It is less than a month until family members arrive from the UK for a five weeks holiday. I’m taking a month off from work to coincide with our relatives’ arrival. Both were postponed due to COVID.
My husband has repainted most of the interior of the house and is busy reinventing the covered patio. Fingers crossed, the insulated ceiling panels will have been installed to help shield us from the heat of the Queensland sun in Spring, Summer, and Autumn. Spring officially sprang in Australia on 1 September.
Winter is tax time. Usually a time of extreme procrastination, we knocked off one lot last weekend, it’s now with the accountant. Just the personal returns to complete next weekend.
My enthusiasm for things, like the phases of the moon waxes and wanes. The poet authoring part of my brain has already downed tools. It may make a grab for them again soon, one never knows. With this in mind, I’m taking a break from podcasting and creating audio files.
I aim to continue weekly blogging with the odd picture thrown in for good measure. This week’s is a cloud self portrait sketch.
In my haste to leave the house for work on Thursday, I left my phone at home. The 50 minutes commute in quiet contemplation went surprisingly quickly.
The return journey was spent squeezed between the sharpest armrest and a person who couldn’t seem to get comfortable in a seat with barely enough room for one person let alone sharing it with me and my portly stature.
Prior to sitting, they asked if I was saving the part seat next to me for someone. Could they sit down? I was flustered being in the middle of retrieving things I had spilled on the floor from my back pack. Hurriedly, I said of course, of course!
They seemed to be on a mission to call every person in their contacts with the same questions: What are you doing? What did you do last weekend? What are you doing this weekend?
Somehow, I managed to sketch ideas for variations on a self portrait I’m planning to paint in watercolour. The break from the phone provided space for inspiration to move me forward.
In keeping with last week’s water theme, the following is a poem entitled, More Precious than Diamonds. I wrote it ten years ago, against a background of drought.
Delicious drops of dew glisten in the
Cool light of dawn, slowly, slowly, dripping
From leaf from bud from twig. Clouds speed above,
Drizzle foreshadows a downpour, to drench
Landscape wide. Streams and brooks rush, swell, rise, run
Into rivers, flooding deltas, breaking
Free, flowing out to sea to oceans deep.
Dive into life giving blue, cleanse body
And spirit, swim west to sway with undines.
Grasp the chalice of aitch two oh. Deeply
Drink to link with Druids of old and new.
Oft’ used for scrying by many a seer
To reflect and look from seen to unseen.
More precious than diamonds, worth guarding well!
Below is a recording of me reciting this post including the poem.
When I write poetry, an idea seeds, lines sprout, grow forth and, bloom as if in shadow. At this point, I often haven’t decided on the form the poem will take.
During the 50 minutes’ commute to and from work, two to three days per week, I tap away with two thumbs on my iPhone 6 keyboard, typing into the Simplenote app.
Frenetically, refining, rewriting, and rearranging. Persistence and revisiting are key in wrangling with each word. The fingers of my right hand tap out the rhythm and count of each line on my right leg.
Reflecting on my writing is a strange experience as I’m no longer in the author head space. As a spectator, I often wonder how I managed to get the creation into the form it’s in.
Currently, I’m wrestling with unexpectedly challenging, auto biographical poems from before and after Fort Royal Fakery. In the mean time, this poem is one of my favourites. I like the way the words describe speed, force, and momentum of water.
Being born in the year of the Chinese water rabbit, with a Myers Briggs’ introverted feeling personality type, bodies of water calm, enliven, and sustain me.
When I saw the 1995 movie, Waterworld, it struck me that this dystopian future was a little too close to reality for comfort. It portrays the impact on humanity after the Earth’s polar ice has melted.
Whilst I have an affinity with water, I prefer to observe or swim in it rather than sail upon it.
You can read more about my creative journey on my blog theINFP.com.
The following poem, composed in 2019 is entitled
Scarce resource
Pouring down, hitting ground; transmutating.
Seeps slowly underground, no abating.
Gradually following gravity’s pull,
Channelled torrents churn to violently mull.
Cascading courses entwine, clashing. This
Roaring deluge crashes with a hiss.
Omnidirectional mist, high and low.
Fleetingly dancing, riding to and fro,
On gentle cavern’s zephyr, in the dark;
No living creature to watch or to hark.
Droplets traverse the void of chasm, old.
Catching hold, dingle dangle, dripping cold.
Rivulets forming, trickling, finding pass,
Slowly towards the edge, achieving mass.
Flowing from upon high to splash below.
Tinkling then momentary ripples show,
Moving across slow ebbing surface, creep.
Joining still amorphic pool, running deep.
Below is a recording of my recitation of the poem, comments will be gratefully received.
The other day one of my blogger friends, Larry Muffin at Home asked, how long I had been writing poetry.
My poetic epiphanies began at secondary school in the seventies, against a teenage background of gorging on horror, witchcraft, and haunting novels, researching paranormal non-fiction, and watching Hammer House of Horror movies.
In my mind, I wrote a serious poem about vampires. It was heavily edited, presumably to suit the appetite of my peers, and published in the school magazine as ‘Stake and Chaps’. My disappointment was extremely demotivating, I did not make another attempt for around fifteen years.
Inspired in the early nineties by regiments of sunflowers in various stages of decay in the Loire region of France, multiple A4 pages were penned. Regrettably, the first two poems are lost.
Fast forward to 17 September 2012, with much trepidation and gnashing of teeth my WordPress blog was born.
A solid soul in the blogosphere, Kozo began a monthly, Bloggers for Peace (B4Peace) challenge. Being inspired by his posts on Everyday Gurus, I wrote and published my first sonnet on 6 January 2013. Sadly, Kozo’s spirit has flown from our earthly plain. In Kozo’s memory, I have adopted his virtual {{{HUGS}}}.
Ten years on, the picture of my husband’s hands above are still the kindest I know.
Reflecting on the structure of the 2013 poem, I am unsure where I got the idea of writing a sonnet of 13 lines. It mostly has an iambic pentameter rhythm. I suspect, I drafted it with the idea of meeting a self imposed deadline then reordered the sentences to sound better. The considerate comments from bloggers at the time, reassured me that I was on the right track with my poems.
The following is an edited version of the sonnet, Kindness.
It’s a self fulfilling state of being, Not to be switched on and off; to be kind, It needs active listening, patience, seeing, Compassion, caring, and presence of mind.
I find heartfelt intent enriches the soul, And being empathetic holds the key, Altruistic respectfulness, the goal. Reflect on your deeds, feedback is free!
A whispering within the breeze is heard, Carrying a message from the divine, ‘Use feather’s touch of kindly hands and words, Bring forth light from within to share, to shine’,
Be aware to care, go the extra mile; Kindness can simply be a gentle smile.
Late ‘80s; underground ‘private’ clubs, grubby pubs; Inversion is hidden away in plainest sight, Now legal, nonetheless, socially perilous, Femininity’s locked away without a key.
Second quadrennial ‘affair’*; entitled chap, Of Lytham Saint Anne’s, Lancashire stock, don’t you know? Exploiting connections, airs and graces galore, Drawn to fine foods, wines, kudos, fast cars, excitement. I’m rendered servile in the presence of elite.
Joint tenants, red brick, Victorian, end terrace, I name it, ‘Willow House’, though no willow in sight. Small metal gate opens onto a brief brick path, Slate stone threshold, kitsch half moon pane, crimson front door, Above, oblong fanlight with cathedral glimpses!
Light touch renovation; clean, clear seal ground floor boards, Dip internal doors to strip away life’s layers, Swap sixties tiled slabs for period fireplaces, Hey presto! Urban townhouse to rural cottage.
First floor back bedroom, mine if his parents ask us. Door’s ajar. Visitors staying, florist and beau, Discover him reclining naked on the bed, Brawny quintessential physique, bubble bum, Fine downy coating, glinting in afternoon sun. Quietly, slip away, sure he doesn’t see me. Later on, I’m the butt of jokes over shared drinks.
Weekend, apricot moire, papered parlour scene: Stiff deco walnut armchairs; one pound auction find, Afront, gold veined black painted faux marbled fireplace, Aside, light stone topped, tiled washstand, reused for booze, Over, gilt framed, Venetian Canaletto prints, Chaise in bay window, birds of paradise flowers, Aback, heavy floral chintz curtains, swags and tails, News sheets strewn across Pratley’s ivory Chinese rug Abutting, an artichoke Lusty Lloyd Loom leg; Cafetière doesn’t steam away morning’s chill.
Sand dining room; dust motes shimmering in sunshine, Shafting below partly closed weighty Roman blind, Dressed with vintage burgundy velvet drapery. Beyond, rear narrow walled plot, poppies are in bloom. Satisfying nostril tickling, scents of freshly Waxed antique pine furniture, and lavender waft From bunches hanging upside down in the kitchen. Happily home alone, sipping cup of Earl Grey, Reflecting on ‘Shout, shout, let it all out, these are the things I can do without’.
Away from the formal, descend short flight, turn right, Heart quickens, take care, ignore the rarely used door, Behind lies coal cellar, where light’s absorbed by dank, Dark, under foreroom and hall, too scary to face. Forth, equidistant verdant serpentine vines climb, Sprouting lemon and azure blooms in low ceilinged, Subterranean sanctuary, inherent gloom.
Pause.
Fluorescent tubes flood, mortuary white, revealing Mid twenties magpie snob, squandering time and cash, Amass finery tuppenny-ha’penny means. Ranging death in a basket, hot glue blisters, burns, Potpourri of skills, emotional scars to learn. Monday to Friday, big smoke commute, fall in line To fund unnecessarily larger new house.
*I find it bizarrely intriguing, the word affair was used to describe one’s boyfriend e.g. ‘there he goes with his affair’.
Your satin coarseness stimulates my digit tips. My nervous system fires, enflaming forearms, cheeks, And, back of my throat tickles…..nails down a chalkboard; Irritation, balanced with gratification.
My lips enjoy your silkiness afore sipping.
Thank you, from your admirer, theINFP.
Apple podcast search theINFP to listen to me reciting the poem below:
For the past few weeks, I have been wrestling with writing a poem. It is one of the longest so far. Perhaps next week it will finally be ready to share.
I recently came across these pictures of a young me, mid ‘80s at night school in Birmingham. I was fortunate to be able to go back to study with the person who inspired me to pot at secondary school, Lyn Chatwin.
Part of the base blew off in the biscuit firing of this Medusa inspired coiled creation. I did not risk a second glaze firing, opting to spray paint it instead.
On Tuesday 27 June 2023, my mother would have been eighty eight years old. She used to joke about being the embodiment of war and peace; Eirene was the Greek goddess of peace whilst Edith comes from the Old English Eadgyð, encompassing the elements ead, meaning “riches” or “blessed,” and gyð, meaning “war.”
To me, my mother was a fearsome presence who took up the mantle of raising three sons and contributing to the lives of her grandchildren and the British Polio Fellowship with selfless determination and pride.
As a no nonsense let’s sort this out persons, Mom resolved the question of my secondary school by going to the headquarters of the Birmingham Education Department and not leaving until she had confirmation, I was not going to the local one with a reputation of high levels of bullying.
From an early age, Mom encouraged us to pursue our interests. There was no judgement from her when as a child, I created a teddy bear bridal parade using a pale blue nylon and polyester night dress she had donated for me to use. When at a loss at what I wanted to ‘do’ at a meeting with the career advisor at secondary school, Mom said gently, ‘you like making cakes, Rob’; the decision was made, catering college was the next step.
My husband and the grandchildren brought out a softer affectionate side to Mom’s resolute force.
She insisted on keeping an immaculately clean home. During school holidays our chores included washing the skirting boards and architraves throughout the house.
Mom graciously welcomed guests sharing what she had even though her meagre weekly budget had to be tightly managed.
Through sheer determination, Mom contradicted the prognosis of doctors who said she would never sit up unaided, let alone walk after contracting polio at eighteen months old. Mom refused to visit Stratford-on-Avon as it was believed the river Avon was the source of her infection.
Not giving into the restrictions of her body was part of Mom’s being. Mom wore a full caliper (leg brace) on the left leg to take the weight of the left side of her body.
One of Mom’s stories recounted a day during the Second World War when she jumped into a hole, breaking the caliper. Back then the NHS (National Health Service) did not fund the caliper. Mom’s parents were understandably not amused.
The adult caliper consisted of a deep padded leather thigh brace similar in shape to a bucket fastened with heavy duty leather straps, along with leather knee and ankle braces fastened with leather straps. Each brace was connected to the next with bilateral steel struts. The knee had a mechanism to lock the leg straight or release it to be able to sit down. The caliper had a raised steel platform at the bottom to correct the three and half inches difference in length between Mom’s legs. There was a steel peg underneath the platform covered with a rubber ferrule. The whole thing weighed around 14lbs. This did not stop Mom from touring Snowdonia, Wales in the ‘50s riding pillion on my Dad’s motorbike.
Mom’s morning routine included tightly wrapping the left leg from thigh to ankle in crepe bandage to help prevent chafing and keep it warm due to pour blood circulation. A crepe sock and tights finished the ensemble.
Mom’s peers at school were as cruel with taunts as you can imagine however, calling her peg leg, hop along or a cripple would result in a clout. The bravado covered up a sense of self-consciousness. Up to her sixties, Mom chose to wear slacks to hide the caliper from judging eyes.
In middle age, Mom steadfastly refused to use a wheelchair preferring to switch to a considerably lighter cosmetic leg brace having full length moulded plastic upper and lower limb cradles, fastened with Velcro straps plus an updated locking hinge at the knee. A custom made built up shoe plus a sturdy right shoe completed the ensemble. The NHS funded one pair of shoes every two years. Mom could choose from a colour range of black, brown, navy, mid-grey, claret, or fawn. There was only one fully enclosed lace up style available. A below knee brace had to be added to the right leg to provide support as it had degenerated doing the job of two legs.
Mom spent decades battling the symptoms of post polio syndrome and in managing the excruciating pain and physical restrictions of spinal osteoarthritis. She was an early adopter of acupuncture sessions to help relieve the pain.
Eventually, Mom found a new lease of life using a motorised wheelchair. In my mind, I can still see her whizzing around the house singing along and dancing to her favourite vinyl albums of James Last and his Orchestra. She thought his music lifted her spirits allowing to fly.
My second step-dad, Barry quietly and gently adored and cared for Mom. He arranged for Mom to meet her idol, Mr Last back stage after one of his concerts. Mom proudly displayed a framed photograph of the two of them meeting on the living room wall.
A fortune telling gypsy told Mom she would live until ninety, I truly believed this would be the case.
The last time I saw Mom in person was when she turned seventy. After demanding of herself a full life, complications from a respiratory infection took Mom fours years later in 2009.
It has taken me this long to come to terms with her passing. It’s perhaps not a good look typing during the work commute with tears running down my face while listening to James Last on Spotify; it’s okay no one is paying attention.
On the third morning of writing this epic composition, I am calmly listening to Non Stop Dancing 8 from Mr Last in 1969 to herald the memory of a great and wonder-filled woman, Irene Edith, Mom.
theINFP 