Loss .....

                                                                               
Learning to listen

A singular boy

of wit and rare frailty

you move me with your

mystic poetry

on loan to us

in this harsh place

you stopped a-while

and gave such beauty

with your words, that wide,

tense smile

another Nick, Nick Drake

touched similar nerves

with lovely, wistful, tragic songs

and also stopped by briefly

to leave a special legacy

                                                          

and in the silence

when their songs are sung

we listen…

Like the erratic melody

of gales vibrating through a ship’s rigging;

an oceans thunder

each song sends echoes of a past

we hear the streets ring out

as each souls' song is heard                                                                       

and see Tall Ships sail beneath

a Northern Sky

by Meg Marsden

                                                                           

                             Dedicated to Nicholas Heiney’s memory (Libby Purves & Paul Heiney’s son)

"I never felt magic crazy as this
I never saw moons knew the meaning of the sea
I never held emotion in the palm of my hand
Or felt sweet breezes in the top of a tree
But now you're here
Brighten my northern sky."

Nick Drake lyrics

The silver sails sliced through the air
While twilight skies glowed with desire
But time's short course has dulled love's colours
And old visions are expiring
Visions are expiring

By Nicholas Heiney

The Art of Knitting

                                                

My grandma taught me to knit when I was about 11 years old and I took to it like a sheep to the field ... I knitted from then on, for my kids and their kids and then I stopped.   I was done with knitting for several years.

In 2009 whilst in Bakewell, Derbyshire I happened upon a bookshop sale and purchased a book at a snip of a price called Designer Knitting with Kitty Bartholomew ... An American, she and her teenage daughters modelled the sweaters and cardigans and she seemed like a bit of a rule-breaker and I found her an inspiration.  

Overnight I became a "born-again" knitter.   I realised that I could knit with anything - yarns of course, but also stripped-down sheets and duvets, shirts from charity shops, string and polythene bags.   There seemed no end to the fun to be had by knitting and also creating your own patterns and not following someone else's rules.

                                            

Bathroom, playroom rugs knitted from old sheets.

In April of 2010 I started a community creative knitting group in Poynton called The KnitGirls .... there were about half a dozen of us and we met in the local pub The Vernon Arms.   We have just celebrated our two years together and are now about 25 in number.   When we're seen clacking away as we talk, laugh and have a drink together I think others recognise that with the resurgance of interest in knitting, the amazing yarns to be found and the fabulous patterns and inspired invention of knitters that the image of rocking-chair grannies with pinc-nez and little tight bun in the nape of the neck should now be dispelled!

Within our KnitGirls group at present there are those who are knitting intricate lace patterns, cable sweaters, trendy baby gear and several of us entwined in red, white and blue wool as we produce mounds of bunting to decorate the shops in our village for the Jubilee celebrations in June.

Last autumn whilst in New England with my family, I was so happy to have the pleasure of teaching my own grandchildren how to knit .... Elias, then 5 years old was captivated by the process and then his sister India knitted her own headband .... next there was Pandora and Ivy and some of their friends.  It was a precious time for me.     

                                

I now knit on public transport, in the car (not when I'm driving), at the seashore, in waiting rooms wherever - I'm into extreme knitting and totally proud of the art!   Apart from the pleasure of creating something lovely, the therapy of knitting should not be underestimated .... there has never been a day since that 2009 "born-again" moment when I have not picked up my needles and got caught up in that rhythm of knit one, purl one .... it helps to calm me down, gives me time to think more clearly and creates a happiness within - you should try it .....

The Doll

I was a pathetically girlie-girlie sort of child
I sang songs, made up dances, performed shows.
I loved my dolls and my pram - adored dressing up.

My favourite doll, Barbara, heavy and made of crock
was about twelve inches high - stout
sturdy arms and legs.
The limbs jointed and held in place within her torso
by hooks and strong rubber bands.
Yes, Barbara, was almost unrecognisable by the standards
of today's pneumatic plastic forms.

                                       

For a start
Barbara was a strange colour
Think American-Tan meets deep pink rouge
No lovely blonde nylon tresses.
Her short wavy hair was engraved upon her head.
No open and shut eyes
but painted-on eyes of china-doll blue
and carved eyebrows.
Her rather appealing mouth was etched in deep rose.

At least once, Barbara was taken to the
Birmingham Dolls Hospital for surgery -
broken limbs; too much doting attention.

In the post-war years much cared for toys
weren't simply replaced;
They were lovingly repaired.

On my leaving home at eighteen
barbara stayed with the family.
It seemed right.
She lay on my mother's bed -
Happy between the two pillows
and next to the satiny, quilted nightdress case.

She still wore the outfit - dress, knickers,
 bonnet, bootees knitted years previously
by Auntie Irene, my Godmother.

I was comfortable with that link to home
and although I said little
I always checked on Barbara on return visits.
I was content that there, she seemed happy.
I knew that, inevitably, in time,
she would come to live with me.

The one day she just wasn't there. ...

Where's Barabara? I asked mum
"Oh I gave her to Mrs So and So -
she has two grandchildren
and I thought they'd like her".

Of course, there was no malice aforethought -
that goes almost without saying.
So what was there for me to say.
I knew my sadness was disproportionate to my loss.
But I mourned the loss - which I do to this day.
I now have daughters
and they in turn, have their girls.

If I'm realistic, it's more than likely that a
heavy crock doll
would be of little interest to them.
But I'm not good at the reality game
And a lump forms in my throat as I recollect my happy hours
with Barbara.

I can only hope that her adopted
family treasured her as I did.



Saturday viewing - The Voice

                                         

I've never been a fan of the reality-talent-finder type show.   In fact I'm not too keen on any reality show preferring to watch some dark Scandinavian drama series such as the fabulous Borgen, The Killing or Wallander or the French-made Spiral  all of which with the English subtitles facilitate my increasingly cloth-eared state.  That will tell you something about me which may or may not be too healthy!

Whilst friends stayed with us over Easter they expressed an interest in watching The Voice as they had been following it for the last few weeks .... of course we went with it and this Saturday found, whilst on our own, a being drawn into The Voice .... this is what these shows do .... they insidiously get their tendrils around you and lo and behold you're caught up in the whole shebang and the next thing you know you're rooting like mad for Jaz Ellington!



Admittedly The Voice does have a preferable format to the X Factor/Pop Idol/Britains Got Talent routine whereby there was, to my mind, the indescribably awful build ups, deafening drum-rolling scene-setting, yawning moments of suspense and endless emotional sob-stories;  the contestants in this show are not known by name or seen by the judges and are assessed only by their voices alone.

But here's the thing ... the judges.   We have Danny O'Donague who I thought must be Feargal (The Undertones) Sharkey's much younger brother.   We have Will.i.am - a seemingly thoughtful and likeable black guy.   But now I must turn my attention to .... da-da drum roll ... the remaining two judges....  Firstly there is Tom Jones.   Well I think I'm in love.   Tom it seems has morphed into an utterly adorable, charming, sexy, mature man with an irresistible smile and laconic manner.   What happened to him?   Perhaps he is still the raunchy, thrusting performer at which middle-aged women feel compelled to launch their panties when he is singing but here there is no sign of the orange tan, the shoe-black hair or the overt sexuality. ... No, here we have a REAL man and I'm truly smitten.

                                    

 Then there is Jessie-J.   Now at this point I'm probably going to upset a lot of you ... but really isn't this woman whose speaking voice is pitched somewhere between Romford, Essex and the middle of the Atlantic ocean, just one of the most affected, camera-hogging, gobby women to be on TV short of Davina McCall?  "Oh no the camera's on me" as she waves her nail extensions underneath her false eyelashes in a mock-cry.   Let those who can sing - as I'm sure she does very well having sold 12-million records - sing.  BUT please don't let them loose to feed their egos on the unsuspecting public each saturday night.

                                                     

Oh well - it's the brilliant US Homeland on Sundays acted out by our very own Damian Lewis

                                                         

                           and as for Saturday evenings .... well there'll always be a good book to turn to.



Saturday viewing - The Voice

I've never been a fan of the reality-talent-finder type show.   In fact I'm not too keen on any reality show preferring to watch some dark Scandinavian drama series such as the fabulous Borgen, The Killing or Wallander or the French-made Spiral  all of which with the English subtitles facilitate my increasingly cloth-eared state.  That will tell you something about me which may or may not be too healthy!

Whilst friends stayed with us over Easter they expressed an interest in watching The Voice as they had been following it for the last few weeks .... of course we went with it and this Saturday found, whilst on our own, a being drawn into The Voice .... this is what these shows do .... they insidiously get their tendrils around you and lo and behold you're caught up in the whole shebang and the next thing you know you're rooting like mad for Jaz Ellington!

Admittedly The Voice does have a preferable format to the X Factor/Pop Idol/Britains Got Talent routine whereby there was, to my mind, the indescribably awful build ups, deafening drum-rolling scene-setting, yawning moments of suspense and endless emotional sob-stories;  the contestants in this show are not known by name or seen by the judges and are assessed only by their voices alone.

But here's the thing ... the judges.   We have Danny O'Donague who I thought must be Feargal (The Undertones) Sharkey's much younger brother.   We have Will.i.am - a seemingly thoughtful and likeable black guy.   But now I must turn my attention to .... da-da drum roll ... the remaining two judges....  Firstly there is Tom Jones.   Well I think I'm in love.   Tom it seems has morphed into an utterly adorable, charming, sexy, mature man with an irrisistible smile and laconic manner.   What happened to him?   Perhaps he is still the raunchy, thrusting performer at which middle-aged women feel compelled to launch their panties when he is singing but here there is no sign of the orange tan, the shoe-black hair or the overt sexuality. ... No, here we have a REAL man and I'm truly smitten.

Then there is Jessie-J.   Now at this point I'm probably going to upset a lot of you ... but really isn't this woman whose speaking voice is pitched somewhere between Romford, Essex and the middle of the Atlantic ocean, just one of the most affected, camera-hogging, gobby women to be on TV short of  Davina McCall ? "Oh no the camera's on me" as she waves her nail extensions underneath her false eyelashes in a mock-cry.   Let those who can sing - as I'm sure she does very well having sold 12-million records - sing.  BUT please don't let them loose to feed their egos to the unsuspecting public each saturday night.

Oh well - it's the brilliant US Homeland on Sundays acted out by our very own Damian Lewis

                                                         

                           and as for Saturday evenings .... well there'll always be a good book to turn to.

Wolf Love

                         

Into the wood she now ventures, all alone now, quietly enters

She all dressed in layers of clothing head to toe to keep her warm

Stepping gently, heard a crunching, all around she heard a munching

Like a wild pig truffle-hunting, hunting on the forest floor

“Wild hog”, she thinks and mutters, hunting on the forest floor

Cold sweat dripped from every pore

She had woken from her slumber, face all wet and fled her chamber

In pursuit of her prince, the gallant knight she did adore

Enveloped in her cloak and hood, and now entrapped in tangled wood

Then overcome with grief and sadness, sadness at the sight she saw

There her lover’s cap was lying, it was Henry’s she was sure

Lying on the forest floor

While Catherine in her frozen fear, saw a ghostly mist appear

Wrapped and trapped its tendrils round her, and yet it had a strange allure

Though she fought and started running, still the spectre kept on coming

Then she hear a grunting echo, echoes from the forest floor

Wild bear noises, echo, echo, owls hooting, charging boar

Echoes from the forest floor

There the ancient cabin stood, hidden, deep within the wood

Ill-fated lover’s meeting place, with ivy twining round its door

Catherine now with heart thump-thumping, in her veins the blood pump-pumping

Calling out for God’s protection – fearful now at what she saw

Dying wolf a-yowling, yowling, horrifying blood and gore

Lying on the forest floor

Catherine screeches out with fright, help me end this odious night

Please depart night’s darkest demons, our ravaged maiden did implore

Acrid odours whirling, swirling, telling her of something strange

All is silent, all is black, moon has fallen to the floor

Cold with fear and trembling, trembling, petrified at what she saw

Catherine crumbles to the floor

Then woefully, she realized, she recognized her lover’s eyes

Within their hut as wolf-tears fell, he tenderly stretched out a paw

And Henry yowled and yowled again, for love that could not be the same

With yellow eyes, their ghostly cries, echo, echo evermore,

The lovers now as forest wolves, entwined together on the floor

Lying on that forest floor

by Meg Marsden
(after the style of Edgar Allan Poe)

Aberffraw, Anglesey

pearly clouds bloom against the

untrue blue of a spring sky

a gushing sort of day

and a tide that seems in a hurry

with its roaring ebb and flow

glistening like quicksilver

in the sun.

 

the blustery, warm, southerly wind

blasts crazily against our faces,

against our bodies.

each step along the sand an exhilarating

assault course against the elements.

a dozen maybe, giddy dogs run

hither and thither

happy, with tongues lolling

a little spooked by the mad wind

running in and out of the sparkling sea

and returning, tails wagging, coats dripping

pleased with themselves as they

shake and spray their owners.

 

gulls are drifting on the thermals

oyster-catchers and curlews mosey along

the shoreline like high street window shoppers

the gushing gets stronger –

the force of the wind,

the heat of the sun,

the volume of the crashing tide

pushes up through my booted feet,

surges up into my belly, it’s joyful

it’s nature’s mad dance

even the shells, the mermaid’s purses,

the clumps of khaki-tinted seaweed

could well be caught up in a merry prancing

when my back is turned!

 

we’ve walked and walked and now

reached the rocks,

here we rest a little, catch our breath

collect driftwood, look towards the black

silhouetted mountains of, what we think is,

the Llyn Peninsula;

we talk of Henry, my father-in-law

and of Murphy our dog

of how much over the years

both enjoyed it here before they departed

to their respective heavens.

and now the wind is behind us

and the return journey easier

blowing, pushing us homeward.

I watch the marram grass of the dunes -

the dunes like so many gonks

with their sandy domes and tufted hair –

shine silvery-white then green

as they are blown.

and the shifting sand skitters like

horizontal smoke-signals

across the beach.

and with wild, whipped up hair,

the salty taste of sand upon my tongue

the grittiness in my ears

and on my face

I am as one with the ocean

buffetted by the wind

warmed by the sun

and kissed by the Irish sea.