I've come from the future.'
Completely unperturbed, he asked 'And when in the future world you have come from?'
'That would be two thousand and twenty.' though not so eloquently. But as we spoke, I felt at ease in his presence.
'And what is this future like?'
'Much as you predicted actually. Everything is falling apart.'
'They didn't listen then?'
'No. And they're not listening now either. Could you not try again?'
'Predictions are most often predictions due to the inevitable destructive manner of man and the eventual course he will take.
No amount of philosophical arguments will change the human race, only extinction
or the progression of the next superior race.'
T. van Olffen
Let us go back to Piazza
One day let us go back to Piazza
where sun peers through mist
and its brazen ascent
is tolled by bells.
One day let us go back to Piazza
where racing boys gleam
their bikes against walls and young girls
plot, giggle and scheme.
One day let us go back to Piazza
where the chimney stacks totter
on pantile rooves
and jackdaws clack and scatter.
Let us sit at the pavement caffe
and from silver spoons
take tiny sips of gelato.
Listen to the blow
of the hot air balloon
breaching blue.
Amongst the spray, children caught in dance,
the couples on cobbles take their chance
and the one-armed clock is counting down.
One day, my dear
let us go back
let us go back.
John C.
Goin' Back
Ever wish you could go back? Back to a different age? A different place? A different state of mind? Would you try and change anything? Or would you simply enjoy the moment as you make your return? Is nostalgia deceptive? Or could a return allow you to vent some strong views?
A lot of questions to think about here but have a read of Anna McGarrigle's lyrics and watch and listen to Goin' Back being performed before you start your writing task.
Goin’ Back to Harlan
There were no cuckoos, no sycamores
We played about the forest floor
Underneath the silver maples, the balsams and the sky
We popped the heads off dandelions
Assuming roles from nursery rhymes
Rested on the riverbank and grew up by
And by and grew up by and by
Frail my heart apart
And play me a little shady grove
Ring the bells of Rhymney
Till they ring inside my head forever
Bounce the bow, rock the gallows
For the hangman's reel
And wake the devil from his dream
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
And if you were Willie Moore
And I was Barbara Allen or Fair Ellen
All sad at the cabin door
A-weepin' and a-pinin', for love
A-weepin' and a-pinin', for love
Frail my heart apart
And play me a little shady grove
Ring the bells of rhymney
Till they ring inside my head forever
Bounce the bow, rock the gallows
For the hangman's reel
And wake the devil from his dream
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
Anna McGarrigle
A lot of questions to think about here but have a read of Anna McGarrigle's lyrics and watch and listen to Goin' Back being performed before you start your writing task.
Goin’ Back to Harlan
There were no cuckoos, no sycamores
We played about the forest floor
Underneath the silver maples, the balsams and the sky
We popped the heads off dandelions
Assuming roles from nursery rhymes
Rested on the riverbank and grew up by
And by and grew up by and by
Frail my heart apart
And play me a little shady grove
Ring the bells of Rhymney
Till they ring inside my head forever
Bounce the bow, rock the gallows
For the hangman's reel
And wake the devil from his dream
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
And if you were Willie Moore
And I was Barbara Allen or Fair Ellen
All sad at the cabin door
A-weepin' and a-pinin', for love
A-weepin' and a-pinin', for love
Frail my heart apart
And play me a little shady grove
Ring the bells of rhymney
Till they ring inside my head forever
Bounce the bow, rock the gallows
For the hangman's reel
And wake the devil from his dream
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
I'm goin' back to Harlan
Anna McGarrigle
Prompt No 2: Goin' Back
Fruit
Ode to The Crab-apple
When succulent autumn fruit was heavy on trees in the garden that overlooked our junior school, we couldn’t wait for release by the 4-0’clock bell. We slammed down desk lids and bolted across the yard to the gate. Outside we jousted for bags of crab-apples, sold by the grim-faced orchard man, handing over two hot pennies that had scorched our pant pockets all day. The brown paper bags brimmed with, and spilled out, luscious, rosy crab- apples, plump as a robin’s breast. Across the road the local greengrocer was charging a penny for each russet-falling, after chopping off the bad bits, which meant us getting half an apple. So we thought we were on to a good deal with po-face.
Greedily we bit into firm flesh and embraced the bitter-sweet juice dripping down ink stained fingers.
“Give us one!” other classmates shouted as we tumbled down the road pushing each other.
Then attempting to retain the booty in the bag, with scrunched eyes and wrinkled noses, we catapulted the cores at all and sundry.
Exuberant, we skipped home for tea.
Our guilty pleasure savoured under a crisp October sky.
June
Pear
The pear has a low centre of gravity.
Egg-like, it won’t roll off your plate.
I admire its slender neck
and its soothing taste and texture.
My only quibble is its colour
Speckled, pale-ish greenish yellow
A bit bilious
If it could be crossed with a strawberry
Then it would be even more delicious
and pink
Sharyn Owen
Fruit
Driving down the highway
Windows down
Feeling the soft breeze
Fan the embers of late Summer heat.
He talked of going to Greece in an old taxi next year.
Travelling together; a paradise on wheels.
I smiled but said nothing
He took his hand off the wheel to point to the bag of fruit
We had bought for the journey.
He asked me to peel him an orange.
As if it was nothing much to ask.
But I refused.
Not wanting the messiness on my hands
I suggested an apple might be easier
Or a pear.
He looked surprised, then disappointed.
‘But I want an orange,’ he said.
I gave no answer, no response.
There is always more than one apple in the orchard.
I peel oranges all the time now.
But not for him.
Larraine Harrison
Lemon Tree
The ferry headed down the lake towards the more open southern shore on the edge of the Northern Plain.
The tourist village where they were staying took its name from the lemon groves that used to grow there. They looked back at the village, almost suffocated by the towering mountains behind it. Lovely sunrises but no romantic sunsets there.
The twinkle of the spring sunshine on the lake’s surface was reflected in her lovely brown eyes, which seemed brighter than they’d done recently. He nudged closer to her and squeezed her hand. She didn’t squeeze back.
The boat docked at the old fortified town on the southern shore. ‘Let’s find somewhere quiet’ she said.
They sat under a tree in the already stifling heat.
‘I’m leaving you’ she said. ‘He’s coming from Malpensa Airport to pick me up and we’re heading off to his villa in Tuscany. I’ve arranged for the hotel to send my stuff on.’
She pecked him lightly on the cheek and vanished into the crowd leaving him rooted to the seat with shock and disbelief.
She’d always had that teasing look in her eyes which he couldn’t resist. She seemed to agree with his opinions and tastes in everything. They’d got to know each other several months ago and this Italian trip was meant to consummate their relationship. Perhaps she’d come back now, but she didn’t.
Eventually at a nearby café he ordered a cappuccino and cheesecake, as they’d missed breakfast. Then the music started. He remembered it from his parents’ LP collection. A song by Peter, Paul and Mary.
‘Lemon tree is very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet; but the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat’.
He pushed away the lemon-flavoured cheesecake and lit a cigarette.
John Seacome
When succulent autumn fruit was heavy on trees in the garden that overlooked our junior school, we couldn’t wait for release by the 4-0’clock bell. We slammed down desk lids and bolted across the yard to the gate. Outside we jousted for bags of crab-apples, sold by the grim-faced orchard man, handing over two hot pennies that had scorched our pant pockets all day. The brown paper bags brimmed with, and spilled out, luscious, rosy crab- apples, plump as a robin’s breast. Across the road the local greengrocer was charging a penny for each russet-falling, after chopping off the bad bits, which meant us getting half an apple. So we thought we were on to a good deal with po-face.
Greedily we bit into firm flesh and embraced the bitter-sweet juice dripping down ink stained fingers.
“Give us one!” other classmates shouted as we tumbled down the road pushing each other.
Then attempting to retain the booty in the bag, with scrunched eyes and wrinkled noses, we catapulted the cores at all and sundry.
Exuberant, we skipped home for tea.
Our guilty pleasure savoured under a crisp October sky.
June
Pear
The pear has a low centre of gravity.
Egg-like, it won’t roll off your plate.
I admire its slender neck
and its soothing taste and texture.
My only quibble is its colour
Speckled, pale-ish greenish yellow
A bit bilious
If it could be crossed with a strawberry
Then it would be even more delicious
and pink
Sharyn Owen
Fruit
Driving down the highway
Windows down
Feeling the soft breeze
Fan the embers of late Summer heat.
He talked of going to Greece in an old taxi next year.
Travelling together; a paradise on wheels.
I smiled but said nothing
He took his hand off the wheel to point to the bag of fruit
We had bought for the journey.
He asked me to peel him an orange.
As if it was nothing much to ask.
But I refused.
Not wanting the messiness on my hands
I suggested an apple might be easier
Or a pear.
He looked surprised, then disappointed.
‘But I want an orange,’ he said.
I gave no answer, no response.
There is always more than one apple in the orchard.
I peel oranges all the time now.
But not for him.
Larraine Harrison
Lemon Tree
The ferry headed down the lake towards the more open southern shore on the edge of the Northern Plain.
The tourist village where they were staying took its name from the lemon groves that used to grow there. They looked back at the village, almost suffocated by the towering mountains behind it. Lovely sunrises but no romantic sunsets there.
The twinkle of the spring sunshine on the lake’s surface was reflected in her lovely brown eyes, which seemed brighter than they’d done recently. He nudged closer to her and squeezed her hand. She didn’t squeeze back.
The boat docked at the old fortified town on the southern shore. ‘Let’s find somewhere quiet’ she said.
They sat under a tree in the already stifling heat.
‘I’m leaving you’ she said. ‘He’s coming from Malpensa Airport to pick me up and we’re heading off to his villa in Tuscany. I’ve arranged for the hotel to send my stuff on.’
She pecked him lightly on the cheek and vanished into the crowd leaving him rooted to the seat with shock and disbelief.
She’d always had that teasing look in her eyes which he couldn’t resist. She seemed to agree with his opinions and tastes in everything. They’d got to know each other several months ago and this Italian trip was meant to consummate their relationship. Perhaps she’d come back now, but she didn’t.
Eventually at a nearby café he ordered a cappuccino and cheesecake, as they’d missed breakfast. Then the music started. He remembered it from his parents’ LP collection. A song by Peter, Paul and Mary.
‘Lemon tree is very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet; but the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat’.
He pushed away the lemon-flavoured cheesecake and lit a cigarette.
John Seacome
Prompt No 1: Fruit
Her Favourite Fruit
Disregarding the wanton pleasure
of juice rolling down the chin,
apples were always her favourite fruit.
With firm white flesh and blemish-free skin
she found a role which would suit
not as a granny named smith but a lady in pink,
well able to keep the doctor away
if not the temptation to sin
that in her garden lay.
Simon Howarth
A Bag of Tangerines
About a dozen tangerines fell
out of my blue shopping bag
and rolled down the bus aisle.
That made them smile, though
it was only a bag of tangerines
rolling down the aisle.
A gentleman in a white tunic
handed me four at a time,
the lady next to me stooped down
and scooped up a few,
the bus driver slowed right down:
“Are they limes?” “No,
they’re mandarins, tangerines –
a little bruised now.”
Rebecca O'Connor
Thursday Zoom Prompt. 5.11.20.
Today's prompt is easy enough. It's simply fruit. Treat the prompt how you like; a light-hearted view of someone's favourite fruit or fruit as the source of someone's social embarrassment. Or take a totally different direction. It's up to you. Poetry or prose (300 word limit) Time is limited though. Please get your responses to me by midnight on Sunday 8th Nov and I'll post them in time for next week's zoom call.
Disregarding the wanton pleasure
of juice rolling down the chin,
apples were always her favourite fruit.
With firm white flesh and blemish-free skin
she found a role which would suit
not as a granny named smith but a lady in pink,
well able to keep the doctor away
if not the temptation to sin
that in her garden lay.
Simon Howarth
A Bag of Tangerines
About a dozen tangerines fell
out of my blue shopping bag
and rolled down the bus aisle.
That made them smile, though
it was only a bag of tangerines
rolling down the aisle.
A gentleman in a white tunic
handed me four at a time,
the lady next to me stooped down
and scooped up a few,
the bus driver slowed right down:
“Are they limes?” “No,
they’re mandarins, tangerines –
a little bruised now.”
Rebecca O'Connor
Thursday Zoom Prompt. 5.11.20.
Today's prompt is easy enough. It's simply fruit. Treat the prompt how you like; a light-hearted view of someone's favourite fruit or fruit as the source of someone's social embarrassment. Or take a totally different direction. It's up to you. Poetry or prose (300 word limit) Time is limited though. Please get your responses to me by midnight on Sunday 8th Nov and I'll post them in time for next week's zoom call.
Jane Isabel
She left us slowly.
She didn’t want to go.
She was the chatelaine, complete
with polish and yellow Marigolds.
Windows shone,
fires kicked up the chimneys
then embered neatly in the grate.
Brasses submitted to scouring and glowed.
The scent of beeswax tinctured with lavender
slept on the surfaces.
Hedgerow fruit trapped in glowing jars
serried next to chutneys in the second larder
but below the vinegared shallots,
sharp with acetic acid
that could cut your throat down to size
any time they wanted.
She faltered, stumbled over her life,
and left on Midsummer’s day.
For a while the Hoover looked anxious.
Then curtains began to droop, spiders spun,
ivy swam boldly under the window frames.
Mice no longer turned to stone from a single stare
but wandered the house, casting for a part in Cinderella,
nesting in the stacked linens.
The house was no longer a home.
Viv Longley
Full Circle
It’s a jump in the car sort of day
It’ s a What If? day
What if we head south
and schooner across the channel,
turn left on the other side.
What if we follow the waters-edge
Into the grey countries
Over long bridges
Across steppes
As far as the tundra
Until we see blue ice floes
Polar bears and Northern lights?
What if we ski down to the fjords?
Ride a sleigh, wrapped in furs,
drawn by horses,
Saunter onto an over-warm ferry
Get burgers and beers
Read the English papers
And return
Full-circle?
Sharyn Owen
An Abnormal Normal
We looked forward to the return to normality
Instead we saw the return of Covid 19.
We can now look forward not to the
return of normal
but to a new normal.
This new normal has no shape as yet
It has to be drawn as life unfolds
Over the weeks, months or is it years
Shaping, designing, building
of a new normal
What is normal I wonder as I recall the
concept of the normal family
that people believe is not theirs
but people we haven’t
met. The normal family
Now though we don’t meet in families
but in pods like peas or beans.
But then we are all green
in the face of the serial killer
called Covid 19
Gwyneth Brown
Please Hear Me Out
The room needs dusting, but that can wait. I’m finishing my lunchtime coffee, feet up, in my chair and trawling through TV. I stop on a channel. The faces are familiar; I used to watch this ages ago.
Oh dear! What has happened to them? Everything is taut, pulled, plumped – unnatural. They look, dare I say it, all alike. It isn’t just the ladies either, the male guest has been ‘got at’ too.
Girls, girls what have you done it. Is someone blackmailing you? Is an agent predicting a dire future if certain ’procedures’ aren’t followed?
I remember when you used to laugh and there were laughter lines. You smiled and the little crinkles came round your eyes. If you were worried, others could pick up on it because your brow was ‘furrowed’. Now where has all the emotion expressed so beautifully by nature gone? There is no motion to show the emotion.
And your next guest, she won a talent competition at 21. She is not being herself, she being Instagrammed. Her eyebrows would make Groucho Marx proud and her top lip, in profile, looks like a ski jump.
This all seems like a type of self-harming; it is just that the scars are hidden, but maybe the reasons are still the same. I know that the mental health people have coined the phrase “It’s OK to be not OK”. Maybe I can paraphrase “It’s OK to be the you, you are”.
I just want to hug you all and say STOP now. Stop filling your bodies with poison. Stop having unnecessary operations. Stop pandering to agents, producers, casting people and social media. Reclaim yourselves. You are so much more than a face or body.
Practise being the strong women you all claim to be. Love yourselves more.
Lesley
Harvest Home
Do you remember when
Life seemed endless
Uncertainty our single guarantee?
The horizon bounded only by
The salmon sky beyond the rising sun.
Timid shoots arising from milk chocolate fields.
Now the golden dust of harvest
Tempers the radiance of summer
The thresher has finished for the day
The wheat ejected into servant trucks.
The bales of straw scattered like
Upended packs of sugar cubes.
Cute-eared field mice roam
in search of winter quarters
in some domestic garage.
On the gentle rise the flinty church
has witnessed this so many times before.
Peering sternly from above a stand of trees,
dark green now edged with rust and ochre.
“What a nice day it’s been”
“Yes, not a bad summer,
Not bad at all.”
Time we were home
To water runner beans
Before the autumnal dark arrives.
Eyeing the crumbs of lemon cheesecake
The dregs of second cups of tea.
We must return here sometime soon.
John Seacome
The Day After
Crows circle the roof.
I silence my phone
pull on trainers
run, pant ,run...flee platitude.
By the lake in the park, hide
breathless, beneath a willow.
In the hush a distant cornet
floats a plaintive note
I close my eyes
Rewind
Amongst the honeysuckle and bees,
you and I become we again.
June
The Knight
Armed with tin buckets and spades,
We trudged crusade-like across damp sand,
Clutching paper flags destined for proud turrets.
Adults with rolled up trousers staked out the pitch,
Setting striped deckchairs in rows
like heraldic banners.
We settled into our camp with forays
Into the crowds, seeking the best site
For a sandcastle.
Charging to and from the sea
Our goose-fleshed arms ferried buckets
Of water for the thirsty moat.
Until an adult voice cried out,
Loud and anguished.
Stopping in a moment, the building of sandcastles.
Frantic searching, running, calling.
Asking, ‘Have you seen her?
Four years old with curly hair?’
The crying and the blaming.
The race to find the Lost and Found.
And there she was, sitting, smiling.
Brought there by a kindly knight
Who found her wandering amongst the castles.
Larraine Harrison
She left us slowly.
She didn’t want to go.
She was the chatelaine, complete
with polish and yellow Marigolds.
Windows shone,
fires kicked up the chimneys
then embered neatly in the grate.
Brasses submitted to scouring and glowed.
The scent of beeswax tinctured with lavender
slept on the surfaces.
Hedgerow fruit trapped in glowing jars
serried next to chutneys in the second larder
but below the vinegared shallots,
sharp with acetic acid
that could cut your throat down to size
any time they wanted.
She faltered, stumbled over her life,
and left on Midsummer’s day.
For a while the Hoover looked anxious.
Then curtains began to droop, spiders spun,
ivy swam boldly under the window frames.
Mice no longer turned to stone from a single stare
but wandered the house, casting for a part in Cinderella,
nesting in the stacked linens.
The house was no longer a home.
Viv Longley
Full Circle
It’s a jump in the car sort of day
It’ s a What If? day
What if we head south
and schooner across the channel,
turn left on the other side.
What if we follow the waters-edge
Into the grey countries
Over long bridges
Across steppes
As far as the tundra
Until we see blue ice floes
Polar bears and Northern lights?
What if we ski down to the fjords?
Ride a sleigh, wrapped in furs,
drawn by horses,
Saunter onto an over-warm ferry
Get burgers and beers
Read the English papers
And return
Full-circle?
Sharyn Owen
An Abnormal Normal
We looked forward to the return to normality
Instead we saw the return of Covid 19.
We can now look forward not to the
return of normal
but to a new normal.
This new normal has no shape as yet
It has to be drawn as life unfolds
Over the weeks, months or is it years
Shaping, designing, building
of a new normal
What is normal I wonder as I recall the
concept of the normal family
that people believe is not theirs
but people we haven’t
met. The normal family
Now though we don’t meet in families
but in pods like peas or beans.
But then we are all green
in the face of the serial killer
called Covid 19
Gwyneth Brown
Please Hear Me Out
The room needs dusting, but that can wait. I’m finishing my lunchtime coffee, feet up, in my chair and trawling through TV. I stop on a channel. The faces are familiar; I used to watch this ages ago.
Oh dear! What has happened to them? Everything is taut, pulled, plumped – unnatural. They look, dare I say it, all alike. It isn’t just the ladies either, the male guest has been ‘got at’ too.
Girls, girls what have you done it. Is someone blackmailing you? Is an agent predicting a dire future if certain ’procedures’ aren’t followed?
I remember when you used to laugh and there were laughter lines. You smiled and the little crinkles came round your eyes. If you were worried, others could pick up on it because your brow was ‘furrowed’. Now where has all the emotion expressed so beautifully by nature gone? There is no motion to show the emotion.
And your next guest, she won a talent competition at 21. She is not being herself, she being Instagrammed. Her eyebrows would make Groucho Marx proud and her top lip, in profile, looks like a ski jump.
This all seems like a type of self-harming; it is just that the scars are hidden, but maybe the reasons are still the same. I know that the mental health people have coined the phrase “It’s OK to be not OK”. Maybe I can paraphrase “It’s OK to be the you, you are”.
I just want to hug you all and say STOP now. Stop filling your bodies with poison. Stop having unnecessary operations. Stop pandering to agents, producers, casting people and social media. Reclaim yourselves. You are so much more than a face or body.
Practise being the strong women you all claim to be. Love yourselves more.
Lesley
Harvest Home
Do you remember when
Life seemed endless
Uncertainty our single guarantee?
The horizon bounded only by
The salmon sky beyond the rising sun.
Timid shoots arising from milk chocolate fields.
Now the golden dust of harvest
Tempers the radiance of summer
The thresher has finished for the day
The wheat ejected into servant trucks.
The bales of straw scattered like
Upended packs of sugar cubes.
Cute-eared field mice roam
in search of winter quarters
in some domestic garage.
On the gentle rise the flinty church
has witnessed this so many times before.
Peering sternly from above a stand of trees,
dark green now edged with rust and ochre.
“What a nice day it’s been”
“Yes, not a bad summer,
Not bad at all.”
Time we were home
To water runner beans
Before the autumnal dark arrives.
Eyeing the crumbs of lemon cheesecake
The dregs of second cups of tea.
We must return here sometime soon.
John Seacome
The Day After
Crows circle the roof.
I silence my phone
pull on trainers
run, pant ,run...flee platitude.
By the lake in the park, hide
breathless, beneath a willow.
In the hush a distant cornet
floats a plaintive note
I close my eyes
Rewind
Amongst the honeysuckle and bees,
you and I become we again.
June
The Knight
Armed with tin buckets and spades,
We trudged crusade-like across damp sand,
Clutching paper flags destined for proud turrets.
Adults with rolled up trousers staked out the pitch,
Setting striped deckchairs in rows
like heraldic banners.
We settled into our camp with forays
Into the crowds, seeking the best site
For a sandcastle.
Charging to and from the sea
Our goose-fleshed arms ferried buckets
Of water for the thirsty moat.
Until an adult voice cried out,
Loud and anguished.
Stopping in a moment, the building of sandcastles.
Frantic searching, running, calling.
Asking, ‘Have you seen her?
Four years old with curly hair?’
The crying and the blaming.
The race to find the Lost and Found.
And there she was, sitting, smiling.
Brought there by a kindly knight
Who found her wandering amongst the castles.
Larraine Harrison
