Poems, stories, dreams and realities.
Yes, these small thoughts are coming thick and fast…
You can read my first ever published short story here.
Scroll through until you find: The Dress.
You’ll discover shedloads of other loveliness on the way, and perhaps you might even pause to read my poem: Red and Green.
Enjoy!
What made you cry today?
This did it for me.
Bedtime Story by Anemone Beaulier
Published in Cimarron Review: Issue 182/Winter 2013
.
It’s in the starless dark of your nursery that I wish –
not that you could be undone,
but for the impossibility of the past:
the way the house settling,
the barred owl’s gentle question meant nothing
to my rest. I wish I had not heard you,
frantic for me, frantic to nurse
as your father tried to give you a bottle and I tried to sleep.
.
It’s laughable, this wishing,
when for years I wished for you.
It’s laughable, except nothing’s funny
at two in the morning when the street is quiet,
even the barred owl in the oak quiet,
all the light in the world just this slat of yellow
that slants from the hall and under your door
so I can see to bring you to my breast
.
while I dream of water and distant voices
from the canal beside our hotel in Venice,
the wide bed and your father’s skin against my skin
as I sank into sleep like an ocean,
or of my childhood room, the world snowy silent,
stars lidded, down blankets and the hush
of heat rushing through the vents.
Sometimes, I dream of not dreaming; I dream of nothingness.
.
But you call me back with your bumbling hum,
soothed and soothing, your hand pressing my chest
as you unreel the endless white strand
that flows from somewhere close to my heart
but not quite my heart. So if this is hard?
I won’t wish it away. You cannot be wished away.
So, sleep in my arms as I sleep,
dreaming of a sleep before you came.
.
I remember these feelings, exactly. This beautiful poem, dazzling in its language, and in its honesty, describes so perfectly those quiet, alone and very singular moments – just you and your baby, the rest of the world asleep, and the dawning acknowledgment that nothing will ever be as it was.
Kate McIntyre‘s story, A New Man is really worth a read too.
What a magazine… What a discovery
by Sarah Butler
Published by Picador. (Buy it here on Amazon)
I first read this book a few months ago. The Man worked with Sarah Butler back in 2007 (along with Maggie Gee) when he was her tutor on an Arvon course and they’ve been in touch ever since. He’s mentioned in the acknowledgments and as a way of thanks, Sarah sent him a galley copy, (an advance reading copy/uncorrected proof). I immediately loved the title and the cover (the galley is the same image as above, but coloured up in red/black/and gingerbread brown) and snuck it from under the man’s nose when I needed something lovely to read then and there. As soon as I saw it and scanned the blurb I sensed it was going to be lovely and I was right. I’ve been dying to share it, but The Man swore me to secrecy (not a natural trait) until the official launch. So… Masking tape removed from lips, circulation tingling back into extremities, I’m at last free to communicate…
Friends, family and regular followers know that my father was in hospital at the time. He was quite poorly, although we thought he would get better enough to come home. My mother had vascular dementia, could no longer manage on her own and I brought her to live with us. The absence of her husband of 57 years, (and also latterly her full time carer, as we came to understand) coupled with a strange environment and a change to her routine notched up her levels of confusion considerably and my life became a round of sleepless nights, hourly demands similar to those of a tetchy toddler and daily hospital visits to see my father, mother in wheelchair in tow. On many occasions I imagined I would not survive with my sanity intact and there were as many moments when I just wanted to run away. Through talking to both my mother and father and hearing them talk to each other, (scarily elucidating) I learned about them, their present life, their past life and therefore my own life. It changed my opinions on many long ingrained myths. My two sisters and I, both as individuals and within that intense triumvirate of our inter-sibling relationship were all transformed by this experience. Mainly, I learnt that love appears in many guises.
My father did not get better. He died on October 15th. My mother had a fall one night while my father was still in hospital and ended up in (a different) hospital also. She died on December 7th. Within six weeks of reading this book my life and my family as I had always known them had changed irrevocably.
So it was with this backdrop that I tumbled into the world of Ten Things I’ve Learned About Love. This may have something to do with why it spoke to me so powerfully, but I think whatever my circumstances I would have embraced it, because its themes are universal.
This is a story about love, family, loss, communication (or the lack of it) and above all, a sense of place. This may be a sense of your place in the world, a sense of your place within a family, the sense of a place you are living in, or temporarily find yourself in, or what can happen when you have no sense of where you are or should be, or even want to be placed. So it’s also about homelessness, but not just as in bricks and mortar homelessness. It addresses how you can feel homeless within your own house and conversely, at home in the world at a time of complete rootlessness.
The chapters, each introduced by a new ‘Ten Things’ list, (I loved these – by turns very real, quite other wordly, amusing and poignant,) alternate between Alice and Daniel. Both characters are beautifully realised and I identified with them within the first page of each of their stories.
We meet Alice:
Alice, youngest of three daughters, home to pay her respects to her dying father, full of wanderlust, or is she just running away? Why has she always felt that everyone is keeping sectrets from her? And why has she never said these things to her father?
And we meet Daniel:
Daniel is all of these, but of course a lot more too. He’s a synaesthete and wanders around London collecting objects in various colours that correspond exactly to particular letters. But why, for whom and for what purpose?
And we meet London:
Sarah describes London better than anyone I’ve come across. I lived in London myself for seven years when I first left art college. I earned little, lived in various insalubrious areas, rode my bike and explored the streets on foot and I really understood, appreciated and recognised her perfect descriptions and depictions. Having always been an observer, dreamer, seeker and finder of street treasures I coveted the scraps of beautiful nothingness that Daniel collected on his travels.
And of course they all, somehow, come together. But it is in their convergence that the story lies and I’m not going to spoil that for you. Discover for yourself. It’s an effortless read, which as all writers (and any good reader) understand, takes a great deal of effort to achieve. The fact that Sarah Butler began writing this book six years ago is an indication of that. And it’s beautifully written, both spare and lyrically poetic. There’s neither a word too many, nor a word too few. There will be many reviews of this book online and in print and no doubt a lot of hype, but get over it… This book is a treasure.
I sometimes think that these days love has become unfashionable or non-u as my mother used to say, as a concept, as an idea, as an emotion, as a word. In fact, it has became the most taboo of all our four letter acts. We are afraid to show tenderness in case we appear weak, sentimental or soft. We are afraid of love. What I love about this story is that it is not afraid of love and it is not weak, sentimental or soft. It is very tender. It is actually quite glorious.
As 2012 draws to a close I look out upon leaden skies, waterlogged lawns, a small but fast flowing muddy stream running off the paddock, over the cobbled drive, gushing into the gutters of our village street and I seem to remember beginning the year with warnings of widespread drought across the British Isles. Oh dear… My heart goes out to those who have been made homeless and suffered misery, discomfort and hardship due to the combative nature of the weather these past twelve months.
I’m looking forward to a new year and as I wonder what it will hold I can’t help but reflect on the surprises that slowly unfolded during 2012 and how different life is now to when the year began.
My man moved in just before Christmas 2011 and so this year has been one of discovery. I’ve learned more about myself than about him – living on your own for five years (children don’t count here, because however tolerent and liberal you are – and I am quite – you’re still the ‘mum’ and ‘in control’ of your environment…) makes you among other things; anal to an autistic level; bossy; obsessively tidy and extremely intolerant of other people’s irrelevant stuff however neatly stacked although conversely, completely blind to your own orderly piles of highly important detritus; unreasonable; moody; someone who drinks more, both in frequential and quantative terms, than one ought; someone who possibly deserves to live out the remainder of their days as a spinster… He, however, although on the opposite end of the spectrum to the harridan he’s found himself cohabiting with, re moods, tidyness and organisation, is tolerant, kind, patient and willing to change, or at least to try. Mmm. If I were one to make resolutions I’d know where to start.
The year almost got me divorced from my husband of twenty-two years. I wish I could remove the almost, but not quite. Everything has been agreed, in principle, just the i’s to cross and the t’s to dot. Won’t be long now. It was a hard slog and our solicitors are richer than they were, although without them he’d have eaten me for breakfast without even leaving the bones of me to spit out, so I’ll always be grateful… And perhaps that’s as it should be – It is half-a-life-time after all and we’ve three children and the machinations of a business to sort out.
I ceased working in the ^^ business. What a relief! I didn’t realise what a weight I’d been carrying until it was lifted from my shoulders; the struggle to maintain a working relationship with a man you once loved, who’s the father of your children, but whom you no longer know or understand was both more consuming and exhausting than I realised. I am no longer a fashion designer. I am no longer a businesswoman. I am no longer an employer. I am a writer! And not a day goes by that I don’t appreciate how lucky I am to have made that change. Friends often remind me that I worked hard for it, that I sacrificed time with the kids when they were little, that we struggled financially in the early years and often did without, that one makes one’s own destiny… All perhaps true, but I’m still grateful!
This year also got me back into my home – the one I spent eighteen months gutting and renovating nine years ago. It held me safe whilst I recovered from severe depression. It nurtured me whilst I gathered my wits and accepted that my marriage had disintegrated. It reminded me that I could still create and that I could still discover beauty even where it lay buried. The house has been rented out for the past five years and it was with happy hearts that we returned this summer. We have our library back, where our books can breathe, where my man can leave his piles of highly important stuff undisturbed, (well almost) and write unperturbed, (well almost) where there’s space to set out the weird and wonderful objects we’ve collected on our travels and hang all our paintings and display all the treasures the children have made and space to have friends and family to stay and to feed them and enjoy their company. It’s very lovely.
My parents died. They were eighty-four and I lost them within two months of each other. It didn’t really hit me until we cremated our mother last week and suddenly it was over. I’m no longer a daughter and I’ll never know ‘that very special love’ again. Life changed in a moment. It wasn’t without it’s own release – no more responsibility, or guilt, and it certainly wasn’t without grief or regret, but it was with an understanding and an acceptance of the order of things. It was their time and we had to let them go. The journey my sisters and I took together throughout their illnesses, hospitalisation and deaths was momentous, unimaginable, shattering and life changing. We learned more about each other and our own relationships in those months than we ever have before and for that we have our parents to thank. We are all closer as a consequence and it’s a closeness we’ll nurture forever. I know I will. I love them more than I ever knew I could.
Friends were key as always – old muckers served up their customary wit, humour, support and love in bucketloads and I was frequently reminded why they were exactly that, and those few precious newcomers that have found their way into my heart will never be allowed to escape.
And my boys… My boys – all now taller than me, all generous, talented, beautiful young men with gorgeous girlfriends and delightful friends, they make me feel very proud. They grow from strength to strength, constant companions, constant joy and constant love. Whatever I have yet to achieve, they will always be my greatest legacy.
The year has dealt a good hand of literary pursuits – The Leicester Stanza groups continue to be the most stimulating way to spend a Saturday afternoon and I look forward to them every month. I really value the considered, intelligent feedback I receive on my poetry and love to read and discuss other’s work. I attended a really good one-day workshop at the Newarke Houses Museum in Leicester, which I thoroughly enjoyed and was sorry to miss the annual visit to the Sculpture in the Botanic Gardens. I am sure I have grown as a poet since attending for I always learn so much, but most of all, these afternoons are brilliant fun and I cherish many burgeoning friendships that are fast forming.
Leicester Writer’s Club is a wonderful weekly event. I joined the committee this year, but due to my parents and other family commitments was unable to seriously fulfill my role as press-officer. I am looking forward to more settled times so I can return with new vigour and make up for my neglect. At the annual awards ceremony this autumn they awarded me the Short Story Prize – one I don’t feel I yet deserve, but do feel the need to honour, so I will strive to do so next year. I shall take a well-sharpened scythe to the twenty odd stories I’ve written this year, hack, hone and wittle them into some kind of decent shape and I intend to start submitting them. I’m prepared for rejection, I’m prepared to learn, I’m prepared for hard work and I’m hoping for some small glimmer of success.
I spent another fab week in glorious Andalucia this October on a writer’s retreat organised by The Literary Consultancy. My man was the tutor again and it was lovely to return, this time as a couple, and also to have the chance to reaffirm and reinforce some of the unique and precious friendships we made last year.
Vanguard Readings in London is a newly discovered event and we attended our first in December at a lovely pub in Camberwell on the coldest day of the year (possibly the decade). The man read from his novel, Pynter Bender, to hushed and rapt appreciation. All the readers were excellent and I definitely want to return for more of these events next year.
I have been working on my first poetry collection – DressCode and now have forty-two finished sonnets, all about clothes… The excellent John Gallas (poet, teacher, bard, wit, fellow fag smoker and coffee drinker extra-ordinaire) has been a wise and generous mentor. Crystal Clear Creators were good enough to publish one, Twinset, in Hearing Voices V, their excellent literary magazine. I’ve also enjoyed many of their Shindig! evenings at the Western Pub in Leicester which they run in conjunction with Nine Arches Press – always a quality night, both the featured poets and the open-mikers.
I’ve read many superb books, some of my favourites being:
So… Aims and ambitions for 2013… To write, write, write, submit, submit, submit, more poetry, more short stories and get that bloody novel properly started. And be a sweeter, calmer, gentler, more tolerant human being.
Good luck to all of you, friends, writers, poets and followers and I really hope that Two-Fousand-and-Firteen is filled to the brim with ferociously fantabulous frolicksome fun…
Love
evoL
-ved
I take it back. All of it.
Even that
which issued freely
at the start;
benign and sweet, growing
to something green,
strong, belonging
in and between.
Now… Even though-
No… not even though-
because- it evolved
through your cruelty
into the monster
that haunted us,
I take it back.
A pair of starcrossed lovers,
their eyes meet across the corridor,
Tony and Maria, but without
The Sharks and The Jets, the orchestra,
or the overture.
*
He remembers them spinning,
a maelstrom of colour,
sure-footed, together.
*
But it’s no enchanted evening,
no lovers dream-
just the cold light of day
and what is to be.
*
He sits at her bedside, quiet-
not much to say these days,
holds her hand while she dozes,
smiles when she wakes.
*
Their time is up. He takes his leave,
at the corridor’s end, looks back.
She’s there, drowned by her gown, still column,
hair, bandaged limbs, all white,
naught but a pillar of salt.
***
He smites her with his mind,
but not just.
The lilt in his voice
in his hips
in his hands
sends her wild.
And his gaze
catapults her
into a space
only they inhabit.
*
A shock. Unexpected.
As a shock is. By definition.
*
Two smudges of grey
in the black wool of his hair
absorb her.
His arms are smooth and dry
as paper-
an unread book.
*
His slender wrists,
his brass rubbings of palms,
his ley-lines, dark, defined-
she touches, explores,
intrepid.
His fingertips are smooth.
So smooth.
*
There are callouses
over his Mount of Venus,
she wants to know why?
She closes her eyes
and through her fingertips
discovers him with her mind.
***
I performed these at last nights Word! in Leicester
A fashion designer for years, now a writer –
of short stories and poems, some of which get aired here
and seriously aiming to write a novel this year...
Would one day like to own a lady parrot.
