Monday 26 May 2014

Six Trees

Some people pretend the years have stood still, others are happy to celebrate the milestones gratefully passed. Lis chose to celebrate. I wrote this poem for my friend aged sixty.



SIX TREES

Walking through a woodland maze, I see you
A sapling bending freely with the breeze.
Slender limbs reach for blue skies,
Your roots seek hidden seas.

Beside a chattering stream, I see you
A willow dressed in flowing green.
Moved to song by sparkling water,
You harmonise its diamond dreams.

In summer’s hazy meadow, I see you
A chestnut, branches draped in home grown cloth.
Children, grass, and flowers, play around you
Comforted by a show of permanence.



On a rock-strewn hillside, I see you
Battling rowan, strong against the storm.
Standing separate, but not alone
Red berries decorate your crown.

Guarded by tall pines, I see you
Red sycamore clothed in autumn leaves.
Your seeds, a twirling party of flight,
Send kindly signals across the land.

Darker now, but still I see you
A birch frozen silver by the moon.
Wearing bright rings of wisdom lightly,
Straight towards the stars you grow.

Some no longer feel the warmth of sunshine.
Some are chopped down, untimely, for the fire.
May green leaves return for you each spring
To bathe you once again in solar power.



Andrew Shephard
May 2014

Sunday 18 May 2014

The fish market

It’s busy. Crowds of people mill about, some purposeful, others standing in groups, deep in conversation. The natives are dressed in dark warm clothes, the odd tourist standing out like a sore thumb in brightly coloured t-shirt, shorts and sandals. Seagulls shriek impatiently overhead. Small trestle tables line up along each side of the jetty, some shaded from the sun with striped umbrellas. Against the seaward side, fishing boats bob and rock in gentle rhythm, resting after a long night’s toil.

For the fishermen, there’s still work to be done. They are here to sell. Each has laid out his stall with his catch and there’s a huge variety on display. 



Some major in shellfish, piles of blue-black cozze, delicate pale grey vongole and the Sicilian speciality, gamberi rosso, vermillion and translucent. Others have landed multitudes of small silver fish, slender sarde, metallic orato, curled into stiff bracelets, and slivers of acciughe, all ripe for dishes of frito misto. On other stalls, there are alien-looking polpi, their tentacles coiled together in a glossy mass, and prettily speckled calamari. The biggest stalls display great tranches of flesh, blood-red tonno and pesce spada.

One stall-holder, big and tired, his face raddled by sun and sea-water, shakes a shower of ice over his catch. Another shouts his wares, a cigarette in one hand, both hands gesticulating in the direction of a trio of women at the next table. The woman closest to him, without looking, raises her arm in a gesture of impatience or dismissal. He shrugs and turns his attention to another group on his left. On another stall, a transaction is underway. Great handfuls of anchovies are dropped into a plastic bag and weighed using old-fashioned weights and scales. All the while, trader and customer engage in an energetic conversation about who-knows-what - the price of fish? The politics of the day? A family upset? Then money changes hands, hands are shaken and a 'grazie, ciao' exchanged.

Monday 12 May 2014

Are you a scribbler, a typer or both?

I’m a bit of both...
I remember in my first weeks at university, one of my tutors laughing at those of us who still handwrote their work before word processing it.  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be putting it straight onto the computer by the end of the term.’  She was right.  It was great for academic work.  It saved me lots of precious time before deadlines with its nifty shortcuts and made navigating around longer pieces of work simpler.  

Ever since then, when I work straight onto a computer, I edit on the spot a lot more than when I handwrite.  I have to remember to take my editing hat off otherwise I don’t finish a sentence without trying out all of its other permutations.  The writing and editing stages tangle themselves together.  I think it’s because typing straight onto the computer feels like more of a commitment.  It’s one step closer to having an audience and it looks like it will look in a reader’s hands.  I find this useful for writing poems sometimes.  The layout of a poem is part of its uniqueness and seeing it take shape on a word document early on in the drafting process can be valuable.

With handwritten work, there’s no getting away from my own scrawl.  It’s a slower process.  The thought has to linger that tiny bit longer as I get down the last word of the sentence, something which helps to stop the editing voice popping up too soon.  And there’s the ache: that post-exam ache and calloused middle finger.  The pain feedback that lets me know I’ve done a good few pages (and, if I’m lucky, a few good pages). 

After writing something by hand, the editing process is much more fun and dramatic than just holding down the delete key.  I can cross out a whole page with a swooping X, or scratch a word out until it’s black and gone right through the paper.  If more drastic measures are needed, I already have an actual piece of paper to rip, scrunch and/or throw across the room.  Like at school when a paper aeroplane floats onto your desk as the teacher’s back is turned: you unfold its wings to read the insult or proposition, laugh or squirm accordingly and then scrunch up the evidence.  A text message tapped out from under a desk just isn’t quite the same.   

What do you think? 
Do you prefer one method of writing? 
Does it depend on what stage of writing it is? Or which genre?

Monday 5 May 2014

Choose Day

I wake up on Tuesdays and for a split second I have to remind myself what day it is, as I do every morning.  But on Tuesdays I lie in bed and grin broadly.  I feel my heart skip with excitement.  It's Tuesday, or as I like to call it, ‘Choose Day’. 

Tuesdays are my day when I do exactly as I choose.  Once the children are deposited at school, I drive to my creative writing class which lasts from 10 am until midday.  I then walk to a cafĂ© where I join the other members of the Writer's Lunch.  We spend for a couple of hours sharing our latest work and talking about writing and then it's time to drive home to pick up the children.

I work part-time as a supply teacher and I had got into the habit of taking an afternoon’s work on a Tuesday sometimes, but I recently decided that it was time to protect this day.  For the rest of the week, any time for writing is squeezed in between working, looking after my children, cooking, cleaning and the general demands of everyday life.  But for these few hours on a Tuesday, I can devote myself entirely to the art of writing.  I sit in my writing class and luxuriate in simply being there.  I know that this time tomorrow, I will be teaching a class of thirty children, so these precious hours feel like a gift. 

I need this one day a week when I am nobody’s wife, mother or teacher, I am just me.  As a mother, you can easily lose your identity.  You can forget who you are.  Even in these enlightened times, taking time for yourself can bring on pangs of guilt.  But I know that following my passion makes me a better wife, mother and teacher.  I come home on Tuesdays happy, revitalised and better able to cope with the rest of my week.

I also delight in the fact that my children are now beginning to see me as a writer.  I recently had an article published in the Times Educational Supplement (http://www.tes.co.uk/article.aspx?storycode=6425461) which started life as a piece of homework for my writing class.  I squealed when I saw it in print and my children cheered with me.  I realised then that I was sending them an important message.  Not only that I am a person in my own right, but that they can achieve their dreams, too.