The moment in-between - Emma Harding

So it’s done. All over. All those weeks of shopping and planning, of fruitcake-sousing, of mincemeat mixing. Of house-decorating and relatives-appeasing. The pantos. The carolling. The ‘what-on-earth-am-I-going-to-give-Great-Aunt-Jean’-ing?

Then the day itself when we gorged ourselves. On food, on drink, on presents, on tinsel. We surrounded ourselves with the ones we love and filled our eyes, our ears and our belly with treats.

And then 24 hours later, it was over. Well not quite, of course. There are still a load of leftovers to finish (turkey curry, anyone?). There are still a couple of needles yet to fall off the tree. And the batteries in the new lightsabres are just about clinging on in there. 

But it’s done. What now?

Now. 

This time in-between. This brief moment when the world seems to pause on its axis, just for a blink and you’ll miss it instant. A time of quiet, of stillness, when the old year is done and the new one hasn’t yet begun. 

It’s a moment to breathe, to notice, to reflect and to just be. 

It’s as if all the lights, the glitter, the sparkle, were a precursor to this. We’ve overwhelmed our senses so that we can better appreciate this stark interlude. The charcoal grey of a bare tree against a cold sky is the perfect balm to tired eyes, worn down by bauble-laden interiors. The crunch of frost-encrusted humus underfoot the calm antithesis to the jangle of jingle bells. Having run ourselves ragged, the only option is to stop. And by stopping we are able to regroup, reflect and recalibrate.

The perfect moment to let what’s gone before go and to reach towards what is to come. 

Happy New Year. 

Christmas by Andrew Shephard

It’s coming up to Christmas, a drama whose cast and location has changed completely, several times, in my life. When you form an important relationship or get married, or have children, or lose a loved one, the form which Christmas will take can be a source of inner and outer conflict, a feeling that what is proposed is somehow not quite as Christmas should be.

Our idea of what Christmas should be is formed when we are very young, created from those first remembered gatherings of our own peculiar tribe, when food was unusually varied and plentiful, when bedtimes were not enforced, when games were played, when brightly coloured pop was drunk, and when the grown-ups were a lot less serious than usual.

This is me aged three and a half, on the first Christmas Day I can recall. I am in the back yard of my grandparents’ house in Mitcham, proudly showing my presents to the Brownie camera - a tricycle and a bus conductor’s outfit. My parents had lived with my grandparents when they were first married just after the second world war, my father still a soldier in uniform and only occasionally home from Africa. Three years before I was born they could afford to move to their own place, a maisonette between the A3 trunk road and the Southern Region railway line, and then, a few months before Christmas 1956, to a modern house with a smokeless coke boiler and a party telephone line in Morden.

We travelled back to Mitcham on a big red 118 bus, on Christmas Eve evening in the dark after my dad got home from work. I sat in the front seat so I could pretend to drive the bus. Arriving at the terraced house in Oakwood Avenue, the interior looked like a fairy grotto to the three-year-old me. Not only was there a tree in the front room, the whole downstairs was lit by strings of painted light bulbs linked with yards of twisted brown wire. When one bulb blew, the whole house was plunged into darkness until candles were lit, and Grandad would begin a painstaking round of every bulb to discover which one had failed. This activity occupied most of his Christmas.

You might think the small house would be crowded, but there was apparently plenty of space because we were joined by an aunt, two uncles, and a great uncle, a strange thin man who came and went like a vagrant. The gathering would be completed for ‘tea’ and party games by Mr and Mrs Gilbert from down the road. I have no idea where everyone slept – perhaps some relatives camped in the Gilberts’ spare bedroom? I remember I slept in a room upstairs full of beds on a hard and lumpy mattress covered in striped material.

Unaccustomed to so many people (my normal days were quiet, just me and my mum, my older sister having started school) I hid behind the curtains in the front room for much of the time. Peaking out, I could see grown-ups wearing paper hats and holding bottles of India pale ale, often gathered around a small table for games of cards and put-and-take. Big pennies clinked as they changed hands.

Enticed out from behind the curtains, I sat on Grandad’s knee while he provided the soundtrack to the evening, carefully lowering a steel needle onto brittle 78 rpm records. I loved watching the record labels with a dog listening to a gramophone go round and round. The music was by artists like Winifred Atwell, Ruby Murray, and Fats Domino. I couldn’t distinguish between old classics like Cigarettes and Whiskey and Wild, Wild Women and the new modern sound of songs like Blueberry Hill and Green Door, a favourite of mine because it seemed to be about Mitcham and Oakwood Avenue where nearly every piece of wood was painted in the same shade of green. 

It is only recently that I realised how up-to-date Grandad was with his music. But if my sums are right the grizzled whiskery old man of my memory was only about fifty. I’ve enjoyed many wonderful Christmases since 1956, but that was when my Christmas die was cast. Since I was myself promoted to grandad a few years ago, I have been doing my best to create a similar mood with coloured lights, music and party games. I even have the green front door.

A Merry Christmas to all, whatever Christmas means to you.

Festive Pantoumine By Nigella Berry-Blumenthal (aka Clair Wright)

To make the perfect Christmas

Start September! Be prepared!

Write a list, or two, or three,

Hang tasteful baubles on your tasteful tree.

Start September! Be prepared!

Check out this years’ must have gifts

Hang tasteful baubles on your tasteful tree

Stuff home-made stuffing in your giant turkey.

Can’t afford those must have gifts?

Will your loved ones know you care?

Drag slimy giblets from your grotesque turkey

Dread the rowdy family festive feast.

Give time to loved ones, show you care,

And stuff the list or two or three

Relish the rowdy family festive feast

To make the perfect Christmas.

An Apple A Day... by Annabel Howarth

 

It’s the run up to Christmas and the shops are filled again with an abundance of chocolate, biscuits, cakes and booze, and I wonder whether this year I will fill my shopping trolley in quite the same way.   

Like many other people, and as had been my ritual for years before, I over indulged last Christmas.  I drank more alcohol than usual and ate a lot of chocolate.  I couldn’t leave the large tin of Roses and Quality Street or the cakes or prettily boxed biscuits to waste, could I?  The more chocolate, cakes and biscuits I ate, the more I wanted to eat. I knew it was bad for me, but I craved it and enjoyed it.   I cannot only blame the Christmas period either.  Since giving birth, I had swapped the odd glass of wine after a stressful day at work for a new vice.  Chocolate, biscuits or cake would be my quick fix when I felt tired - hot chocolates with marshmallows and whipped cream too.  What better way to give yourself a boost when you just feel like lying down?  I also craved a little fruit or a little fruit juice, which is good isn’t it?  What’s that old saying?  “An apple a day keeps the Doctor away.”  Well apparently for me, at that time, it was not the case at all.

For some years I had had various niggling symptoms, which I would generally choose not to divulge in one visit to a glazed eyed GP: wind, bloating, frequent mild headaches, blocked nose in the mornings and at night, itchy throat, sore throat, itchy ear.  For so long, I had put those things down to a touch of irritable bowel syndrome or hayfever (as diagnosed by doctors previously), but my hayfever had become all year round and all day round, and my symptoms on the whole had increased.  

The constant itching throat was so bad in October (therefore not hayfever) that I visited my very nice GP, who told me it was likely to be allergies, probably dust mite allergy, which was driving me to distraction and prescribed me with a steroid nasal spray.  A dust mite allergy might have explained why I had symptoms at night or in the morning, but all day?  And I knew from having used nasal sprays in the past that they are not a long term solution, and in this case could possibly exacerbate the problem.  

Feeling quite low, irritable, insane even, I started to investigate further and read about such things as sick building syndrome and multi-chemical sensitivities, which might have explained away the reactions I was having when entering any of the bedrooms in the house.  

I became paranoid about the MDF furniture in the main bedrooms silently poisoning us with their chemical formula coatings or the Peppa Pig and boat design stick-on decals which look fantastic on the walls of the children’s bedrooms?  Could I have been slowly killing my babies by washing their delicate little sleepsuits with the special fabric conditioner which is “soft and gentle against babies’ skin”?  In fact, as I have been lead to believe, it is full of toxic chemicals, the smell of which are masked by additional perfume chemicals, also in themselves potentially toxic.  

Initially convinced that the problems mainly related to the dreaded dust mite, I invested in a super mattress hoover with ultra violet light, special anti-allergy bedding for the children and I started dusting the ceilings on a regular basis. The symptoms persisted so I stopped using fabric softener and started to look into environmentally friendly and therefore human friendly alternatives to the more popular cleaning materials I tended to use.

Nothing seemed to make a difference, so I bemoaned my lot to my husband, my mother, and anyone else who would care to listen.  They suggested that it might be something else, that was now affecting me everywhere I went.  It couldn’t be dust mites in the car, when walking in the street, or when taking a shower!  So, I was persuaded to also read about certain food intolerances and found that some of my symptoms seemed to fit common symptoms of yeast intolerance.  It then occurred to me that it could be my shampoo (which I discovered was full of parabens, as was, to my complete horror, the baby wipes I had been using to clean babies’ bottoms for the past four years!) or the very expensive cleanser, toner and moisturiser which I had been using daily since October.  Lo and behold, the cleanser contained yeast.  Could this be the culprit?

On 1st February I took a non-invasive food intolerance test, called the MORA test.  It revealed a number of things. I do have a house dust-mite allergy, but this was not the predominate problem.  The main issue for me was yeast intolerance and the presence of an overgrowth of candida.  The symptoms cover the digestive issues already described, hayfever, headaches, and severe chemical and food sensitivities, amongst other things, all of which I recognised as symptoms of my own.  I was surprised that some of the other symptoms include depression, confusion, irritability, memory lapses, inability to concentrate, lethargy and loss of confidence.  Hearing this was like describing traits I had been struggling with myself and putting them down to being the mother of two small children suffering from a lack of decent sleep.  The results also revealed a dairy intolerance and some vitamin deficiencies, likely to result from the candida overgrowth as candida releases a number of toxins into the body which affect the immune system.  Whilst the body is fighting the toxins produced by the candida overgrowth it then finds it difficult to cope with other toxins it would ordinarily be able to cope with, such as low levels of chemicals.

As candida occurs in the body naturally there is no actual cure, so the principal way to deal with the problem is to control the levels of yeast in the body and this means not only cutting yeast out of the diet but also ALL sugars, as the sugars help the yeast ferment.  All sugars includes anything sweet including all fruit, fresh, dried or otherwise.  Thinking I had been doing myself good by eating fruit and drinking fruit juices, I had actually been making my problem worse.  

At another time in my life, the prospect of not drinking alcohol might have put me off taking any of it seriously at all.  The solution sounded onerous, and surprisingly yeast is widely used as a food preservative or flavour, so removing yeast from your diet is not as simple as cutting out bread and beer, and to begin with I had to search hard for many pre-prepared food items that did not contain yeast.  Most ready meals, even the very expensive “home made” kind contain yeast, as do stock cubes, ketchup and many other staple items in the kitchen cupboard, unless you look very hard for the “yeast free” variety.

Once I became used to drinking black coffee, instead of my previously preferred sweet tea, and swapping yeast free soda bread or tortilla wraps for ordinary bread, the diet was not so onerous afterall.  Most meals had to be prepared from scratch, but unlike with a gluten intolerance, I could still eat pasta and rice without any concern.  It was really a case of going back to basics and eating more simply.  Eating out was difficult as our standard diet is full of bread and it is fashionable to cover food with elaborate sauces in restaurants, but after a while you get used to asking for sauces on the side.  To begin with I was good and took the “good bacteria” capsules and multi-vitamins I was a advised to take.  Cinammon, cloves, cumin and garlic are all good yeast fighting products, and I added these where I could.  I now have a huge collection of interesting herbal teas.  I used to shun crisps in favour of chocolate, but they became my new vice, but only the ready salted variety as, surprise surprise, flavoured crisps tend to include yeast amongst their ingredients.

I kept to my diet strictly for 3 months, save for the odd gin & slim-line tonic (white spirits being the least of all evils) and a very brief blast back to my youth of bacardi with “zero” coke.

It didn’t take long before I started to feel the results.  Suddenly I had more energy.  I hadn’t realised how bad it had been, dragging my body through the day.  I now had a new zing in my step.  I could run up the stairs, and remember why I had entered a room, and even though I was still tired from disrupted sleep, the sluggishness was gone.  Over the 3 months the constant bloated feeling I had, subsided. I stopped having a monthly cycle of mouth ulcers, I stopped feeling as though I was breathing in gravel when I walked to the top of the house, and although I was eating a lot of all the things that my diet allowed - vegetables, meat of any kind, potatoes, pasta, rice - I lost weight.  I went from struggling to keep to what I thought was my ideal weight of 9 1/2 stone, often creeping to 10 1/2, down to a steady 8 1/2 stone.  Not that my intention in embarking on the diet was ever to lose weight, but what a happy side effect for me - to feel generally lighter and healthier?

After the 3 months, I slowly started to reintroduce things into my diet, so I eat fruit again (thankfully my beloved apples - I did miss them); a little dairy, but keep it to a minimum, for example choosing to eat dark chocolate rather than milk chocolate; and I still avoid yeast as far as possible.  So, it will be an interesting shopping trolley this Christmas.  What sort of treats will I add to the trolley?  Will there be the obligatory large tin of Rose’s? One thing’s for certain - I won’t be the one polishing them off this year!

To make bread by Andrew Shephard

Bend for the mixing bowl

patterned like our mothers’.

Fetch the wooden spoon

darkened by a thousand dhals.

Slide bees-work into water, add yeast

and watch a muddy puddle

spring to life. Keep warm.

Wait. Wash hands, splash face, brush teeth.

Add fragrant flour

gifted by the summer sun

and salt from the earth and sea.

Beat, beat, beat the batter

Til your arm says ‘no more’.

First rising. Slow movement, stretch, balance.

Add more flour for a sticky,

glutinous gloop.

Push, fold, push, fold.

until the dough submits.

Place a damp towel on its swelling crown.

Second rising. Up the hill through autumn leaves and mist.

Oil tins, light oven

form a trinity of loaves

smooth, round and sensuous

ready for the fire.

Third rising. Let thoughts arise.

Put the pieces in the kiln.

Set the timer, let the fire do its work.

Meditate, dog curled tired at your feet.

When the loaves sound like drums,

and smell of heaven,

turn out on a rack.

Cooling, cooling

waiting

waiting…

 

November Rain by Annabel Howarth

November Rain

Umbrella, closed, in hand,

I stood in the therapy of November rain,

It pierced my repentant skin with devil's nails,

And rinsed the lines from my crumpled heart.

The circles of solitude spun in deep puddles,

Each drop suspended, untimely, before the fall,

It ran rings of memory around my past,

And quenched the thirst of my present anguish.

I felt alone on that spot,

Looked up at the black star filled sky,

Into the shower of darting lights,

Cascades closed the doors of my eyes.

When the emptiness was all washed out,

I shook the tears from my dripping hair,

And, smiling, with umbrella up,

Turned my back, forever, on that spot

.... and walked home.

by Annabel Howarth

Yarn by Emma Harding

the

    needles

            click, 

                the 

                    ball 

                       jumps,

                         the thread slips 

                          through my fingers.

                          stitch after stitch, loop joining loop, 

                          entwining to form rows, those rows

                          lining up, taking shape, becoming material. 

                          my mind wanders, following the trail of yarn,

                          spinning back over millennia.

                          back to an age of thunder, the bellow of vast machines,

                          grinding lives and land into miles of cloth,

                          enough to build an empire.

                          further back to when the loom’s rhythmic crack and knock

                          sung loud from bright-eyed Yorkshire cottages,

                          that illuminate the weaver’s intricate craft.

                          and thence to a world made of wool,

                          churches and grand houses built on its trade,

                          wars financed and kingdoms secured.

                          the yarn twists into myth, telling tales of ingenuity and magic:

                          of Penelope, stringing suitors along on unspun thread,

                          and Ariadne, unravelling the labyrinth to guide Theseus through,

                          of Arachne, whose prowess led to an eternity of web making,

                          and a beautiful princess, spinning-wheel-spiked to a century of sleep,

                          and the Lady of Shalott, doomed to weave a world to see by.

                          is this what we as storytellers do?
                          stitch by stitch, we spin our yarns,
                          fabricating worlds to see them more clearly?

                                                              back in my fingertips

                                                                            the needles click,

                                                                                     the ball jumps,

                                                                                       a pattern emerges.

A Visitor by Dave Rigby

The end of September. My birthday in a week.

The sun’s shining through the window. It’s Saturday morning and no school. I dress quickly. My vest, shirt and jumper are all still slotted inside each other from last night, so it makes things even quicker. A brief stop in the bathroom and down for breakfast.

Mum and Dad are already in the kitchen and there are fry-ups on the go. As usual my brother’s nowhere to be seen. Two eggs, two rashers, sausage and beans followed by tea and toast.

Dad’s on the phone to the chimney sweep, fixing for him to come next week. The sweep’s a small man with a big moustache and a bald head, although he wears a cap nearly all the time. He must wash but maybe it’s difficult for him to get the soot out of his skin. He works slowly. He told me last year he likes to do everything by the book. I don’t suppose I’ll see him this year. No school holidays next week.

As I clear the table, I hear this strange noise coming from the chimney, a bit like a chicken, except it can’t be. The noise gets louder and louder, a squawking sound. Something is coming down the chimney! Luckily we don’t light the fire until October. There’s a screen in front of the grate. It’s got a woodland scene on it, a big stag with antlers. It’s not really like any wood around here. The squawking noise is replaced by a flapping noise. When I move the screen this bird is staring at me. It’s black but I can’t tell whether it really is or whether it’s just the soot. There are twigs and bits of grass – black not green – in the hearth.

Suddenly the bird takes off and launches itself at the kitchen window. It hits the glass and falls onto the sofa beneath. I think it’s stunned at first, but then it begins to move again, doing little flaps with its wings, along the sofa, a jump onto the dresser and back to the sofa.

I don’t know where Mum and Dad have got to. I creep out of the room, close the door and shout for them. I have to explain what’s happened. Dad says the bird must have been listening to his phone call to the sweep. He tells me he has a plan to catch the bird and goes upstairs. I decide to stay out of the kitchen until he comes back.

I assume the man coming down the stairs is my dad. He’s wearing a boiler suit. It’s got oil stains on it from when he services the old Volvo and smears of green paint from when he decorated the utility room. He’s got a beret on his head. I’ve not seen this before. I didn’t even know he had one. But best of all is the ski goggles he’s wearing. He only ever went once, with a friend of his. He told us he spent all week falling over and never went again. He puts on his boots and then looks in the hall cupboard for his motorbike gloves – gauntlets he calls them. Mum is hooting with laughter and tells him to stand still while she takes a photo. I stand next to him, grinning like a Cheshire cat as Mum would say.

Dad says it’s time for action and goes into the kitchen. He’s just about to close the door behind him when I ask him if I can come in. I don’t want to miss the action. I stand in the corner by the standard lamp.

Dad starts talking to the bird, calls it Chief for some reason. He’s talking to it like it’s a person. Chief puts his head to one side, as if he’s taking it all in. There are black bird-foot marks all over the sofa and something else that must be bird poo. It’s kind of soothing what Dad is saying, something about the weather being nice outside, too good to be stuck indoors and sorry about the nest collapsing. He’s good at this. Maybe he’s done it before.

He gradually creeps forward nearer and nearer to Chief, talking all the time, until he’s within reach. The bird doesn’t move an inch, just sits there with his green eyes looking at Dad. The gauntlets close around him and he’s carried out to the back door. Dad signals to me to open it, as he’s got his hands full. Out in the yard he lets go and Chief soars up to the beech trees beyond the garden.

The Impossible Journey by Virginia Hainsworth

I have always wanted to be a time traveller.  To fly backwards across the centuries and peep into the lives of ordinary and extraordinary people.  To eavesdrop on their conversations, to touch their clothes, their lives.  To see through their eyes.

I would first go for afternoon tea with Charles II.  I know that afternoon tea hadn’t been invented then, but hey, I’m making the rules in this journey of journeys.  I want to see for myself if he’s as charming, suave, intelligent and witty as history reports.

I would peer into The Tower, where the princes are sleeping and wait to see who comes to take their lives, asking at whose bidding they come.  Time travellers cannot change the past, much as I would want to save those little boys.

I would gaze into the fire with stone age men and women, so I could return to my junior school and bring history projects to life with sights, sounds, smells and fireside tales.

I would slip back into the lives of loved ones who are no longer here, to spend one last day with them.  To tell them I love them.  And to kiss them farewell.

I would sail on The Beagle with Charles Darwin to witness his excitement about new discoveries and to ask him if he foresaw the storm of controversy that his theories would bring about.

I would spend some time in the 1920’s.  Firstly to New York to listen to George Gerschwin playing Rhapsody in Blue.  Just for me.  And whilst there, I would buy a tasselled dress and dance the Charleston.  Then I would don warmer clothes and sit atop Mount Everest in 1924 to look for George Mallory.  Did he reach that far, I wonder.

I would visit Charles Dickens and ask for a lesson or two in creative writing.  And from Jane Austen, too.

I would swim in the sea off Taormina, Sicily in the years before tourists arrived.  Then eat spaghetti vongole with the locals.

I would go back to my French class when I was 11 years old and pay more attention.  Then perhaps I would find learning the language again much easier, many years later.

I would dine in a hunting lodge in Tsavo, Kenya with Karen Blixen and Denys Finch-Hatton.  And go on  safari with them.  To shoot photos, not animals.

But wherever I went, I would always want to return to the here and now.  For to be in the present moment is all there is.

So….where would you go?

Anyone Who Had a Heart by Malcolm Henshall

I attend a creative writing class in Leeds and am writing a novel. It is based on the life of a family who have a child with profound and multiple learning difficulties. Much of the content will be humorous, the following not so much so. It may or may not form part of the book...


     I’d noticed her in Home Bargains a few minutes earlier. She had that tough look about her - a great big tattoo across her neck. She reminded me of the girl with the dragon tattoo but without the good looks. I can’t begin to tell you how many piercings she had in unsuitable locations. She had a surly ‘don’t you cross me’ air surrounding her. All the shoppers were giving her a wide berth. I wouldn’t swear to it in court but I’m pretty sure I saw her putting an extra large bag of Haribos inside her coat.

     Avoiding the Sky man, the Help for Heroes collecting tin and averting my eyes from the strange phenomenon of ‘threading’, I pushed Ruby down to the cheap bookshop. It’s useful having Ruby with you sometimes. Whether it’s embarrassment or pity, those charming, full-of-life, cheerful, out-of-work postgraduate ‘chuggers’ never stop me when I’m with Ruby, even when they’re collecting for Mencap.

     As soon as we reached the bookshop I realised I couldn’t get the chair in there. Ruby didn’t mind, she just wanted the cafe.

     “We’ll go to the Costa up the other end of the centre,” I told her. Ruby stared blankly into the distance. As we were passing Home Bargains again, a woman rushed out slap bang into the side of Ruby’s chair.

     “Fucking Norah,” she said. “I almost went arse over tit old man. Mind where you’re going.” I looked to see who was shouting at me. It was that woman.

     “It’s you who should be minding,” I said quietly, bending to check Ruby was OK. The blank stare remained unaltered.

     “Who d’you think you’re talking to, you old git?” 

     I knew it wasn’t a good idea getting into an argument but I couldn’t stop myself.  “I was just stating the bleedin’ obvious,” I said as I straightened up.

     “Shouldn’t be allowed,” she said. I wasn't sure whether I was meant to hear that.

     “What shouldn’t be allowed?”

     “Wheelchairs.”

     “What about the people in them?” I said.

     “Them too, shouldn’t be allowed.” As she said this she grinned. I should have gone at that point but was feeling angry, protective and hurt.

     “What do you mean?” I said.

     “Put ‘em down at birth,” she said.

     “You serious?”

     “Deadly.”

     “She’s worth ten of you,” I said. At that moment I meant it.

     “Dream on old man,” she said as she continued on her way. Ruby lifted her head and I swear she smiled. I shouted after the woman.

     “Go on, get on with your sad, miserable, lonely life.” She looked round and her face told me I was right. I felt ashamed. She turned into the British Heart Foundation shop.

I just hope she found one.

Horses by Andrew Shephard

I pass them daily,

two old maids in a field

named Magic and Paris.

Can it be my moods and their bearing

are synchronised

with each season?

Summer, contented, they swish tails

on close cropped grass,

disdainful of dogs, tolerant of puppies.

In autumn, the mournful season,

they loom vastly from the fog

like lorries on the M62.

Huddled in winter,

the beasts of the field close ranks,

rugged-up, muttering and stamping.

But in spring, bright spring,

reminded of girlish madness,

they burst wildly through hawthorn hedges.

Reaching Down by Suzanne Hudson

 

St Dynwen's Church, LLanddwyn Island, Anglesey, Wales.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


Ruined buildings excite me.
I can feel the presence
of those who have gone before.
I touch the stone
and I feel an energy that
logic alone couldn't begin
to explain.

I peer through
a narrow arched window
and wonder who else has
seen that view.
I climb crumbling stairs that
lead to nowhere,
adding my footsteps
to the thousands of others
who have worn smooth hollows
into the stone.

I touch a pillar and feel
like my hand is reaching
down through the
centuries, connecting with
those who were once here.
I talk to them, like a madwoman,
saying 'I know you're there' and
I believe they can hear me.

It's time to go.
I have to tear myself away.
I feel that if I could stay
a little longer, they would
talk to me and tell me
all their secrets.

I'm stirred up for days afterwards,
like I've been a vessel
through which they've
tried to communicate.
Will I ever be brave enough
to trust my instinct
and tell their stories?

I Like This Poem by Clair Wright

It’s October already, and we are well into the new school term. At just nine and seven, the boys are already bringing home their fair share of homework, and like all children, there is always something they would rather be doing. It’s my job, then, to inspire them to do it. Not an easy task.

This week, William brought home a poem with some questions to complete. The poem was a good one, (“Old Flyer” by Nick Toczek– look it up), but William was not enthused. Something about the arrangement of the words on the page, the stanzas, the rhyming, seemed to intimidate him, which manifested itself in sullen uncooperativeness and mutterings about it being a “stupid poem”. 

To coax him along I suggested he look at one of the easier questions, about identifying similes.  This prompted an argument about whether a simile can include “than,” as well as “like” and “as”. Here, my English Literature Masters Degree cut no ice with William, and he was only persuaded when we consulted the highest authority known to a nine-year-old - Google. 

Having completed this question we had gained some momentum, so we had a more enthusiastic discussion about the poet’s comparison of the dragon with a snake and what that suggested. Question three – done. 

The question which had him stumped was about how the poet felt about the dragon.  I tried to persuade William to read the poem out loud, but he wasn’t keen. I should stress here that I am not a natural performer, (I haven’t been near a stage since the Nativity when I was 7), but desperate times call for desperate measures. I climbed onto the kitchen stool and roared out the poem, waving my arms around like the dragon’s wings as it soared through the sky, hissing like the steam from its nostrils, bowing before “His Dragonness”.  

The boys laughed at me, of course, but between snorts William shouted “he thinks the dragon’s cool!” Eureka! 

Without the pressure of being asked questions, we have discovered that the boys quite like poems. I have a favourite anthology called I Like This Poem, which was originally compiled to celebrate the International Year of the Child in 1979. My original copy is so decrepit it has to be kept in an envelope, but the boys have their own, new edition. 

I left the book on the kitchen table, and Oliver climbed up while I’m cooking tea to read to me. At first, he was intimidated. 

“Find the section for six and seven year olds,” I suggested. The first poem was “The Witches’ Spell” from Macbeth. Oliver has heard of Shakespeare, so he looked worried.

“I won’t be able to read this,” he said.

“Try,” I suggested. He did, and he was gripped. His class is reading Roald Dahl’s The Witches so this fits right in, and he was so excited by all the gruesome ingredients dropping into the witches’ cauldron. 

“Can I read it again?” he asked. 

“Oh yes,” I said. “That’s the good thing about poems, you can read them over and over again.” 

So now, William and Oliver are both flicking through the book, finding poems to try. William enjoys reading “In the Ning Nang Nong”, with all the silly sounds performed with gusto. He also likes “The Marog from Mars” about a boy who is secretly an alien.  I have introduced them to “The Night Mail” and they love the train rhythm (they are both big rail enthusiasts) and “Windy Nights” with its galloping hooves.  

They are excited to find “The Centipede’s Song” from James and the Giant Peach, and “Outdoor Song” from Winnie the Pooh, (the one that starts “The more it snows tiddly pom”). 

“Are those poems too?” William asks, doubtfully. He’s still not convinced of my literary credentials.

“Well, it’s a book of poems, so they must be!” declares Oliver, and William is satisfied.

Sharing these poems and seeing the boys’ reactions has got me excited about them all over again. As Michael Rosen writes on the cover of my favourite anthology, “I don’t just LIKE these poems – I LOVE them”.

I Like this Poem edited by Kaye Webb, Puffin, 1979.