Pretending to be Northumbrian for St George's Day

14th April is a special date for me. It is the date on which I moved to Northumberland after 14 years in Wales. I got all the furniture into a Pickford's van, locked the front door on our house in Port Talbot, dropped the key off at the estate agents and took a National Express Coach to Newcastle -- for good! Big stuff!!! Noel met me at Strawberry Lane and that evening we went to The Tandoor Mahal for a meal. Our furniture caught up with us after Easter when moved into a lovely house in the grounds of St Mary's Stanningtom where Noel was working.That was 24 years ago. I have now lived in Morpeth longer than anywhere else -- so I'm pretending to be Northumbrian now.

Last night The Morpeth Poetry Recital Group helped us celebrate by joining in with gusto on my poem George and the Stobhill Worme. Thanks everyone who read a part and Margaret Kerswell for being such a good dragon and to the audience for their hisses and boos. It was great! I am told I won a raffle token for the ICEBAR too. I love icecream!

There is a video of the poem but you have to be a member of the group to see it.

There were bright books.

there was song.

There was Verner and Adrian as the Squire and the Thane

There were hisses and there was booze

There were even farts and poos!

and there was charity of course. We raised the roof and £50.

and

The ICE BAR is C O O L

The Almost Silent Converation -- a poem of pictures + a Whiplington called Ruby

At Belsay House and Gardens there is colour all year round

but spring is a feast of sight and scents and sound. 

Imagine a constant buzzing of bees

a flitting of waspy things and hover flies. 

Imagine that high pitched chiff-chaff-chiff-chaff-chiff 

and the drill of the woodpecker and the screigh 

of pheasants echoing round quarry walls. 

Imagine dappled sun light shifting 

under new leaf and in and out of shade, 

the smell of damp lichens after rain, the scent

the wonder of the waxy yellow bog lily's flower

the gunneras which grow bigger hour on hour 

a thousand daffodils wafting in light breeze

the peppery nose-pricking breath of flowering blackcurrant its  

dangle of pink blooms all a-buzz with bees, 

Listen for new lambs calling for their ma-a-a-a-a-a. 

Sit yourself down in early spring sunshine and take it in

 -- the almost silent conversation that is Belsay in April.

This is a lovely doggy we met with her lovely owners. I had never seen this cross before -- whippet and Bedlington Terrier -- a gorgeous cross I am sure you'll agree. It was lovely to meet you, Ruby.x

ST PATRICK'S DAY

How to Become a Saint

Oonah V Joslin

Paddy sat on Slemish 

watching the mist roll down

into the Braid Valley

ever raining on the town.

He didn't like the townsfolk

a thick, unfriendly lot

their charity was just a joke

they could go to hell and rot.

Then a suddenly shaft of light

pierced the bitter air,

Hey Paddy says the angel

that's God's own land down there.

You're sitting up here all alone

when you could be making friends.

Go talk to people in town --

go down and make amends.

So Paddy left the mountain top

and went down to Broughshane

and there they gave him ale and bread

til he was himself again.

The ale was good -- he stayed so long

he started seeing snakes.

I'll just get rid of these for you.

They laughed behind his back.

He'd ha' been better maybe

staying up on that hill.

The drink's addled his brains they said.

Aye thon man's very ill. 

He started seeing leprechauns

towards the end of lent

but because of all these 'visions'

they named him patron saint.

And so it is on Paddy's Day 

the Irish, always sinners,

follow in St Patrick's ways

with Bushmills and with Guinness.

The Worst Valentine in the World

“Okay girls no shirking,” said Matty taking a sip of chardonay. “Here's the prize.” She produced a large box of Milk Tray.  "Whoever wins this one is a true loser and deserves a couple of pounds of sympathy – right?”
“I'll start,” said Shirley. She glugged her wine.
They all looked at her expectantly.
“It was my first boyfriend. We were thirteen. He gave me a pink bubblegum.”
The others laughed.
“That's really kinda sweet,” said Matty “for a lad to give you a pink bubble gum.”
“Not half chewed!” laughed Shirley.
Ew!Ugh!Yuk!Get outa here!
“I thought we said the worst Valentine gift from your husband,” Lulla said.
“He is my husband! Just took another fifteen years.”
Matty spat wine and there was raucous laughter.
“And he apologised for the bubble gum – after I reminded him.”

“Okay” said Lulla. “Jeffrey buys me carnations every year and a box of marzipan.”
“Well I wouldn't mind that. Roses are over-rated.”
“Yeah they hike the prices,” said Babs.
“And good marzipan is a real find.”
“Yes but I hate carnations and I'm allergic to almonds!”
“Does he know?”
“Didn't you ever tell him?”
“Every year! He says 'Oh. I forgot.' And then he eats the marzipan himself and gives the carnations to his mother.”
“I'd kill him.”
“Oh it's not so bad. On his birthday I buy him red wine and Stilton. He can't stand either. I guzzle the lot!”
“Well good on you,” said Matty.

“Now, Shirley?”
“Fred bought me a bra and panties.”
Really? O-Kay… Wow! I had no idea Fred was such a creep! Several nods, winks, nudges and giggles later she was persuaded to elaborate.
“It was really good lingerie actually but he wanted me to put it on you see and”
“You wouldn't?”
“It's not so much that. He seems not to have noticed I have gained three stone since were married. He still thinks I'm a 34DD size 12.”
“On the up side, it's sort of nice he still sees you that way. Beauty in the eye -- and all that!”
“So did he raise any objection when you didn't wear it?”
“Oh, after a few glasses of champagne Fred raises nothing at all!” Shirley winked.
“You are SOOOOOOOO bad!” said Matty. “Top-up?”

“Babs, you're very quiet. Give.”
“I don't know what to say. Jim and I don't do Valentines.”
“Never?”
“Nope.”
“Not when you were courting?”
“No. I mean it's a waste of money right? Plus Jim never knows the date. It's just one of those things you accept in a person, you know?”
“So he never buys you flowers or chocs or whatever – ever?”
“He surprises me every now and then. He once even gave me a card For No Particular Day.”
“Oh my heart!”
“I've got to get me a Jim,” said Matty.
“Join the club.”
“Well Babs, maybe he'll surprise you next time.”
“Only if he gets the date wrong,” laughed Babs.

“Not like Philip surprised me I hope!” said Pat.
“I thought your hubby's called Les.”
“This one – yes.” All ears pricked up. “Philip's my ex.”
“What did he get you?”
“Well, I was supposed to be in Peking on business but things went so smoothly I got an early plane home to surprise Philip. I bought wine at duty free and taxied all the way back to the flat and walked in on – this woman and him – Valentine's Day – making out on our bed.”
“Some gift!”
“Well – I got it on my cell phone and that was enough evidence for a divorce! You know he was always telling me how much he loved me and how proud he was of everything I did and showering me with really expensive presents. That was the day I found out why.” There was a deep silence. "Les is a good man though."

“Matty,” said Shirley, “what about you? After all, this is your idea.”
"Didn't think I counted."
“Yeah! Come on, come on, come on, come”
“Horse brasses.”
“Horse brasses?”
“Horse brasses! Saw them in a shop and thought I'd like them to hang on the wall.”
“Eccentric!”
“Another year there was a teapot, some garden manure, the cruet set, a handmade rug, a self-cleaning garlic press, the cheese grater, Mickey Mouse lamp, a loofah, carbolic soap,”
“Woah there! It sounds like that show – you know the one.”
“Conveyor belt.”
“That's the one – where you get all the items you can remember?”
“Generation Game.”
“How'd'you two ever end up marrying?”
“Never did,” said Matty. “Never will. But Sal's still the love of my life and she's -- interesting.”
“What did she get you this year?”
“Milk Tray! The only present I've never actually liked! Now, who wants to open them?”

 

Family Files -- A GOOD Mother and good memories

Looking HOT in this cool snap; on the beach -- at Portrush I would think...
My mother never got to do glam much! She worked in service. Then she had too many weans -- 10 of us altogether in two batches -- the big 4 and the wee 4 (which included my nephew). Three sisters, May, June and Eleanor, died in the war years. She could never after listen to Over the Rainbow. (prefered Boy George to Judy Garland any day.)
I know for a fact that somewhere in her capacious bag on this particular day she would have had at least three pairs of navy knickers! Well -- we were quite young still and the sea at The Port never warms up -- with inevitable consequences ;) I wrote about it in my poem in The Sea...
All proceeds to RNLI

Mammy was always either 'deaved' or 'doiled' -- sometimes both at once in which case you stayed out of the way! I believe 'deaved' is derived from deafened but nobody I know can tell me the etymology of doiled. It may be an Irish derivative or lowland scots or just a Braid dialect word for fed up to the back teeth!

She was a good mother but then -- she had little choice but be a good mother -- in her day and in her situation in life. I know because she told me, in one of the few times we spent alone together, (it was a busy household) that she would have loved to be a writer and that her favourite subject at school was English composition. She was good too! She had imagination. (great fan of StarGate btw). She regularly beat us at scrabble and she did crossword puzzles into the wee hours (and doodled pussycats on the wallpaper by her chair -- though I am not supposed to let that cat outa the bag) and on all the 'O's in the newspaper and anywhere she felt the need to draw pussycats :) She always appreciated what I wrote -- what little she saw of it.

When I was little I was afraid of everything and so she used to lure me to the kitchen with praise -- I was the only one who could help her with whatever she was baking or cooking, so that my sisters could watch the scary stuff on TV in peace and I would feel 'special' rather than deprived. She was a clever woman! and a good plain cook who made a little go a long way for a big family but she excelled at buns and Bannock! Sometimes, looking back, I know she must have felt that her life was just one great big mealtime! Parsley Buns/Bacon Stew/Mince and tatties/Broth,Broth.Broth/Lentil soup//rhubarb and Ginger Jam//Homemade Marmalade. CHAMP 
She didn't eat eggs and she wouldn't even cook lamb -- couldn't stand the smell of it. And I won't say she never complained but she got on with it. And when my father died she got on with it. And when money was tight she got on with it! And I don't think any of us really knew her pain. She always seemed emotionally robust to the point of being a bit cold and she was certainly physically robust because despite all that child-bearing and stress, she lived to be 89.

My mother took us to every church in the town at some point -- just the once -- just for the experience. I think that is an unusual and very open thing to have done but particularly in an Ulster setting and when she took us to the Catholic Church one of the priests there said 'Hello Mrs, Kyle' as if we went there all the time. That was my mother -- got on with life and got on well with everyone.

  Her name was Agnes and our next door neighbour was Senga McQuillan, hence this poem title! AGNESENGA
People on our street were neighbours, We had and were GOOD neighbours and I can't tell you sad it makes me that the area we grew up in is now described as a catholic area! It was a very happily mixed area when I was a child and we all got on well. That is a step in the wrong direction. My mother would have thought so.

She was a woman with a quick turn of phrase and a most infectious laugh. She would laugh if anyone fell or slipped on ice. I remember her once sitting laughing on the pavement when she herself had slipped even though it hurt! And one day when she reached into her shopping basket and realised she had brought the teacosy and not her woolly hat :) she just creased up. She had a lovely singing voice rather like my sister Christine's.  And she could make you feel ten feet tall or smaller than the average bacterium with just a look or a word. She could be strict too -- got rid of the TV when I was 15 to make sure I attended to my studies.

 I have written a few times about her before and no doubt will again:
OUTSIDE AND BLOWING BUBBLES 

She kinda featured in all our lives, you know...

I am certain she would hate this tribute but she deserves recognition and I would not be who I am if I did not have such a strong woman, such a disciplined, open-minded woman, such a psychologist 

for a mother.

Mammy with Stuart and Tommy

Mammy and me

Family Files

Memories are strange things. They are individual, specific and selective. My sister once pointed out to me that one of my 'memories' was false ie: it never actually happened. In fact I dreamt it and even though the entire household apparently got me back to sleep, I had no reccollection of ever waking up and so the 'memory' persisted for years and I actually wish it hadn't. But I was a sensitive child and always a bit lost... I mean I used to have nightmares after watching Twizzle or Doctor WHO.

These photos provide a background for snippets of what I think I remember about people I knew and some I never met -- but I wouldn't rely on their veracity.

To begin with there were my parents. That's how we all begin after all. Here they are.

Of course I never met these two people in this photo because it was taken around 1950 and I was not yet born but I remember that gate, the house in the background across the road from ours and yes I vaguely remember two faces not much changed from these. But you see how it is... I didn't know either of these people or how they were with each other. But this is more or less how I remember my father... Apparently he had ginger hair but I don't remember that. He was a plumber. She looked after us.

I got to know my mother quite well. She lived to be 89 and died in 2003. But Daddy died aged 48 when when I was just 5 years old. I wrote this poem aged 18 and it was published in The Braid magazine and Mammy really liked it so I can be sure this at least is fairly accurate.

My Father

I remember a man who used to live

at our house when I was a child;

a smallish man who used to wear

blue overalls with silver buttons

that I would twiddle when he nursed me;

a putty smelling man with oily hands

strong and gentle.

He used to call me

his girl when

I sat on his knee at dinner time each day

and I would kiss his cheek because

I liked him.

He took me to school each morning on his bike;

trousers held firmly to his legs with large black clips,

a cloth cap on his head.

He smelt of linseed, solder, copper pipes.

Each Sunday we all went with him

to church,

eating our way through sermons, hymns and prayers

with large white sweets

which were his favourites.

And then there were the walks;

the long cool walks on summer evenings

or in early spring -

I forget when.

Time dims the memories that remain,

just as it dimmed the loneliness and pain

felt by a child

too young to understand.

There’s no place now for sentiment or tears.

I’ve no tears left to shed.

Oonah Kyle  1972 

Okay it's  like drowing in syrup -- but I was only 18 after all.

This one was a runner up in The Binnacle Competition:

Another memory recently published in Silverbirch is Last Goodbye   

I do not think I dreamt that. Why would I dream something so mundane?

In fact I have written lots about my dad. When your life suddenly changes on one particular day forever, especially at such a young age, it tends to stick with you. 

I have written much less about my mother but one of my favourites is AGNESENGA

and Room for Living was published in The Shine Journal but that is no longer available online as far as I can see. I am currently revising some poems for publication and that will be one of them.
She was a tolerant and intelligent woman and she would have loved to be a writer. She took us once to all the different chuirches of the town just so we'd know what they were like and she was prepared to talk about each one if we had any questions. I think that is rare in Ulster -- or maybe anywhere! She was a clever mother too. She used to get me to help her bake wee buns so the othere could watch Dr WHO or whatever scary thing they wanted. She had plenty of practice of course. There were 7 of us who lived into adulthood and three that died and that's a lot of children and a lot of loss! But I reckon had he lived loong enough my father would have looked like my brother -- 

don't you?

What I remember is that I really loved my dad and he loved me. Maybe that is all that matters.

100 Bewildering Issues

My 100th bewildering bit of writing in Bewildering Stories is up TODAY!: and Don Webb poses the interesting question: In Oonah V. Joslin’s “And She Shall Have Music,” does the poem lament the evolution of music or of its media or both? I would love to hear your thoughts on that!

(It looks like 75 on MY BIBLIOGRAPHY where you can get to all of them :) but some of those links cover series’ such as my Novella A GENIE IN A JAM and Armchair Observatory so it’s 75 over 100 Issues!)
 
and since that follows my 100 at MicroHorror, I am well chuffed!

HAPPY READING FOLKS