Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Two poems

19th September 2019

I can't believe this was 5 years ago. Where does the time go?

Must get and write some new poetry.

Went to a great afternoon at the Gulbenkian - a Masterclass with the amazing Joelle Taylor, poet extraordinaire!!!

She describes herself as :
 poet, spoken word artist, playwright, novelist and cultural terrorist(not sure what that means).
You can find her online.

So, here are my two poems from that day. I did some collaborative pieces too but will only post my own for now.

 Smoke seeps into the skin of waiting saviours,
creeping into their nostrils,
They call to her,
"Come on, you can do it, we'll catch you.."
"I can't, my baby," She screeches,
ghostly, with the voice of her ancestors,
"Take her first!"
She throws the startled creature through the air,
Limbs like sticks, wide eyed.- he travels in slow motion,
Plop, into the arms of a burley bear of manhood.
Again they call, cheer her on,
Now she jumps, relief that she has already gone before.
A flatfish, splayed, limbs free, she falls,
into the outstretched arms of the guilty,
While the building burns on.


This old building needs restoring,
After long grey years,
Scarred with use and abuse.
It's concrete slabs crumbling,
It's broken windows of shattered dreams ,
Vacant eyes staring.
Shape a scaffold with crane and forklift...
And mascara  ...
Cover the cracks, the tracks
Made by tears that smacks
of fears -
who hears anyway.
Fill in the holes of memory loss,
Though no one  gives a toss,
That it's going that way.
Repaint the facade of this body .
Scrub white the green slime ,
The pain of disappointment,
And stand tall again,
Proud to be noticed.

Hope you liked these.

I want to write another poem about war.
I have an idea. Just need to do some research.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014


At last, I am able to access my blog. Such a faff having to remember passwords, different email addresses  etc . There must be an easier way. And every time I write things down and "save" them, because I am so forgetful, I forget where I have put the written reminder. ARRRGGHHH !!!!.

Well, anyway, I'm here now.

I wanted to tell you about the exercise we had for last week in our Creative Writing group.
It was the topic of FOOD.
Well, all those who know me know that that was right up my street.
And there were so many places you could go with it.
Historic, national, nutritional, nurturing, psychological, emotional etc etc.

It got me thinking about so many things, from growing your own veg and how delectable they taste - sweet and fresh carrots and tomatoes, beautiful earthy beetroot, young tingly peas.
Then having to go on a diet with less saturated fat because of cholesterol. Worry about family members eating too much or too little.

Such a lot of our life revolves around food.

Well, I did write something as I found that for me the main thing was what food means to my memories of relationships. So here it is:

Thinking of food brings to mind a gustatory feast of memories. From the strong sense of nostalgia with bacon, cabbage and flowery potatoes dripping with lip smacking Irish butter and accompanied by brown sauce,  reminding me of my grandmother, to Sunday roast at my parents where the delectable aroma of beef wafted from the kitchen and we felt comfortably bloated after eating too much. It was my mother’s custom to entice us with a hearty meal, especially since she’d gone hungry as a child herself. This happy family time around the table was her way of loving. I also like to nourish the family well and enjoy nothing better than seeing as many as possible gathered round our table.
An all inclusive holiday in Turkey with husband and three teenage boys with hollow legs was definitely all about the food. Such choice and variety in itself was a treat but best of all, it was relaxing for me and whilst they ate as much as they liked they  never once asked “what is there to eat?” .
Camping Toast.
Crouching, huddled together, still as stone, we watch the deer. Our breathing, quiet and shallow is the only sound.  It is the first week of June and we are on our annual camping holiday in the New Forrest. We were up with the sun, wellies on, trudging through the dew, the silence only broken by the crackling of twigs underfoot. Gently we creep through the clearing.  There’s never anybody about at this time of the morning and we love to get that fresh, healthy start to the day.  
After an hour or so wandering in the woods, spotting wildlife and walking by small brooks we return to the tent. It’s early and people are still asleep. We all get busy – one fetches water, one finds the bread, another, the butter and knives. The kettle boiling, Dad starts toasting. The trivet is old and rusty now but does the job well. It takes three pieces at a time placed precariously against it. Sometimes a piece falls off. Often Dad has to move the slices around so that they are more evenly toasted. Our mouths water as we inhale the charcoal, smokey smell and we eagerly wait to eat.  Butter melts quickly into our delicious, hot breakfast. As we bite into each slice, some parts dark and crispy, others white and soft, the velvety delight drips down the side of our mouths whilst we try to save it with fingers that now taste rich and creamy.
There is nothing like it. Children who don’t eat toast normally, ask for more until we run out and promise to buy twice as much tomorrow, especially as Dad got only one.  Just saying the words “camping toast” in the family setting , stirs up, years later, longings for that close, warm time we had  together.

Hope you like it. 
Don't forget to share my blog and make a comment at the same time. What is your relationship with food???