Monday 30 June 2014

Poem Recreation

This poem is part of a task I did for creative writing class.  We had to take an existing poem and ‘recreate’ it, by thinking about the essence of the original but then making something new.  The original poem I chose is ‘Daisy’ by Alice Oswald, from her collection Weeds and Wild Flowers (2009):




Daisy

I’m chosen, picked,
My dirty feet no longer
Snugly in mud.
Higher than ever,
I feel the cold air
Batter my lashes.
You set me down on
The palm of your hand,
Warm as a nudging worm,
And push your thumbnail in.
Our limbs are looped.
You lift us up to have a look.
Now I hang in mid-air, held,
To serve your summer
With my eye shut tight.


by Inez Cook

Monday 23 June 2014

The Butterfly Brooch











Danny said let’s go out tonight, but
I didn’t want to.  My best dress was getting
Shabby and the holes in the bottom
Of my shoes would show when we jived
Together.

He pleaded and said are you still
Sullking about your Mam’s butterfly brooch?
Pride got the better of me.  I would never
Let him know that I crossed the road on
Lake Street now, so as not to see it in the
Pawnbroker’s window.

My hand shook when I handed it over
To Mr Levenstein and he had to
Uncurl my fingers one by one to
Releash my grip.  His licked his lips and
I wanted to be sick.

Danny said it was just 'til he got
Paid what he was owed and then
I could get it back. Another week and the
Landlord would throw us out, was that what I
Wanted?  No, I said, but I vowed silently that
I'd never let it go again.

There's a little left over, Danny said, so
Let's have a night of dancing and
Forget our troubles, shall we?
I wanted him to swing me around and
Remember what it felt like
To be young and carefree. 

She saw me coming in and
Turned away, doing that
Fake laugh with her cronies
That says Look at me! I’m so pretty
And popular and so much better than you.

Belinda James had always been the
Queen Bee around here.  Mam used to say she
Was pure evil and wasn’t her mother
Just the same?  I tried not to notice her
New, lemon-yellow dress and freshly-
Starched petticoats.

Danny got me a lager shandy and I drank
It far too fast.  I could see something glinting
In the mirror behind the bar and I turned to see
Her there before me, her bosom in my face
And my butterfly brooch nestled in her cleavage.      

I ripped it from her dress with such
Might that the satin tore right down the
Middle and she fell backwards in slow motion
Onto the sticky floor, her brassiere’s stiff peaks
Pointing to the ceiling,
Exposed for all to see.

I gasped.
The music stopped. A hush
Came over the dance hall. A hundred faces watched
Us, waiting.

And then the clapping started.  Quiet at first, then
It rippled around the room, gathering momentum. 
No one helped her up.  She screamed at her cronies
And they turned away.  She tried to get up and she
Slipped on the beer-drenched floor.

Then the laughter started
And the jeers and stamping.
Her face burned a deep crimson.  She stumbled
To her feet and fled, firing swear words at us that we
Didn't know she knew.

The band struck up.  I pinned on my butterfly brooch and
Danny swung me around and
Threw me up in the air,
Just as he did when
We were young and carefree.


 

Sunday 15 June 2014

Discovering Berlin



There were a few raised eyebrows when we told people that our first trip abroad with our children was to be to Berlin.  We were to visit my cousin Lucy who lives in the city. It was to be an adventure, and we hoped William, (7), and Oliver, (5), would think so too.

 
Berlin seems to be a city struggling with its history; it is raw and present.  Along the street, running through the buses and cyclists and “Trabant Safaris”, is a line of cobbles –the route of the Berlin Wall. It runs like a scar through the centre of the city. The boys enjoy spotting the line as we follow our guidebook between the city’s landmarks.

‘Are we in the East, or the West, now?’ William asks.  


It’s hard to tell, and I try to imagine the ugly concrete barrier towering above us.  Here and there are tall posts showing its height and thickness.  At the Eastside Gallery, a stretch of the wall has been preserved, painted with murals depicting images of reconciliation and peace. Signs forbid its defacement, but graffiti and fly-posts are defiantly evident, as if declaring ‘it’s our wall now’. 



We visit the Holocaust Memorial. Austere grey blocks of different sizes are arranged in a grid. The ground undulates disconcertingly under our feet, so that as we enter, we begin to descend and the blocks tower above us on each side. William and Oliver are excited, running between the blocks as though in a maze. We call anxiously after them as they disappear from sight. We catch fleeting glimpses of other people as they pass between the blocks around us then disappear.

I call the boys to us and try to explain the memorial.

‘It is to remember millions of people who died, in the war,’ I say.

‘Were killed,’ Lucy corrects, and I know she is right. We shouldn’t soften the truth with gentler words. The boys nod solemnly, and then run off again.  Of course they can’t understand. Neither can we.

In the Museum of Technology the boys clamber over full size fishing boats, pointing at planes hanging precariously above us. As they explore the engine sheds, we read the exhibits. A display tells of the transportation of the Jews, and the collaboration of the railways with the Nazis. An interactive screen allows visitors to access records of trains leaving each town, and their passengers.  Even here, there is no escape from history’s shadow.

The restored Reichstag building, proud with its giant German flag, has a glass cupola, open to the sky.  Glass, it seems, is a popular choice for Germany’s restoration. We climb the ramp that spirals around the cupola, enjoying the views over the city, listening to our audio guide, available in many languages. Berlin welcomes the world into its glass, transparent heart.

As we travel home we discuss the best bits of our trip.

Oliver chooses trams. William chooses trains. I choose discovering in our own way, together.

Tuesday 10 June 2014

FIFTY YEARS LATER. By Richard Wells

I glance at Robert as Mr Ford strides into the classroom.  We don't say a word but I know he's thinking the same as me.  We won't get away with anything with this one.  He's just arrived at the school, the new Head of English - a solid looking man, not tall, but with an undeniable presence.

Elliot, the class joker waits for all of fifteen minutes before putting Mr Ford to the test.  I'm not sure which is his most effective weapon - the look or the barbed response, but Elliot keeps his head below the parapet for the rest of the lesson - no, the rest of the year.

For the first few weeks I find it difficult to find a way in.  I wonder whether English Literature was the right choice for me.  Mr Ford speaks, I listen, but nothing seems to get through.  There's no connection.  I write it all down, I produce the essays, he marks them and I'm unsurprised by my very average marks.

In the second term, he tells us we'll be taking the Satire Option.  Now I know about satire.  That was the Week that Was is a weekly addiction and I'm a regular pretentious purchaser of Private Eye.  My previously small spark of interest bursts into flame.

John Dryden and Alexander Pope are not the easiest starting point, but Mr Ford is in his analytical element.  The discussion spills over into philosophy, religion, politics and, at times, even the meaning of life. As we progress through Swift and Samuel Butler, the scope for extra-curricular discussion widens.  We begin to develop the skills of analysis, argument, counter-argument and carefully-crafted-put-down.  By the time we reach Brave New World and Animal Farm we're in full flow, not the same people we were six months earlier.  Mr Ford is like a conductor, the baton moving imperceptibly.

Fifty years later I'm standing at the lectern, in the crematorium, a poem by Berthold Brecht in front of me - Questions from a Worker Who Reads. I look out across the sea of faces and slowly recite each line.  Four of us ex-pupils have come to pay our respects to Mr Ford, come to give our thanks for his teacher's gifts.  We read from the lectern in turn and Robert tells the audience about Mr Ford's early years, his wartime experiences, his move into teaching, his love of words and language.  there's no vicar, no hymns, no prayers, just people reading and talking and, to close, Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody. 

Afterwards over tea and cakes we go over our stories, the way we kept the links, the way John and his wife welcomed our visits, the way we all still use his teachings.

Sunday 1 June 2014

WRITING AS A GIFT



WRITING AS A GIFT

To write is to present a gift to the reader.  And, like any other gift, it can take many forms.

There is the gift designed 'just in case'.  It is not particularly special.  It is for just about anyone who comes along unexpectedly, any number of potential recipients, suitable for a wide variety of readers.  It sits in your 'gift drawer', or your computer, waiting for the right opportunity to be given. It may be edited slightly - or rewrapped- before being presented, so as to appear customised.

Then, there may be the gift which you quite like yourself but are not sure if the recipients will.  So you hang on to it for a while until you can decide whether or not it will ever see the light of day.  But, because you are a writer, you really must pass it on.  Otherwise, what is the point?

There is, of course, the gift which you wrote ages ago and with which you are not particularly pleased.  It lays around for a long time, unwrapped, unfinished.  You may tinker with it form time to time, sometimes making it worse or sometimes, eventually, making it presentable.  So you offer it, but tentatively.  And not to loved ones.  And you make sure you are not around when it is opened.

You may give a gift to yourself.  It contains part of you, some of your innermost thoughts, intentions, desires and regrets.  It is never intended to be opened by anyone but you.  It is your journal and must be kept safe, hidden from prying eyes.

I trust you are not the sort of writer who takes a gift which you received from someone else and rewraps, or edits, it slightly before giving it as a present to others.  It's called plagiarism, you know and can land you in hot water!

Because you are a writer, however, the gift you most love to give is the one which everyone is clamouring to receive.  You have planned it well, designed it carefully, wrapped it beautifully.  It is appealing to look at, to dive into, to savour and devour.  It is enjoyed by many, by all manner of recipients and stays with them for a long time.  And you might even have been paid to give it!

Finally, there is the best gift of all.  The one which you have developed with passion.  You have crafted and honed it carefully. It is given with love.  It is a unique gift because it has only one, very special, recipient.  It is a love letter, or a poem for someone's special birthday, or special event.  It is not to be shared with anyone else.

So go on........give a very special and personal gift.  To one person or a million and one.  Just write.