Tuesday, 14 February 2017

A Love Poem, of sorts

For Rod, on Valentine's Day (despite the fact he didn't even get me a card....). xx



Personal Physics, Up Close


Matter is not continuous,
cannot all be subdivided - 

and such is my love for you,
brimming overwhelming heartrush

itself a physical response
to chemicals I can’t control

launched by organs, glands and neurons,
themselves composed of DNA,

magnified to fundamental
building blocks, the base of matter - 

misnomer extraordinaire,
because it doesn’t matter much

except to scientific folk
who cannot see that what I need - 

eternal continuity
no subdivision of our lives - 

surfaces each time you touch me,
my chance heart, my quantum banquet. 



Monday, 23 January 2017

Another right thing to do

Along with all the inspiring, empowering things going on this last weekend, there has also been mockery of a child because a number of us despise his father. Children are especially vulnerable to words and mockery, despite the old 'sticks and stones' baloney we spin them. The bigger picture, for more than just Barron, is that you never know what someone else's journey is, you cannot know their thoughts or feelings, sometimes until it's too late; and so in line with my current mantra of 'Be Kind', here is a poem that I wrote last year when feeling particularly low. Please don't bring that child, or anyone else, to that point. Just be kind.



Finality

The final straw can be so very thin,
Can be so slight, perceptible as air,
That final thing that really does you in.

The pile of To Be Read books to your chin
Collapses heaplike, adding pamphlets where
The final straw can be so very thin.

A box of chocolates finished - not a sin,
At least at first, though afterwards you swear
The final toffee must have done you in.

A vodka shot, another glass of gin,
You feel okay till puking without care - 
The final straw can be so very thin.

A missing smile, anticipated grin
That could have saved the day, instead impairs,
Could be the thing that really does you in.

The spirit strives to bolster from within,
Struggles alone as friends stay unaware
Of final straws that are so very thin,

Those final things that really do you in.

Friday, 13 January 2017

Little resolved, resolving nothing...

Now that the New Year has sunk its teeth into us and shaken us all about a little, it seemed appropriate to review how I did on my not-resolutions last year.

I only set myself four real challenges (not including the 'run 5k in under 30 minutes', which I managed, thank you Claire!) so it's a little embarrassing to realise that I can only consider two of them even partially met.

I started to work on my fear of dogs. There is one dog I can generally cope with (though I panicked somewhat when a wet nose met my hand the other night!) and a couple of others I have gone for walks with (on their leads, with their owner), plus a couple more I have coped being in the same room with. I was less happy about the one that bounded up joyfully in Keele Woods, practically nose to nose, but my companions quickly distracted it and with a few deep breaths I recovered. This is all progress. A way to go still, but progress. I shall continue to work on it.

I completely forgot I was supposed to be submitting more poetry, to address my fear of rejection. I've been editing some, and even written a few new ones, but never got round to sending any off. I did post one on the blog, which the village newsletter subsequently included in the next issue - does that count? I thought not. Must try harder.

Company news. Again, kind of forgot about this one. I have had a conversation with the accountant about a possible way forward, but it's more a step back really, just a way of reducing my tax liability. I have tried to get the current novel edited to the point where it's ready to publish, but there's just been too much else going on. I know, if I really wanted to do it, I'd find the time. Must find the time.

Fear of public humiliation - this has been addressed a little, as I did some 'proper' singing in public and people said nice things about it afterwards. The terror involved did generate a fair amount of cold sweat and trembling, but I did it. Would I do it again? If I don't, have I really confronted my fear properly? Once is just once - it could be a freak occurrence. I need to develop it into a habit to be able to say I've conquered the fear. And habits are tricky things to develop.

So what about 2017 - do I need new challenges or should I just continue to work, rather less half-heartedly perhaps, on the 2016 ones? I've already agreed to do a 10k Race for Life in July, and I hope to finish in under an hour. Five challenges is enough, isn't it? But then there's all the writing I should be doing, and.... Perhaps my biggest challenge is to set myself realistic targets.

Friday, 11 November 2016

Armistice Day, a village poem.

Armistice Day

One of the school children coughed,
a visceral gurgle, exploring
the echo such a sound would make.
The rustle of an anorak as his friend
nudged him, a soft swoosh as he
lowered his gloved hand, trying
to resume his watchful pose.

Several cars went past. They might have
slowed, I couldn't tell, but at least
there was no insistent throbbing from
the radio, no distant bass booming
from within the captive space.  Perhaps
they had turned the radio off, or
perhaps the radio was silent too.

Overhead, branches swayed, the breeze
lifting the few remaining leaves, pressing
them to drop, die at last. A gentle airborne battle,
sending the survivors scuttling, diving from
their lofty positions to crackle to powder
underfoot, the annual explosion of colour
reduced to compost.

There was a crunch of gravel as the
lady from the Legion shifted
her weight, angling one arthritic hip
without any creaking that we could hear,
though I saw the wince of pain
explode across her face, shattering
any illusions about survival.

Someone must have looked at their watch,
or silently counted hippopotamuses.

The two minutes was up.

Tuesday, 6 September 2016

How to Stuff Three Hundred Goody Bags

Subtitled: Please feel free to learn from our mistakes! A light-hearted look at just one aspect of conference preparation.

So, my weekend was a rather frantic one, helping with the running of the Historical Novel Society 2016 Conference. It seemed to go very well, with lots of positive feedback (check out the Twitter comments for #HNSOxford16!)  and much general enjoyment. However, there were a few fraught hours before we opened for registration on Friday evening, not least when we were attempting to get 300 goody bags stuffed as quickly as possible.

In case it is of any help to anyone, here are some lessons that we learned, some more quickly than others.

1. It is a really good idea to know exactly how many you have of each item. 
We guesstimated how many books there were, started off by putting four books in each bag, and ultimately had a couple of our fabulous volunteer helpers retrieving two or three from the early bags so that we had *any* books for the later ones. Our guesstimate of the pens, however, was seriously under, so there were quite a few left over by the end. Useful for the FoH team, though.

2. Spread out. Really, really, s p r e a d  o u t  the piles you will be selecting your goodies from. 
We didn't. We tried to fit everything onto one long row of tables, despite the fact there were plenty of other tables around. The piles fell over. People stood by the several piles trying to select one of each for the bag they were filling but preventing anyone else from accessing them. Gradually we moved blocks of postcards, or half the bookmarks, onto a different table, but those filling the bags didn't always remember to take the newly-circuitous route so some bags missed out on some cards/flyers/bookmarks. In retrospect, we should have used at least twice as many tables to set out the selections from. At least.

3. Try to figure out a system before you start.
We had a system, to be fair. But then we introduced a new system. Then we refined it slightly. More than once. And not everyone heard every refinement, because it was, you know, a friendly volunteer activity and there was chatting. So some changes were taken on board more (ahem!) rigorously than others. 

4. Not everyone needs to be on bag-filling duty.
We all started by filling bags, but it quickly become apparent that this was impractical. There just wasn't room. So a few people moved onto assembling subsets of goodies for handing on to those with the bags. This was particularly useful for bookmarks - which frequently stuck together - and postcards.

5. Work out beforehand where you will be storing the filled goody bags.
We decided a nice long wall was a good collection point, but after filling about half of our bags, thought maybe we shouldn't block access to a fire extinguisher. At which point, a whole load of bags needed to be moved. At least it was a good opportunity to check some of the bags for more books for redistribution! 

It should be noted we did get all our goody bags filled and stored, and by the end of the conference - in fact, by Sunday morning - they had all gone. So something went right... ;-)

Big thanks to all those involved in both the stuffing of the bags and the provision of both the bags themselves and their contents, plus a huge congratulations to the organisers of the conference. The bar appears to have been raised!

Thursday, 18 August 2016

Today is the first day of the rest of your life

It's a bit of truism, to be fair, but sometimes it's worth bearing in mind.

The news is full today of young people who have achieved fantastic results in their 'A' levels, including one who now has a tally of nine As andA*s. For lots of these students, their immediate plans of university or other training can now proceed; they've reached the particular hurdle their careers had been set and they've cleared it. Their lives will change but largely in ways they had expected.

For some, however, the news was not so good. They worked hard - sometimes possibly not as hard as they should/could have done - but for whatever reason, the grades they needed just haven't happened. Having been in that position, I do know how it can feel. I felt sick. Gutted. Unable to speak. My world had ended. My results were so catastrophically awful there was no point even trying to go through Clearing.

But fast-forward to nearly five years later, and I was collecting a degree in a subject that I hadn't even studied for that first disastrous set of results (an advantage of going to the local sixth form college for resits, with the timetable limitations that included), coming close to getting a First. It was something I couldn't have envisaged happening when I failed my 'A' levels first time round. I ended up doing a much broader degree course too, which in hindsight was much better for me.

There's another oft-quoted cliché, 'When one door closes, another door opens.' When you've just collected the letter that says you've failed, you're probably more interested in closing your bedroom door and sinking into a private gloom than thinking about other opportunities. But they're out there. Cunningly disguised as 'what failures do' on occasion, but take a look. You might be surprised at what you find.

So congratulations to all of you, whatever your result. Today is the first day of the rest of your life and the beginning of a new journey - even if at the moment you have no idea where it will take you.


Sunday, 14 August 2016

In honour of my father's birthday

My father would have been 85 today. He was a softly-spoken man, who read widely and almost continuously, and listened to (mostly) classical music at what felt like full volume. I say mostly, as he introduced Led Zeppelin to me, after hearing them on the Radio Three programme 'Sounds Interesting', and I first came across Gryphon courtesy of my father. More usually, though, it was some variant of classical music that rattled the rafters in our house, sometimes as part of a game we played in which I had to identify first the period, then the nationality and finally the identity of the composer. I did quite well at this game, but it helped that I had a reasonable idea from an early age of what he had in his record collection and therefore what the possible limitations were.

Saturdays followed a very regular routine in our household. Various chores needed to be done, but my mother always ensured that my father was able to watch the TV at 4 pm, when the wrestling came on. It's not something I ever developed a taste for, and I suppose there must be some wrestling as part of the Olympics, but I won't be watching it, even if Team GB are potential medal winners. But it was part of who my father was and part of my childhood.

So happy birthday, Dad, and here's a poem sort of about you.


Tea with my father


Saturdays, it was always the wrestling on tv
             - the only sport he liked -
and then, after the football results have been intoned,
milk-drenched poached mushrooms
on toast made under the grill and enhanced by the risk,
and weekend tea, made in the teapot,
aromatic loose-leaf Ceylon black
with a spoonful of gunpowder,
warming the pot first of course;

afterwards, arguments over the chores,
clear or put away, wash or dry,
and who has to tip the tea-leaves over
a distant rose-bush that retains its glory
for a sunnier day.