RAIN ON ME .....

RAIN

I wanna go out in the rain today

I wanna go out and I wanna say

Come bring on your clouds

Come bring on your grey

I wanna go out in the rain today

I wanna go out not wearing my hat

I want the raindrops big and fat

To land on my face with a thunderous splat

Not wearing a coat not wearing a hat

I wanna have puddles up to my thighs

I wanna have dollops that land in my eyes

I want no umbrella to keep me dry

I just wanna dance like that wonderful guy

Remember that one – they called him Gene Kelly

The one that I’ve seen umpteen times on the telly

To sing like him and dance in the street

To splash and to crash to nature’s beat

I wanna go out in a thunderous storm

But it mustn’t be cold, it has to be warm

Come pelt down on my body from my head to my toes

In the depths of the night when nobody knows

To be naked and free as God meant us to be



HAIR!

I was prompted to add this poem "Hair" written by me in February 2006 when I read my daughter's work online today titled in the same way .... I don't think she or anyone else has read it before so here it is as encouragment for anyone else out there who is not happy with their hair  ....

It came late - my acceptance of my hair
Rather like Alice Walker.
I remember identifying with her
When reading one of her many books
Admittedly hers was the negro woman's fierce curl
But even so ...

An early recollection
Maybe I would be about six years old
At primary school anyway.
The routine of the
Hairbrushing ceremony was daily
And lasted what seemed like an eternity.

I would stand
Legs itching as mother
Brushed and brushed and brushed
At the long, thick, natural hair.
I would fidget with impatience
Often resulting in a swift clonck on the head
With the Mason-Pearson brush
And a "keep still I've nearly finished".

Eventually it would appear almost smooth
And rid of all tangles or lugs
As they were called
Finally the positioning of the bow
The hair ribbon, on the side.

The ritual was univeral for those times
Brush, brush and hundred times brush
Morning and night
Suppressing what was natural.
This was what people did then - maybe it was hygiene
Maybe a hanging on to some deeply significant
Victorian sexual cleansing

Times change.
Now when a child is born
With naturally wavy, kinky, curly hair
It is not brushed.

Like my grand-daughter Pandora
With her curls
It is washed and teased a little
Encouraged even, maybe with a little
hair product.
And then allowed to do its own thing

Teenage years brought me much
Hair unhappiness
I hated its wilfulness
It was the 60's
The trendy sixties
Mary Quant, Vidal Sassoon, Cathy McGowan
All the idols and role models around me
Had these wonderful spiteful,
Straight, assymetric haircuts
Shiny, glossy and straight, straight, straight

I ironed my hair
Yes, unbelievable isn't it?
Over brown paper
I sellotaped it
I blew it straight with a dryer.
All to no avail.
As soon as I went outside
Any damp in the atmosphere
And bing-bing
Off it would go in natural naughtiness.

Admittedly in the 70's I was laughing
I came into my own!
All around were having curly perms
I just got the hairdresser to cut it to shape
Voila - my afro - yeh!

But even in quite recent years as fashions changed
I tried to suppress it
My hair was chemically straightened
But it fought back bit by bit and won
And became what it is today
And I guess for my years
I should say "oh lucky me"
A thick headful of wilful locks

Well, guess what
I truly have learned to accept
And love
My God-given curly/wavy/kinky hair
Which He chose to bestow on me
I think He gave it as part of my identity
My trademark

It took many, many years to get there
To get over the self hair-hatred
And now, and it's not a matter of pride
I'm happy with who and what I am

And that includes, quite naturally, my tresses.

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.