Whatever Happened to Nigel?

While having lunch with friends the other day we were reminiscing about people we knew at 6th form. 

Suddenly one friend said "Whatever happened to Nigel?" 

And this poem was born, with apologies to XTC.

Whatever happened to Nigel?

He had so many plans.

He dreamt of sailing round the world

In a boat made of tin cans.

 

He wanted to raise tigers

On the scrubland by the park,

Ride his bike, strung up with fairy lights

As it was getting dark

 

He craved a life full of adventure

You could never call him dull

He must live in some far-flung place

Perhaps the Isle of Mull?

 

And yet the other day

I thought I spied him on the train

Lank hair dripping wet

Caught out by the rain.

 

He looked so sad and lonely

Plans puddled at his feet.

“Are you Nigel?” I enquired

“What’s the chance that we should meet!”

 

I took him home and fed him soup

Tomato from a can

“Did you ever make a boat?

What happened to your plans?”

Third Row Back, With Chocolate

 Today is World Poetry Day, so it’s only fitting I should write a poem.

This come from a conversation with the rector on Tuesday evening after I was once again nominated/coerced into leading a small group at our lent course. I really don’t mind and I like to think I have the skills required, even when some of the theological debates are a bit beyond me. I certainly don’t have all the answers.

When I left, he said “thank you” and I answered “I will get my reward in heaven.”

“Third row back, with chocolate!” was his flippant retort.

It was too good a line to be thrown away, so it is the title of this poem.

One day two of Jesus’ disciples, James and John, ask to sit beside Jesus in Heaven, they believed, they were worthy of such a great honour. (or maybe their pushy mother did, it depends which gospel you read - look up Mark chapter 10 and Matthew chapter 20).

Jesus replied they didn’t know what they were really asking for.

Is three rows back with chocolate also an audacious ask?

Jesus also tells a parable of the guests where he says it is better to take the lowest seat available. If the host asks you to move closer to the top table you will be honoured but just imagine how embarrassing it would be to be asked to move further away, giving up your seat for someone more important. Shameful!

But then remember that Jesus tells us to love our neighbour as we love ourselves – nothing is ever straightforward in the kingdom of heaven, everything is so topsy turvey.

 

So with these confusing thoughts bubbling in my head here is my poem… which could easily be about any relationship with someone we admire and wondering where we fit into the pecking order. You could even read as something quite dark, like a bar of bitter chocolate, maybe it's about obsession?  But it was written from a light and happy, Dairy Milk kind of place, with apologies to anyone who has given up chocolate for lent - hehehe!

 

Third Row Back, With Chocolate

 

I don’t need a red carpet

Or to be at your right hand

A crown, would be too heavy,

I hope you understand.

 

I’d be happy sitting three rows back

A box of chocolates on my knee

Just to catch a glimpse of you,

Hope no one tall’s in front of me!

 

Yes, the glamour might be welcome

Could I live with the fame?

The rich adoration

Everyone knowing my name.

 

With a hint of anonymity

Let me be humble to the end.

I just long to be included

And for you to call me friend.

 

Myths and Fairy Tales

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything on my blog.

Been a while since I attended a writing workshop.

And been a while since I have written a poem.

 

With one fell swoop I shall rectify all of the above.

This afternoon I went to a Myths and Fairy Tales Poetry workshop.

We warmed up with a CINQUAIN – which I will confess I’ve never written before and I was glad when we were told how it is written. Two syllables in the first line, four in the second, then six, then eight and back to 2 syllables in the fifth and final line.

 

Rose red

lips like petals.

Here lies Snow White asleep.

I aim to wake her with a kiss,

I miss!

 

I am definitely in a playful mood, just right for subverting the fairy tale stereotypes.

We looked at some other poems, several from Carol Ann Duffy’s collection The World’s Wife which give a different slant on many traditional myths. I also really enjoyed this one by A.E. Stallings, which includes a multitude of magical tales.

Then, we had twenty minutes to write a poem from the perspective of a different character in a familiar story.

I chose someone’s mum – see if you can guess whose?

 

Jacqueline

I should have had a daughter

Jacqueline, I would have called her

Not as foolish as my lazy son

She would have valued our cow

Seen her true worth

Traded her for more than a handful of beans.

 

Oh my stupid, stupid boy!

Head stuck in the clouds

With thoughts of giants in his tiny head

Made up stories that grow exponentially over night

And fill his world with madness.

 

There’s not even enough beans for a stew tonight

We’ve no eggs for breakfast either

When the golden sunrise comes.

 

I cast the beans upon the ground

Stomp on them for good measure

In defiance!

 

Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum

If only I’d had a daughter, instead of a son!

 

We then looked at the location and how myths and fairy tales can take on a whole new direction when you change the setting. The challenge was to place a character somewhere new.

Before writing about Jack I had toyed with the idea of writing something about Rapunzel. What if after she escaped her tower she took a visit to the hairdressers? A strange experience for someone who has not visited one for a very long time.

 

The Up Do

 

They gather a team for my dramatic “up do”

“Your hair is so thick.”

“Would you like a tea or coffee?”

“Any holidays planned?”

 

I sit in a chair like a throne

No longer all alone.

Being pampered and cared for

Enjoying the incessant chatter.

 

I have little to offer in the conversation of celebrity.

I’ve been shut away too long.

But I don’t have chance to answer

Or drink my tea which sits growing cold, forgotten.

 

They wash and brush and snip and jabber,

And trim and curl and twirl and prattle.

They surround me in a miasma

of product and spritz and spray

Which scratches my throat

Like the sharp thorns

That one held me prisoner.

 

They twist strands of my hair, like rope

And pin it up into a high tower on my head.

Unscalable!

How will I get out of here?

Unfathomable!

 

Finally, they let me see

A mirror is held to the back of my head

They smile, suddenly silent, awaiting affirmation

 

I wish I’d gone short instead!

 

So there we have it, 2 poems written, 3 if you include in the cinquain, all in one afternoon. And it was lots of fun, especially sharing at the end and seeing what everyone else had written about.

A Poem for those who find themselves single and middle aged!

I should be glad to be alive

But I hate being single aged 55!

My friends on Facebook are having fun

But they're all in couples, in twos not just one.

Romantic dinners and hikes in the Dales

Cream teas, spa days and trips to North Wales

The closest I get is a trip to the SPAR

It's just round the corner so not very far

A BIG bar of chocolate, ready meal for my tea

Which I eat while I binge Grey's Anatomy

 

Perhaps I need a new hobby, should I join a gym?

A book club? A dance class? I could fit something in

It just takes too much effort to move off the sofa

Far easier to sit here, a permanent loafer.

 

I could scroll on my phone, do online dating

Read profiles fake yet FASCINATING!

I'll send a wave, a smile, whatever

I like to think I'm being clever

But not a sausage, no reply

I add a new photo - I really do try!

 

Maybe I'm just not the greatest catch

Perhaps I am part of a faulty batch

And sadly I'm now out of guarantee

As I climb the stairs, you can hear my knees.

 

But people find love when it's meant to be

Cupid's arrow may fly but it never hits me

Perhaps I'm looking in all the wrong spots

My What Three Words muddled, words/three/what????

 

So, I wrote these words to commiserate

With all who despair at the lack of dates

Except the ones in the dried fruit aisle

And I do hope my words have at least made you smile :-)

Aga Memories

 

I gravitate towards the Aga

stretch out my arms

giving it a warm embrace

greeting it like a faithful old friend

 

The feelings come back,

a flood of nostalgia

for the home we once lived in

the clanging of the doors

the banging of the lids

brutal hits of metal on metal

solid

dependable

heavy duty

the heart of our - not quite forever - family home

glowing bright red

 

But this one is green,

our encounter is only for the shortest season

its verdant colour symbolises new life

starting afresh

reawakened happy memories

form a diving board

to spring from

The Aga in the kitchen of a house in Criccieth where I went on a retreat

Remember remember - how can I forget?

The tree is left scarred

By the spinning Catherine wheel

That never sparkled

Loose matches rattle

In the pocket of your coat

Worn that November

We had a good time

Created bright memories

Just for a moment

The Inside Outside Poem

 Inside, two fat juicy apples in the fruit bowl

Outside, a dahlia, not yet fully open, sprinkled with raindrops

Inside, a diary for 2022, yellow, white and blue

Outside, an ominous storm cloud hovering over my washing

Inside, a ticking clock counts each second

Outside, dead strawberry plants need some attention

Inside, a crystal vase with dried honesty seed heads

Outside, a bird feeder swinging by an old shoe lace

Inside, I take the apple and crunch it.

Two Queens and a Commoner

I’m a big kid at heart and there’s nothing I like better than dressing up and pretending to be someone else.

Recently I have had a plethora of opportunities to indulge my dramatic passions. I’m in the middle of rehearsing for not one but two plays – fortunately one is a murder mystery and as we have to religiously stick to the text, to ensure we deliver each clue to perfection, we are allowed to read from the script. I’m not sure I could learn two parts at once, I’m finding it enough of a struggle learning one set of lines!

But this afternoon I got the chance to play THREE different characters, not just any made up characters either but 3 angry ghosts based on real people.

My friend Mai has written and published a book of thirty poems, each one from the perspective of a famous ghost expressing their anger, often at the unfair way they have been treated in the history books. As she writes at the beginning…

Anger in its extremity produces vast amounts of energy.

Death cannot destroy energy; it merely takes on a new form.

The form of a restless spirit, venting their long-held grievances!

Mai has written poems for ghosts as varied as Neanderthal woman to Abraham Lincoln, Helen of Troy to Rasputin. 

If your historical knowledge is lacking there are short biographies of each character at the back of the book. Very informative, especially for the lesser-known figures such as Abu Bakr II, ruler of the Mali Empire in the 14th Century or Maria Quiteria “the Brazilian Joan of Arc”.

Each poem was written to be read aloud, more than that, to be "performed" thereby bringing each ghost temporarily back to life. To that end a few of us have had our arms twisted, in the nicest possible way of course, to dress up and be dead angry in local libraries and WI meetings.

It’s great fun, sourcing costumes from charity shops, dressing up and making new friends along the way.

This afternoon we filmed some lines from the poems with the aid of a white board to act as an autocue. This will be edited for promotional material. I can’t wait to see how it all turns out, we had so much fun.

You may be wondering which ghosts I became, well as the title of this blog suggests I transformed myself into two queens and a commoner. 

Cleopatra with a black beaded wig and lots of eyeliner, Margaret Catchpole, a local Suffolk lass who was sent to Australia for stealing her master's horse and Queen Victoria, in a costume I pulled together in five minutes using the bits and pieces gathered on the table.

Mai as the wild and furious Boudicca

Caesar - beware the Ides of March

not looking particularly angry!

Margaret Catchpole - longing to go home to England

Preparing to be Queen Victoria - no photos of Cleopatra today

Once the video is edited, I’m sure it will be shared as far and wide on social media as we can reach between us.

If you are interested in buying a copy of the book it is available in each of the wonderful independent bookshops of Ipswich, Woodbridge and Felixstowe, or if you are outside Suffolk try Hive.co.uk you can get the book delivered to an independent bookshop near you or delivered directly to your door.

If you enjoy both history and poetry this book combines the two to perfection and at only £7.99 it is a bargain. 

Buy it now or risk incurring the wrath of thirty historic ghosts who are really not amused!

We are NOT amused.

The musings of a would-be memoirist

 Sometimes it’s just too hard to write

                and my meandering sentences

                                don’t find a place

                                                to settle.

Ideas flit like butterflies

                my attention

                                                wanders

aimlessly

                                from place

                to place                                quite far away

                                                and separate.

How can I join the dots

                                and focus?

 

My self-sabotage is legendary

                at least in my own head

                                where I am the star of my own show.

 

And yet all too often writing is just too hard…

 

How do I convey to you

                the complexities

                                of my thought process?

 

I was told once

                I was ordinary

                                Everyone feels the same way,

 

I was affronted by that!

 

Didn’t he know I was special?

                Unique,

                                a true revolutionary,

                                                trailblazing pioneer!

To be ordinary,

                like everybody else?

                                Oh, the horror!

 

I want to stand out … and yet

                so often I want to hide and not be noticed

                                comparison could be unfavourable

                                                and what if no one understands?

                                               

Is that why it is so hard to write?

 

Can I find the time?

                Do I carve out minutes

                                for my-self indulgent

                                                twaddle?

Will anybody care?

 

Sometimes it’s just too hard to write,

                until I pick up my pen

                                and spoil this pristine page with scribble.

 

I’m going to need another notebook

                for the good stuff

                                while this will be hidden

 

Unless - I publish anyway

                and become the viral sensation,

                                that I obviously deserve to be.

 

But then it doesn’t happen

                and I wallow

                                I throw the pens

                                                I tear the paper

                                I stamp my feet, collapse in a heap.

 

It’s difficult to write when you are crying

                although I’ve mastered the art of while I drive

 

Tears flow freely like the ideas,

                the words that tumble

                                while I have no pen to hand

                                                are amazingly fluent and creative

                                award winning literature

 

But here and now as I doodle

                a flower

                                a box

                                                a dreamy white cloud

 

It’s just too hard to write

                so I give up

                                   and make a cup of tea instead.

Stories I may never write...

It all started as a challenge to the Suffolk Writers Facebook Group to write a list from A to Z of possible book titles, 3 words of less.

As I love a good bit of writerly procrastination, here's my own full list, I haven't stuck to the 3 word rule but I have made it all rhyme and created a nonsense poem - please borrow any that take your fancy but please share if you do!

(however Kitty McClaw is already taken - something I wrote years ago, click here to read)

Acapella Tales

Beluga and the Whale 

Candle-shine at Night

Delia Makes it Right

Elephants love Shade

Forbidden Lemonade

Grandma's Hidden Gems

Henry's Mislaid Pens

Imagination Overload

Jumping Jackson Toad

Kitty McClaw's Grand  Day Out

Luna Roundabout

Madness of the First Degree

Naturally Bee

Open After Hours

Possibility of Showers

Queenie for a Day

Royalty Comes to Stay

Sunny Disposition

Tremendous Superstition

Under My Umbrella

Vicky Meets a Fella

Which Vest is Best

X-Ray of the Chest

Yellow Flowers on my Grave

Zig the Slug is Very Brave

Inspiration Finally Found

We were all a bit skittish at Wednesday's writing group zoom meeting, although there was much discussion there was little writing.

Had we lost our mojo? Or had the prompt of thinking about a memory turned us into chattering teenagers, as at least two of us pondered our school days? Crisp new uniforms and shiny shoes.

I've continued pondering...

I thought about gingham school dresses and how I still wore one at secondary school. It was on the official uniform list and my mum made me a new one in a more grown up style, but I was the only one in summery blue and white checks.

Perhaps I didn't want to grow up as fast as everyone else.

There was also some talk about PANTOUM poetry, which I had never heard of before so I googled it. This was the best illustration of how to write one.

I've decided I quite like poetic form, I like the challenge of fitting words into a defined rhythm, which is very odd because I usually hate filling in forms and I'm actually a writing outside of the box kind of girl! As ever I am complex and contrary.

Which leads us full circle to gingham dresses being slightly out of place in those early days at "big" school. Navigating puberty and all the changes that occur between being a child and growing up to be an adult. 

Eventually inspiration struck and I came up with this...

First Love

    

Clinging on to childhood

In my gingham school dress

Sunny summer days so good

No boys I want to impress

 

In my gingham school dress

Carefree days of daisy chains

No boys I want to impress

Skipping down country lanes

 

Carefree days of daisy chains

Love me - love me not

Skipping down country lanes

Childhood all forgot

 

Love me - love me not

Catch his eye, heart beats fast

Childhood all forgot

Holiday romance doesn’t last

 

Catch his eye, heart beats fast

First ever pre-teen crush

Summer romance doesn’t last

Heart all turned to mush

 

First ever pre-teen crush

Sunny summer days so good

Heart all turned to mush

Clinging on to childhood 

Another google search and I've found a list of 168 poetic forms - which could keep me going for some time...

...watch this space!

For any wife who's lost her husband...

 A wife lost her husband

Others lost their dad

Children lost a grandfather

They are all very sad

 

Each struggle with their mourning

What’s the right thing they should do?

There’s protocol to follow

Covid restrictions too

 

With fortitude and grace

And a firm “stiff upper lip”

Masks affixed in place

Only a silent tear let slip

 

But underneath the surface?

What emotions are unbidden?

Does private grief bubble up?

Past secrets stay hidden?

 

Who can tell how you would feel,

in this painful situation?

Grief is deeply personal

Not “news” broadcast to the nation

 

Everyone mourns differently

Some with tears, but then there’s laughter

Memories tumble quickly

No new ones from here after

 

A wife lost her husband

Others lost their dad

Children lost a grandfather

They are all very sad

 

Having lost a husband, a dad, a grandfather, an uncle, a friend I may have some inkling to how the royal family feels at this time. But no one really knows and few of us would ever have to face the public scrutiny they are subjected to.

But this poem isn’t just about their loss but it's written for any wife, child or grandchild at this time whose grief seems overshadowed by world events. 

We all try to do the “right” thing when actually there are no definitive answers in grief, laugh or cry, shout and scream, whatever helps you though each day.

You are not alone – God Bless!