Pirates and their Grannies 

Even pirates love their grannies

Or so we’ve often heard

Though they make them walk the plank

Now surely that’s absurd. 

I heard of one young pirate

Jim Lad was his name

Saw his granny with an eyepatch

Thought he’d do the same. 

One day, it was a Thursday

A granny found a map

Blackbeard said “just let me see”

And sat down on her lap 

Well, he was really comfy

‘cos he was only small

But later on when he was big

He wasn’t nice at all 

One night he stole the ancient map

And hid it up his jumper

He tried to look all meek and mild

He thought that that would stump her 

Meanwhile Jim Lad with his patch

Was copied by the others

And very soon across the seas

They’re known as Eyepatch Brothers 

But granny wasn’t having that

And said “enough’s enough;

It was my fashion statement”

And went off in a huff! 

She went and found some glitter

From the treasure chest

And stuck it on her black eyepatch

She knew she looked the best. 

Much later there was Adam Ant

And he stole her idea

But she was innovative

Our granny had no fear. 

Now Blackbeard wasn’t very bright

He was all mouth and trousers

But granny she was clever

Yes granny she was wowzers! 

Now where were we arrgh oo-arrrh

Oh yes the map was taken

But granny had a cutlass up her vest

She’s stirred but never shaken! 

Jim Lad come on over here

We need to find that treasure

You keep an eye on Blackbeard

When he’s snoring at his leisure 

And Jim Lad wasn’t stupid

He knew which side his bread was buttered

Thought he’d do what granny said

Although the bunk was cluttered. 

He crawled along, ignored the snores

And fumbled round his belly

He found the map amongst the mess

It was all torn and smelly 

Jim Lad, granny and some mates

They found the hidden chest

Full of diamonds, gold coins and such

Blackbeard could have the rest 

And in the raving 60’s

She set up her boutique

And called it Granny’s Attic

With glitter, bling, so chic 

All the pirates went there

Got the latest gear

Eye-patches, striped tops, bandanas

They came from far and near! 

So don’t underestimate your granny

She may look meek and mild

But just beware appearances

Inside she’s purple, fearless, wild!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

International Women’s Day 8^th March 2016

Who would you choose to be?

        

 

 


 

To dance like Markova or Fonteyn

Showing such strength and beauty and passion

Having the tenacity to work and work at the barre

For hours, for days, for years

To delight by their movements

Sadly, I lack the grace.

 

To be like Ellen McArthur, Clare Francis

Brave and confident, intrepid.

Or to be able to ski or skate

To sky-dive and rock climb

Or race a car round a track

Adrenalin pumping and driving me on.

Alas I am a ninny and a coward.

 

To have a vision, to be an entrepreneur

To think green and start so small

And grow and grow into The Body Shop

To be an Anita Roddick

Combining pragmatism with a dream

But no, I have never had that energy.

 

To be a man, just for one month

To experience masculine emotions

To accept different responsibilities

Suffer his pain – feel a man’s joy

To sing like Jessye Norman

With the power and control of an eagle

And the subtlety of a Chopin prelude

With a voice that soars like angels

Touching the hardest heart.

My singing voice is pleasant enough – no more than that.

 

To be a female vanguard

A woman exploring the world

A traveller – alone and courageous

A philosopher and linguist

Freya Stark my particular heroine

Whose achievements I could never aspire to.

 

Barbara Hepworth, sculptor

Her beautiful works displayed

In gardens and at The Tate Gallery in St.Ives

She made stone come alive

With a superb craftsmanship

A possessor of a unique gift

And to be admired by many – and me. 

Jackie Kay, Carol Ann Duffy, Charlotte Bronte, Margaret Atwood, Anita Shreve, Isabelle Allende, Elizabeth Smart, Emily Bronte, Christina Rossetti, Dorothy Parker, Alice Walker, Emily Dickinson, Jane Austen, Sylvia Plath, Toni Morrison, Angela Carter, Annie Proulx

Now those are names

I swoon over

Any one of them

I would wish to be

Stirring up the magic

With the written word.

The poem, the short story, the novel

Original women, clever, creative, romantic women.

Satirical, fantastical, doomed women.

 

Which one should I be?

Jane Eyre is my favourite book – It has to be Charlotte

But then again Wuthering Heights – so maybe Emily

And then Angela writes so wickedly, and so did Dorothy

Perhaps Elizabeth – By Grand Central Station I sat Down and Wept

Oh how I love that slender volume.

And what a beauty she was also

No, I think it has to be Carol Ann –

So modern, her poems so heartbreakingly lovely 

 

Oh to be Carol Ann

I’m inspired by her

I delight in her words

I try to learn from her

Dreaming of writing like her

But to be Duffy, No.

 

I am me, this is who I am

I have to be faithful to

My failings, my weaknesses

My blessings, they belong to me

I inhabit this body

I have a history, a destiny

From womb to tomb

Meg Marsden is my name

It is she I choose to be.

 

 

 

Friday 4th March 2016/Meg Marsden copyright.

 

 

 

 

 

Remembering Pass the Parcel

Remembering Pass the Parcel

Ring a ring a roses

A pocket full of posies

Attishoo, attishoo

They all fell down

 

They all danced around,

 

They sang the nursery rhyme,

 

Some fell down, some never got up.

 

As the music stopped

 

The string untied, the paper removed

 

She had survived; she had the gift of life.

 

The music came again

The year 1956 – she sang along to Doris Day

Que-sera-sera, what will be, will be

 

Along came the motorbike

 

Whipped her up like a rag doll

 

Deposited her, broken, in the middle of the road

 

The next layer of paper was removed

Things weren’t too bad – just broken legs and lacerations

Really she was so lucky - another gift

 

 They were Twisting away to Chubby Checker

She twisted right out of Birmingham

Freedom!

Parcel in hand she took off the wrapper – the next layer

She landed in Dolgellau and then Aberystwyth

Rural gifts, seaside gifts, mad and crazy gifts

 

The Beatles are singing

All you Need is Love – ba-ba-ba-ba-ba

She sang it, they all sang it – it was their anthem

She stopped singing, the music faded

 

She opened the parcel

 

Her beautiful firstborn lay there

 

All olive skinned and honeyed

 

Wow, it’s 1968 - Louis Armstrong

He blows that trumpet and croons

“It’s a Wonderful World”

And it is.   The music stops again

The wrapping removed and there she is

Another girl – all golden and blue-eyed

On it went – the music of life

Or as they say

The soundtrack of her life

From Ella Fitzgerald to Stevie Wonder

Luciano Pavarotti full volume in her tiny kitchen

And Elvis Presley, always Elvis

A rollercoaster of packages

Ups and down, good stuff, bad stuff

But always a gift to be found amongst

The string, the pretty twine and crinkled paper.

 

She’s lost her job –

The company has gone to London!

It’s 1985 she tries to play the music, to sing, to play the game

But it’s not easy

U2 Joshua Tree full volume –

 

She loves this as she drives her old car

She a temp for one week

They meet.

 

And then she hears

 

Nick Drake’s beautiful, melancholic voice

 

Sing “Northern Sky”

 

She opens the paper – this time the wrapping is The Guardian!

Funny.

 

Her latest gift – this man loves her, he loves her.

 

Amazing Grace lifted high

What words, what an exultation

They all sing this together

 

What friends, friends are some of the very best

Of shared gifts. 

She guesses, as time passes,

She will now have fewer wrappings to undo

It’s been such an enormous parcel

This life parcel

So much music having played

But still she’s excited at the prospect of remaining layers

 

She’s got a wonderful cd – West meets East

Ravi Shankar on sitar

Yehudi Menuhin on violin

It was playing in her head, over and over

And June 2015

They made their way to beautiful Ynys Mon –

The island of Anglesey

She let the music stop awhile

She  opened her gift’s latest layer

She opened her eyes, opened her heart

Listened to the birdsong

What a gift – she asks herself does she deserve this?

That big, big night sky flung with stars

Those mountains,

That welcome, those waves clawing at the shore

Those fields, those winding lanes,

That ever-changing heaven and all its colours

What a jewel, what a gift.   

 

Gifts are there amongst the layers

Sometimes tiny ones

Sometimes vast.

Keep listening carefully to the music

Enjoy the rhythm of life

Untie the knots, peel away the wrapping

Gifts await us all

Sometimes big, sometimes small.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pastures of Musical Dreams

 

I stood on the brink, teetering a little but
As the flute sounds rose from the keyboard
I looked first to my left, then my right ...
And just as those children at Hamelin did
I followed the music …

 

At first a little unsure but
Then I started to run and I ran with abandon
Across those pastures, pastures that
Were new to me; pastures that seemed endless
Meadows that were wild and lush.

 

The violas played, the mysterious percussion instruments,
The violin pulling at me, enticing me
The depths of that cello reaching so deep inside
All drawing together as the tears of joy
Travelled down my cheeks
And watered my soul.

 

And then I stretched my arms wide
Revelling in my liberty and started to dance
A dance unconstructed, a dance of freedom
A dance as an expression to my Lord
A thank you dance.

 

Then I was still.
I heard a sound, a quirky, enquiring
Knocking sort of a sound. There came another -
What is that? An exotic yet naïve percussion instrument.
I was now away from The Pasture.
I followed the music obediently 

 It was asking questions?

There were trees; I found myself in the woods
I peered around, looking, enquiring, up, down
Discovering, who’s there? What do you want of me?
Can I help? Everything was new – everything seemed fresh
This seemed interesting, exciting, I think.

 

Then all the instruments came together
Building, building into a joyous river of music
The keyboard, the strings, the percussion,
The beautiful haunting of the French horn
The chanting voices
The streams, brooks were overflowing
Waterfalls cascaded with a crashing, thunderous sound
The ocean mesmerised me, emptied my mind
As the waves broke on the shore
And the white horses glistened from the sun’s reflection.

 

 

Mother memories

 

It could be the painting in my bathroom

Always hung on mum’s bedroom wall

Evokes such memories – it’s dusky pink frame

It can be something or nothing at all

 

The Royal Worcester dish used this Christmas Day

She gave me one time as a birthday gift

It could be something, it could be nothing

It could be just as small as this

 

The echo of some of her sayings

“It looks black over Bill’s mothers”,

“I go to the foot of our stairs”

Make me smile and there’s so many more

Her humour was funny and earthy and raw

 

The knitted, multi-coloured crochet-edged shawl

A soap on TV, a flowered overall

It can be something, it can be nothing,

It can be anything at all …..

 

I’m ironing an old lace white hankie

An “M” is stitched into the corner

The m’s not for Meg but for mum – she was Mary

And of some memories I’m cautious,

Of some I am wary

 

But mostly I’d say time is a healer

And it’s sometimes nothing at all

That prompts a quickening deep inside

When I’m happy to dwell on my memory-time.