The Smacked Child

The Smacked Child



           She slapped me on the legs that day

                                  For all the world to see

"Spare the rod, spoil the child"

Was what she used to say

Whilst waiting for the bus to come

The No.22A

My legs were pink

My  face was red

My shame was everywhere

Please let the ground

Just open up

Please let me disappear

It's not about the pain you feel

                                                                              It's loss of dignity

                                                                                       It's all about the loss of self

                                                                                      About the loss of

                                                                                           ME!

                                                                                        by Meg Marsden

The Ballad of Nigel & Sian

Yeh he was Nige and she was Sian

And yeh she lived at 211

His house was posh

And dad was corporate

Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor

Yeh there was Nigel on the train
And Sian got on there too
She wasn't meant to go that way
The fate of Sian & Nige that day

Coach, carriage, wheelbarrow, mudcart 

Yeh she was Sian and he was Nige

Doc Martins, denim, leather

Her house a terrace, his exec

But they just went together

Yeh he loves her

And she loves him

The Jam was up & jumpin'

The parents all met up one night

On velvet sofas all polite

Discuss their kids to keep 'em right

Yeh, yeh, The Kids well they're alright!

Says me, says you, So say The Who

Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief

Oh first love is bittersweet

The Clash were out there clashin'
And punk was all the fashion

The photo's circa '82

And Nige is there

And me and you 

Yeh he was Nigel, Nigel Tate

Was it chance or was it fate?

He was bright & she was clever

This year, next year, sometime, never

And Siouxsie she was rockin'

Two, four, six, eight

Who do you appreciate

Love is here, love is there

Old love, new love, bittersweet & O so true love

First love, worst love

Love is bloomin' everywhere ....

Yeh he was Nigel

She was Sian

And mum, well she was looking on .....
Yeh, she was simply lookin' on .......

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.