Monthly Archives: December 2011

Talkin Tarn

Poems 29/12/2011 Comments: 10

Another seasonal and previously published offering… I remember both the evenings that inspired this poem quite intensely at this time of year; two very special times separated by almost thirty years.

Talkin Tarn is a small lake in the Cumbrian Fells where I grew up and in the coldest of Winters it would freeze over…

 

Talkin Tarn

Stumbling forth much cider-addled

swaddling-wrapped in Christmas cheer,

festive tunes beat marching rhythms

sung by luteous fuzz-blurred moon.

Light our tallow-faced meanderings.

Light our way to Talkin Tarn.

 

Hill-top guardians, black-limbed stanchions,

iron giants, arms outstretched,

spitting fizz, bright brittle crackling

arcs electric, purple hiss.

Walk the line of skeletal monsters.

Walk the line to Talkin Tarn.

 

Snow lined hollow, sleepy sheep all

fallow-buff like sugar lumps

fuddle thrown, sweet huddle-muddled

piled in china, white as bone.

Trudge our way in caravan.

Trudge our way to Talkin Tarn.

 

Bristled tines, pine scented arbour

succours snowy lunate shore,

underboot, soft-footed needlings;

seriatim rendered mute.

See the glistery icy vista,

see the mystery. Talkin Tarn.

 

Moon-loon madness overtaking,

dancing arm-linked can-can craic,

thwacking echo, snap-snap bull-whip

ricochet deep down below.

Risk life’s brittle carapace.

Risk the kiss of Talkin Tarn.

Snow Angels

Poems 28/12/2011 Comments: 4

I wrote this poem last year and it has been published in Hearing Voices magazine Volume 2, but for those of you new to my blog I thought I’d re-post it as it’s so seasonal and I’ve not had time to write much over the last couple of weeks…

 
Snow Angels
 
Winter-moon, bright hole, punched
through to whitelight heavens, only
light. No solid mass of rock and dust.
Chalkboard stripes mark lucid arcs
crosshatched across a blackboard sky,
drained of colour, earth’s cold cover,
patched and mended quilt, white-zinc
to ink and all the shades between.
 
You shared your plan to take me
in the snow and I, your willing cohort,
artfully attired in mink-grey-fur,
lace stockings, carmine boots…  I wait.
You make your way, the whitening sky 
weighs heavy-laden, ashy, finally
releasing it’s glittering confetti. First 
it covers your path, later our tracks.
 
Sole sound amidst the deadened silence
I hear you. Lust-flushed, I rush out
to feathery flux, wild chaos swirling.
Embracing. Hands. Skin. Mouths. Hair.
You almost take me there in the deserted
street, legs wrapped round you tightly.
We run riotous, laughing, into the garden,
and make snow angels while we fuck.
 

A small thought…

Small thoughts 20/12/2011 1 Comment
is all I’m capable of at the moment…

Spotted this guy in Peterborough, made my day, thank God because something needed to!

And just when we’d written the whole place off as the end of the world as you know it… After three trips there in 24 hours we were entitled to that informed opinion. And isn’t the A 47 the most horrible of roads.. And why are there so many farm vehicles out at this time of year. I thought they all hibernated during the winter months?

Eldest son decided his passport needed a boil wash… And he travels to Japan on 28th of December… Emergency, Emergency, Emergency… Does anyone remember that advert when a glass of red wine gets spilt on a beige carpet and the Mum fishes in her hand bag and pulls out a flashing blue light/siren that she promptly attaches to her head? Well that would have been me if I’d been clever enough to procure such a useful artefact in readiness for such a catastrophe and secrete it about my person. What’s a Mum to do.? Worst was, I turned up at 9am this morning to collect passport we’d dutifully sorted and applied for (in person) yesterday only to be told that because he was an adult now- he had to collect it… in person….

Adult? I shrieked…. I paid for it, I filled in the form, I sorted his counter signatory, I drove him here…

No go…

Back I drove, woke him, got him dressed and breakfasted and returned, along the tractor ridden road, to Peterborough, to collect the blasted thing. I hope he has a wonderful skiing trip, I really do.

Anyway, the biker was delightful and thankfully didn’t cave in our windscreen with a crow bar, even though I’m sure he could have, if he so wished.

Waiting for the hands of time

Poems 11/12/2011 Comments: 5

I wrote this after visiting the Sculpture Exhibition in the Botanical Gardens in Leicester. All thanks to Graham Norman and Caroline Cook from The Leicester Stanza of The Poetry Society. I was intrigued by this piece from the outset and I wanted to know the story… Of course I couldn’t find out, so I made up my own…

Waiting

 

John W Mills PPRBS ARCA FRSA

2011 Bronze

 

Waiting for the hands of time.

 

Da? Do you remember that day? The hunt?

I try to penetrate the yawning space, the blunt stare,

unsure whether you are here, or can hear, aware,

or somewhere else, far, far, in a lost place.

*

We heard them in the distance, their wild howls

carried on the wind, across the fields and hills

along with their scent. Toby caught their scent

long before their cries even reached our ears.

*

Quick! Jump! you said. I reached, found your hand

as you hauled me up, crushed me in your giant

fist, limbs flailing round the column of your torso,

a miniature steeplejack desperate to gain purchase.

*

Once secure, arms clasped at your neck, heads

on a level, I could see for miles, the red-coated

army a maelstrom of colour and noise. Toby hid

between your legs, we held our breath, and we waited.

*

Excitement charged the air, but I wasn’t scared,

never, not with you; my Da, my north, my world.

They flew right by us like winged beasts, the froth

of their sweat, the screech and the yelp, the pant and the heat.

*

Once they’d passed you let me drop to my feet, but

wobbly, like an infant, shaky legs failing I fell and yet

again reached and found your hand, so safe, so warm.

In slow, companionable silence, we walked home.

*

I reach, find your hand; digits knobbed like turned spindles,

loose papery stuff where skin and callouses lay,

your bold form reduced to just a rumour, a myth, a wisp,

while the hands of time crush your bones in their cruel list.

A small thought…

Small thoughts 11/12/2011 Leave a comment
I’m loving this… Gorgeous!

Joel Grainger- Celtic Jam

Sunday 11th December 2011

Diary, Home 11/12/2011 Comments: 2

Reading Continued…

As I said, been reading a lot. After my wonderful evening at the TLC  charity evening for The Maya Centre I have just read

Trick of the Light by Jill Dawson.

I really enjoyed this, but for those of you who read my post claiming the extract she delighted us with during the previously reported evening was from this book- it wasn’t. I’m still investigating that one…

What I loved about this novel is the author’s brazen pursuit of honesty and because of that she manages to create a world peopled by extremely empathetic characters. They are flawed, thus the writers judgement is absent- a great skill in my opinion, given the subject matter. Ms Dawson has a strong handle on her subject at all times and this shines through. I really felt the pain of the characters and their joy when it did, occasionally, surface. But that having been said, this is not a dreary, depressing book- far from it; raw, emotional, at times hard hitting, but always hopeful.

It’s set in Okanogan, the mid-forest-wilderness between Seattle and Vancouver and the sense of place is never anything but vivid in its depiction, as is the dreary left-behind-Dalston, the run down London of disillusionment and unrealised dreams. The heroine, Rita, is as real as any woman I’ve ever known and I felt for her every step of the way, yet I also had great sympathy for Mick, yes- the villain of the piece, but in life, nothing is ever black and white and so it is in this story of a completely disfunctional relationship. I think this is a brave book and I do urge you to read it.

Next up… Smut by Alan Bennett

Even the physical manifestation of the book itself is delightful…Don’t buy this one on Kindle…  A hard back, the dust cover adorned with a gorgeously embossed and metallic keyhole, about three quarters the height of a normal book- it feels special and somehow intimate.

I loved these two long short stories. I loved everything about them. They are laugh out loud, rib-ticklingly funny, subversive, yet also generously gentle and understanding. Alan at his best.

I particularly loved the second tale, The Shielding of Mrs Forbes. It was one of those stories that introduced new shocks without introduction, with merely a new paragraph as forewarning and I found myself gasping and re-reading on several occasions. Not because the writing wasn’t clear, just because the shift was so delightfully surprising I needed to let it sink in with a second reading and enjoy it’s full power.

Read, please. Wonderful stuff- and both stories are delightfully rude in that oh so english way that Mr Bennett is surely the master of. The title bills it, just like a tin of Ronseal, enjoy.

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