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.

Under the Lamppost

I don't "do" Halloween, I don't like to revel in darkness and the macabre but I made an exception on Saturday afternoon to attend an event organised by my friend Virginia Betts featuring the Dead Poets Theatre Company.

Virginia and her gang of spookily dressed live poets performed some of her poems and stories from her two books "Tourist to the Sun" (poems) and "The Camera Obscure" (short stories). 

Here's a link to her website to find out more virginiabetts.com

Virginia told us about her own writing journey, it's fascinating to hear how other people have been published - it always involves hard work and tenacity! 

She also mentioned how her dreams have inspired her writing and I think that got me thinking when there was a chance to get involved and write our own spooky tale using a couple of picture prompts.

This wasn't the actual picture but one I found on Google that works with my edited version. And I do recall having a similar dream a long long time ago...

picture credit: Daniel Petreikis - found on unsplash.com

Under the Lamppost

Lamplights dazzle brightly, full of hope, setting before me a path to guide my future. Staring hypnotically at them brings spots to my eyes so I blink and squeeze my lids tight to clear my vision. Once fully open I see you there, through the ether, under the lamppost, loitering.

I shiver, sensing you watching me.

You are the mysterious figure from my nightmare years ago.

Now I am older, more self-assured, I feel I should investigate, confront my demons.

But now I am older I am more cautious, aware of dangers that lurk in shadows.

Both of us stand, frozen, watching.

Until one by one the lights go out!

I dream...

They say your dreams are your subconscious resolving conflicts and putting the world to rights while you sleep. My night time dreams are usually just weird, colourful and complex, leaping about in time and space.

Love Heart
found at the Christian Writers Conference 

Writing can be a bit like dreaming, in that your words can be influenced by what is going on in life.

Last Wednesday evening at the monthly zoom meeting of the the Saltburn Writers Group. We started with a free write using the words “I dream…” as a prompt.

A free write is a great way to dump ideas on the page and clear your thoughts. Sometimes you can find the gem of a hidden sentence or idea in the middle which can be developed later.

I scratched my pen on the page, a little dismayed the ink didn’t flow – would I waste the whole minute finding a pen that worked?

When after some harsh scribbling it woke from its dreamy slumber, I wrote the start of the poem below.

I’ve dreamt of writing a book for a long time and although there is still much hard work ahead it actually seems possible. As I share in the writing success of other friends I’m beginning to believe. If they can do it so can I.

I hope you like my little poem and you never know if you do enjoy my words maybe one day in the not-so-distant future you will be able to hold them in a book!

 

 

A sign from the Primadonna Festival

I dream of a pen that writes smoothly

gliding across paper

spilling ideas with the ink-flow

never-ending narrative

a story to be told

 

I dream of crisp white parchment

being magically covered in words

long words,

short words

intelligent and coherent

 

I dream of everything

coming together

words and ideas

forming books

bound printed words

collected in one place

with a shiny cover

 

I dream of seeing my name

not in lights

but boldly printed

with a compelling title

attracting you

to reach out

 

Found on Facebook

            I dream of a book

that dances off the shelf

landing into your hand

caressed with longing

and intrigue

as you unfurl its pages

 

I dream of my words

reaching your heart

making a lasting impression

indelible

connecting

perhaps

inspiring your own dreams

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.

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

Don't Leave Me This Way

 I recently started a short online memoir writing course and last week I was so productive I actually wrote two pieces for the our weekly task. As we were writing about memorable music I had so much scope.

Here is the second one I wrote but never submitted ...

    As Jimmy Somerville sang the long ahhhhhhh in anticipation of the next line I twirled as best I could on the sticky nightclub floor with my friends all around me. It was an elaborate display but years of dance classes starting at an early age had taught me how to spot and spin without getting dizzy, although I confess a little dizziness mixed with the sensations of a Malibu and coke or two was not an unpleasant sensation.

It was student night at the Hungry Years, the only nightclub we really frequented. It was situated near Brighton pier and is now, perhaps unsurprisingly for its location, a gay club. I wonder if it’s glitzier and more vibrant? Along the wall, as we went up the stairs, it used to portray pictures of men queuing for food in the depression.

“Don’t Leave me This Way” was guaranteed to get me up on the floor, although to be honest we pretty much danced the whole night.

Year later I sat with a green ring binder on my knee. As I had studied librarianship, I was impressed with Andrew’s catalogue of all his vinyl.  I guess it was an early version of a spreadsheet, what used to be called a database – are they even the same?

Anyway you could search for records by either artist or title.

In his spare time Andrew was a DJ, lugging big wooden flight-cases and all his gear around in a white transit van with a blue stripe. (I have such great memories of time spent in that van and maybe I’ll share them another day or just hold them closer for a comforting hug.)

Suddenly I found the one I wanted to play, I checked the number, found the correct case and flicked through the records, all housed in sturdy brown or white carboard sleeves rather than the usual coloured, flimsy paper wrappers.

777 - Don’t Leave me This Way by the Communards.

I can't survive I can't stay alive, without your love oh baby
Don't leave me this way…
No I can't exist ...
I'll surely miss your tender kiss
Don't leave me this way….

But you did leave, you died, I stayed alive and here I am all these years later and I still somehow exist without your kiss.

The song I danced to all those years ago became woven into our memories together, Andrew knew it was one of my favourites and it became one of those titles we joked about being a good funeral song.

Actually we didn’t play it at the funeral, there were songs far more appropriate for the occasion, but I hang on to the vinyl copy. I have it in my hand now, perhaps it's time for another turn, swirling together thoughts from long ago, before you, my years with you and the present, more than just surviving because after all this time I still recall the art of how to spin without becoming dizzy.

A Rondel of Unrequited Fluff

 

The first Wednesday of each month is always the most creative as I click the zoom link for my writing group meeting.

It is such a joy to be able to join my writerly friends in these strange times.

Last night was no exception as we learnt all about Rondel poems, starting with one by Chaucer, Rondel of Merciless Beauty, read here by the mesmerising Jude Law…

 

We were encouraged to stick to Chaucer’s rhymes to make things easier, so of course I broke those rules immediately and didn’t! 

And we were told our love poem could be about anything, a beloved pet, a landscape or even smelly feet, “it’s just a bit of fluff” said PoetWoman who was leading the evening.

Well the word fluff stuck and I couldn’t get enough of the stuff, resulting in this little ditty….

I do hope it brightens your day 😊

 

A Rondel of Unrequited Fluff

 

You stretch and yawn and catch me unawares

There’s your belly button full of fluff

I reach my finger, but not far enough

 

I am bereft, can only stop and stare

My heart’s like jelly, made from wobbly stuff

You stretch and yawn and catch me unawares

There’s your belly button full of fluff

 

Upon my word you tempt me to despair

My life from this moment on will be tough

I dry my tears upon my silken cuff

You yawn and stretch and catch me unawares

There’s your belly button full of fluff

I reach my finger, but not far enough

A time to write and a time to mend

This time last week I relocated into my seldom used dining room for a change of scene and an excellent online Zoom writing workshop led by Natalie Scott - you can find out more from her website Pen Power.

I was definitely in need of a change of pace, a change to the monotony of this lock down life, it's getting dull staring at the same walls all the time. This workshop gave me permission to both write and reflect. In many ways it was also a spiritual experience, as I spent time reassessing and getting my thoughts in order.

To be honest I didn't get a great deal of writing done, for most of the afternoon I read over my old story about the girl in the yellow dress - maybe someday soon I will continue the story, I feel we all need a bit of escapism,

The highlight of the day was connecting with new people and listening to the work they had produced, some about the wildlife spotted in this season and a charming piece about falling in love with a Swiss cheese plant and watching it's new leaf unfurl.

Right at the start we were set 3 short free writing exercises, basically you take the prompt and just keep scribbling away whether your words make sense or not for a set time, we did 3 minutes on each.

The three prompts were

• For me today is...
• I notice...
• So I will...

As I read back over my thoughts I took the ideas and wrote this poem.

Today is…

Mine – all mine!

Time to indulge my passions.

Remember;

plans on hold

will one day

become plans released -

set free!

Scribbling relentlessly,

I notice…

I am reaching,

stretching

for a colourful future,

sunflower bright and golden.

So I will… sew!

Stitch by stitch,

a jigsaw, mosaic, collage of scraps

and lost words emerges.

It’s all about mending!

These are unprecedented times, as the news keeps reminding us, and we are beginning to imagine what the world could look like when we have recovered.

The thought the occupies me the most is that there will be a lot of brokenness, lives shattered that need piecing back together and I hope that is reflected in my writing.

After all I know what it is to be broken, being widowed at 42 and then having bowel cancer at 50 has not only left me with inevitable scars both visible and unseen, but hopefully a resilience that maybe I can use to help people mend when this is over.

It's a tall order and an immense task to heal the world, but as ever we start with the smaller pieces. Some have found comfort during the lockdown by doing jigsaws, many people sew, knit or bake - it's all creative, making something new for something smaller.

Let's all make something beautiful in words, music, wool or flour (if you can get hold of any!)

Stitch by stitch we will recover...

A joint effort - my mum knitted the squares, I arranged them and sewed them together!

The story behind the advert

One of our writing prompts last week at writing group was to write the fictional story behind a real life advert spotted in the local supermarket. My story made everyone giggle and I hope it makes you smile too…

Nearly new car tyre - £35

The car was a write off, all that was left intact was the pink furry dice and one nearly new front tyre.

Well I’m keeping the dice – obviously – they were a gift from my Nan when I passed my test. She was so proud of me for passing on the fourteenth attempt, said it showed really determination.

She’s finally given up her own dreams of driving after failing at the unlucky thirteenth time. If God had wanted me to go faster he’s have given me wheels instead of legs she always said. She was seventy-two at the time and with her failing eyesight and dodgy hip it was probably for the best Dad said, although he said it a bit sharper than that!

My car itself was never exactly what you would call a luxury model but it was mine. A black Corsa with a distinctive green drivers’ door. I suppose you could say that I am a little accident prone really as the original matching door was knocked off in a car park.

I had to open the door to see out of my blind spot so it’s not that I’m a careless driver who doesn’t look or anything stupid like that.

The car was full of balloons for my Nan’s surprise seventy-fifth birthday and I’d lost my wing mirror the week before so I had to reverse with my head hanging out of the door to see where I was going. I quickly moved my head back in when I saw the pillar but forgot to close the door and it was sort of ripped off.

Attack of the multi storey car park pillar, they should make a film says my friend Shazz, who was with me at the time laughing her head off and recording my reactions for Facebook.

They are lethal those things, I reply and all over the place!

They are kinda necessary to hold the roof up or it wouldn’t be a multi storey – duh!

Oh she’s a bright one, I’d really never thought of that before.

Shazz also has a brother who works at a scrap yard so it was him that fixed up my green door. He found it dead funny and went around singing this old rock and roll song every time he saw me.

Even more annoyingly he kept asking me out, but I have my standards and he has dirty finger nails. Must be from his job I suppose so I might forgive him that but he also has a missing front tooth from a fight.

Otherwise he has a heart of gold and it was him that suggested I sell the tyre to make a bit of money and I need it because who knew you have to pay to have a car scrapped?

Ridiculous state of affairs if you ask me.

But I thank my lucky dice that I escaped from the accident relatively unscathed, just a chipped nail. Mandy at the nail bar fixed it for me good as new for free, she could see I was distraught and in shock so she added three spoons of sugar to my tea for good measure.

some more writing group inspiration!

Another good evening at my writing group last night and some more poetry.

This is based on a workshop someone had been to run by Natalie Scott www.penpower.org.uk

We looked at several poems and I chose the prompt loosely based on a poem by Deborah Landau called “You’ve Got to Start Somewhere”.

The prompt was – recall a time when the world around you is moving at a fast pace.

This is what I came up with…

Everybody’s Moving On

Everybody’s moving on.

And I am staying put.

Everybody’s chasing me.

I’ve fallen in a rut.

Everybody’s growing up.

What do I want to be?

Everybody’s in a couple.

I’m on my own. Just me.

Everybody’s changing.

Wisdom added to their years.

Really everybody’s just the same

It’s not as it all appears…

The ending is a bit abrupt but then I did write it in 5 minutes and I’ve only tidied it up a bit from last night.

I think in a lot of ways it sums up how I feel sometimes. The world is moving quickly and it’s easy to believe everyone else has life sorted, especially viewing all the “happy” posts on Facebook but if you stop for a minute and snap out of your self-pity you see that we all have struggles to contend with.

The girl in the yellow dress - part 1.

As well as being inspired to write a Ghazal poem at writing group last week I also started this story.

We were only warming up with a short time of free writing based on a picture prompt chosen from a set of postcards.

I chose the one of the girl in the yellow dress, I didn't notice her expression, or the fact she had a flower in her hand but her dress reminded me of daffodils so I started off...

"Her dress was daffodil yellow..."

And then I was off. I've since changed the beginning and who knows quite where it will end but this is part 1

He was dressed like James Bond, very suave she thought, the unmistakable tailoring of his suit had the air of extravagance to it. 

“You’ve picked a good one this time.” She silently congratulated herself.

As she was assessing his worth she noted he was making his own appraisal. She was thankful for her friend Clare whose skill with a needle created a masterpiece that showed off her curves to best effect.  

Seemingly he approved too, his smile was both dangerous and disarming and something inside her fluttered. 

Her dress was the colour of rich butter; she was no longer a margarine girl from the council estate. She was off to a grand ball, only Sebastian had neglected to tell her it was a black and white "do".

As soon as they entered the ballroom her mistake became apparent even to her uneducated eye. She stood out for all the wrong reasons, a lone daffodil in a bouquet of exquisite lilies. Common – that was the only word for it.

Suddenly she was fourteen again in a hand-me-down dress at the school disco. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. Sebastian realising his faux pas of picking the wrong kind of flower was nonchalantly looking around and ever so slightly distancing himself from her.

It took courage not to turn her back on the lot of them and run. She didn’t belong here, that was painfully obvious. Were they already sniggering? Or was it her overworked imagination?

In the split second of deciding what to do for the best to salvage the situation a waiter appeared by her side.

“Champagne?” Glasses sparkled elegantly on a tray presented to her. “The colour perfectly matches your dress.” He added with a wink and she knew it would be rude to refuse.

Of course Sebastian had completely deserted her by this point, but she stood a little taller, breathed deeply and took a sip…

How will it end? I have a few ideas, I'll keep working on it and hopefully will share some more soon!

Where the music takes me...

I thought I was such a rock chick dancing along to Def Leppard’s Animal. Thursdays were student night at the Hungry Years Nightclub. And that was the tune guaranteed to get everyone on the dance floor. “And I want, and I need, and I lust – Animal” 

Hang on a minute - I never knew until google that “lust” was in the lyrics. I was searching for love…

It was the late eighties, I was a student, probably a very naïve one, the only time I invited a boy back to my room for coffee, I really meant coffee! No lust whatsoever!

His name was Rob, I’d been eying him up all year across the dance floor or over breakfast – we were in the same halls of residence so he would have been sat three tables away and not directly opposite me with just a bowl of cornflakes and piece of toast between us.

It was nearly the end of the summer term, practically my last chance to find that elusive boyfriend before going home for the holidays.

We’d been to the ‘Years, as we used to call it, and somehow we ended up sharing a taxi home. It was probably Katie’s idea, she was also in our halls of residence and not afraid to talk to boys like I was.

So I made him coffee and we may have even swapped phone numbers and addresses but this was the era before social media and mobile phones; he never did get in touch.

Summer came and went. When we returned to the Hungry Years the music had shifted. It was all S Express and Pump up the Volume.

I spied him once more across the dance floor but by then he’d caught the eye of another girl. I think she was Scottish but where I got that idea from I’ll never know. But she certainly was a wee fresher who stomped in time to the beat. “Mini Stamper” was the moniker I gave her in my head as I glared in her direction.

Rob was captivated “I got the hots for you” as the song goes but I’m not sure if he ever looked longingly over in my direction again. Perhaps she made better coffee!

By the following summer he was all forgotten as a group of us sat on Brighton beach listening to Eternal Flame by The Bangles. By then I fancied Mike or was it Jon… If only either of them would notice me!  “Say my name, sun shines through the rain… I don’t want to lose this feeling.”

But even those flickers of fantasy turned to dying embers, the flames weren’t really as eternal as they promised.

A few years passed and then you came and turned my world around. As Whitney warbled I will always love you I knew I’d found my one and always. You were nothing like the boys of before. They were boys of summer, merely for a season.

But in the end so were you, but you were like autumn, forever.

And If I can’t have you, I will always have our song.