Churchyard rainsound

I hear the dead whisper in the trees
As raindrops shatter on quivering leaves.

Dead buried beneath
Long probing roots in soft flesh earth,
Where the dead of man and plant
Merge in compound harmony,
Watered by the juice of clouds,
To rise skyward through woody sap
And raise their voices in sibilant rainsound
In praise of the God of life.



David

Faith

Poetry must test.
Faith gives us our wooded hills.
Reason clears a path.



David

Churchgoers

Watching through the dirty glass of my living room window,
The old people walking bowed and supporting each other
Towards the church that rings an appeal.

Some laughing youths ride the other way on their bicycles
As they go oblivious to the glares that scorn them.
A pigeon standing aloof on the opposite roof coos its disdain.

Then it begins to rain and like a slow motion film of flowers opening,
Umbrellas spring open wide to make a dancing parade of gaily coloured circles
Each swirling and moving as one towards the random rhythm of the ringing bells.

A dance of souls in faithful abeyance to the call of the profound.

But the youths are back and whirling like dervishes on their bikes
Between the baffled faithful they hurl their foul mouthed scorn.
And even the pigeon falls quiet.

Then they’re gone like a small wind that passed and stoic people
Brace themselves and reform their appreciation of their truths
And the swirling march of the giant coloured flowers resumes.

And in the distance is heard bright laughter
Of young people yet to be constrained by anything so fixed
That could be called by mere bells.

And the rain still fell slowly.
Ignoring it all.
And the pigeon resumed its call.



David.

Doors

I suppose it is a cliché, but it is said – and not just in The Sound of Music – that when God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.  I guess your view on this rather depends on your view on God, but that was last month’s topic…

With the exception of a bare chested image of Jim Morrison and portals into other worlds, not much else springs to mind when confronted with the subject matter of doors.  Science Fiction not really being my thing and unsure whether to peer into the smoke filled rooms of my sometimes misspent youth, I decide Julie Andrews is a safer venture.

So the sound of slamming doors reverberates around my head and all of a sudden my life seems like the opening credits of Porridge.  Not that I’ve ever been incarcerated please understand, but thinking of all those missed opportunities, failed relationships, endings and goodbyes makes me wish the subject matter had been windows instead.

Actually I’ve got pretty good at opening my own windows and doing a bunk into the sunshine when necessary, but  what if one of those doors hadn’t closed?  Which one would I choose?  And all of a sudden I’m back in the realms of science fiction.

There was a rather good film several years ago – well, I liked it, but then I like Gwynneth Paltrow and John Hannah – when Gwynnie’s life splits at the point of missing a tube.  Quite literally, how her life may have been different if that particular door hadn’t closed.  I like the concept, and it was a popular film – I’m not alone.  At times we all wonder what would have happened if things had been different.  But to choose a door, just one, which one would I choose?

Would I choose one I had closed of my own accord or one that had been slammed in my face?  And having made my choice would I edge it open gingerly or fling it wide and embrace the life I now don’t have?

And do I want to have the option to return to the safety of behind the closed door if I don’t  much like what I find? What if the me on the other side of the door doesn’t laugh as much or sing as much?  What if she can’t stand on her own two feet, support herself, isn’t a mother?  What if she has never travelled to the other side of the world, ridden an elephant, done a parachute jump, been in a hot air balloon or stood on top of one of the twin towers?

Would I like my life more or less if I hadn’t barely slept in a rat infested hole in Bangkok or vomited into a squat toilet shared with cockroaches while feeling so ill I would happily have curled up and died?  If the door of that particular establishment had been closed would my life be different now?  Well, I might be afraid of cockroaches…

Having chosen my door, will I know what I have done or does stepping over the threshold mean another closed door behind me?  Another life unknown.

Will I still know how to open a window?

 

 

Sharon.

She was six years old when, at a family dinner in a local restaurant, her father introduced her to the theory of evolution by telling her that God did not create the world in six days.  She could not remember whether he had gone so far as to say that God did not exist, but there was certainly diatribe rather than dialogue – this was not a gentle education in looking at alternative points of view.

Four years of Church school and the odd bout of Sunday School later, this view had certainly been balanced.  Daily prayers, hymn singing and regular church visits had made her familiar with the cultural undertone of her country. 

In her teens, in Drama class, she and some friends had written a dialogue piece exploring whether God and the Devil were in fact female.  A little controversial at the time perhaps, funny certainly – the very idea!

University with various modules in Feminist thinking fleshed out this background with images of Gaia, and what God means to women and the Church’s general misogyny.

She was married in church, had had her children Christened, liked Midnight Mass at Christmas but accepted Darwin’s theory, and was now in her early – ok mid – forties, no longer sure what she believed about God.  Most days she didn’t even give her much thought.

She couldn’t help thinking that the very idea of the Trinity had been formulated by a desperate early Church seeking to unify those members they wanted to keep whilst denouncing as heretics the troublemakers they wanted to expel.  If the Gnostics had had more clout, would we believe what we now believe about the nature of God?  she wondered, or at least would we have been taught what we had been taught about God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost.

But that was the Church, and did what they teach bear any relation to God?  Well they taught that the Bible was the revelation of God – so the Church at least would argue that it very much did.

The one problem she had was that she definitely believed that if Jesus truly was the son of God, he would not exclude someone because they had not accepted the message of Christianity.  She could not shift her belief that if a supreme and caring being existed, that supreme and caring being would not exclude an individual from its everlasting supremacy and care because the image of the dancing Shiva resonated more than that of a dying man on a cross.   Did that mean she wasn’t really a Christian?

But such theological internal dialogue occupied little of her time.  Her life was packed with the daily routines of lunchboxes and water bottles, ferrying children where they needed to be when they needed to be there, work, the endless laundry and the general moving of stuff from one place to another, whether that be dust, groceries, dishes, toys or the bloody endless laundry.  She’d have more time for God if he would put a pinny on now and then and push the hoover round.

Her mind raced ahead with lists and menus and bills and birthdays, and God lingered on the periphery, making an appearance at Easter and Christmas and Remembrance Sunday Services shivering in the cold.

And yet…

That last cry of a dying man haunted her.  “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?”  “My God! My God! Why hast thou forsaken me?”

 

 

Marks and Sparks by Rachel Dealtry

Character: Female, Northern, Fifties

I pick up the plastic globe off the chest of drawers; one of our grandchildren put it there. I notice as I lift it up the circle of clean polished oak that it leaves behind. I am a slut in the house.

BEAT

Housework to me is like the corn on my left foot - extremely painful, but nevertheless needs dealing with eventually. I study the globe for a while and realise that Ireland is only a tiny fingernail away from here, a tiny little fingernail away from me. Yet I am here and he is there and that fingernail between us feels as vast as the Sahara desert, and all the chocolate teacakes in the world will not make me feel any better about that.

Some days, I stand in the queue at Marks and Sparks and I wonder where it all went wrong. I look at the other women in there and I want to scream, it’s because no-body says what they are really thinking or feeling. I have very violent thoughts towards the counter clerks and I put them aside because it is not appropriate for a woman of my age to have thoughts like this.

I’m looking down the toilet and I can see yellow brown urine frothing in the bottom of the pan. I've told William a million times to flush it, but he doesn't listen to me. I walk over to the sink and fetch his toothbrush, his is the blue one, everything that William owns has been shopped for by me. I take it over to the toilet and I dip it into the froth, I then walk over to the sink and I place it neatly back into the holder.

William is unaware of my habitual urine dipping.

William is generally unaware of me.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror and I remove my dressing gown, I look at myself good and hard. I like the curve that my spine makes at the small of my back and my      breasts are still in good shape considering what they have been through. It’s the middle bit that disgusts me, the way it hangs over the top of my pants. I grab it with both hands and consider slicing it off. If I sliced it off I will look younger again. I don’t feel like this, I don’t feel like this woman looking back at me. My body no longer fits together with my mind. 

This is painful.

Every Wednesday we eat haddock, boiled potatoes and peas. We generally eat in silence or we discuss our children whom we no longer gain pleasure from. I then go and do the washing         up and William settles himself down in front of the telly.

Today, I wipe down the sides, dry my hands with the tea towel and go to join him. His thick rimmed glasses are sitting awkwardly on his face. I am wearing a new floral dress which William does not notice. He’s engrossed in some quiz programme. I turn to him, very slowly, I take a deep breath and I say:

‘Would you like to see my vagina?’

BEAT

William just stares at the television set and his glasses begin to steam over. I get up and walk towards the window, I pull the curtains across and I lift up my dress to reveal my white cotton undies.

‘Want to see it?’

Silence prevails

‘Do you want to?’

The telephone starts to ring and William’s patting his forehead with a handkerchief. He gets up . . . muttering that it might be one of the children and I feel the blood rushing towards my face ‘LEAVE IT’.

He looks terrified and slumps back into the settee. I walk over to him and block his view of Countdown. I’m willing him to touch me. I’m begging him to reach out to me. A minute goes by and it feels like an hour. I do a one hundred and eighty degree turn and I run, I run to the bedroom and I slam the door nearly off the hinges. (Building) I lay down on the bed and I dream of being in Ireland, I dream of being with him and my body becomes ageless and my thoughts become fire and I realise that I CAN-NOT GO ON LIKE THIS. It has to stop.

BEAT

Tomorrow, whilst doing the weekly shop, I will pop a brand new toothbrush into my basket and when I get home I’ll just replace the old one.

~ END ~

Sestinas explained

For anyone who was blown away by Caity's poem 'On Being Single. Again.' (last post), here is her explanation of how to construct a sestina...

The Sestina

Poetry I am told feels a bit alien to a lot of people, and the idea of using a structured form seems pointless and unnecessarily difficult. It won’t be something everyone comes back to  - but after explaining what it is, I have used the poem I have posted as an example you might want to try :)

The sestina is a 6 stanza plus ‘envoi’ poem. ‘Envoi’ in this case is a sort of three line recap. You don’t have to rhyme, you can pick your number of syllables per line  - your meter…. Eg pentameter is five ‘units’ of rhythm, and a ‘unit’ of rhythm can be for example a pair of stressed and unstressed syllables

(di-dum di-dum di-dum di-dum di-dum being Iambic Pentameter because of the order of stressed and unstressed syllables)

The poem only uses 6 ‘end words’ – literally the last word of each line - repeated in a set formula pattern, and uses the words in the same order as the first Stanza (although this can vary) in the last 3 lines . 

The order of the end words is set in that pattern - use numbers 1-6 if that makes more sense to you. 

Using my poem as an example the end words are as follows (which you sort of hope people don’t notice)

A         cigarette

B          one

C         spent

D         fire

E          close

F          set

F          set

A         cigarette

E          close

B          one

D         fire

C         spent

C         spent

F          set

D         fire

A         cigarette

B          one

E          close

E          close

C         spent

B          one

F          set

A         cigarette

D         fire

D         fire

E          close

A         cigarette

C         spent

F          set

B          one

           

B          one

D         fire

F          set

E          close

C         spent

A         cigarette

AB       cigarette, one

CD       spent fire

EF        end set

           

It is almost like a spiral of words (if that is a helpful image) and the tricks are

• firstly to chose your ‘end words’ quite carefully, using words that have several meanings  - like set, which has the most dictionary defined meanings I learned, and or words that have homophones (one/won, vain/vein. Whine/wine which are permissible variants to the form )
• you could use end words which have a some overlapping or connected meaning – spent /end/close,
• very careful use of caesura (pauses using full stops/commas/colons) and lines. By this I mean that for a poem to make sense you don’t read it line by line, you read it grammatically as you would a piece of prose. This way the end word don’t seem too obvious (or at least that’s the aim)…

so you could read a piece of poetry like this,

with commas at the end of every line,

and then you’ll find that nothing goes amiss,

but you might have a verse which doesn’t rhyme.

Or

You could read a piece of poetry. Like

this. Not commas at the end

of every line. And then you’ll find

that nothing goes

amiss; but you might have

a verse that doesn’t rhyme.

You are still able to follow the meaning. The example above shows how that can impact the way you write, the sound and the sense (it doesn’t mean I think its good – or not good  - or that these lines make sense, its just an example of what to think about )

And if you do give yourself a syllable limit (iambic pentameter being the fave for many because it is naturally very close to normal English speech pattern) there’s likely to be more rhythm and completeness in your poem – but not always

There are other types of formal structure like a villanelle, A pantoum, Sonnet,

all of which are also shorter – if that sounds preferable

The discipline of writing in a formal way actually helped in writing this I think, and the structure definitely came first, which sounds like it might be artificial but it still conveys a sense and meaning ( mostly) and all language we use is confined in rules of syntax grammar and spelling – so think of it as an extension of that.

In this poem I thought of the end words first, wanted it keep it mostly easy but then thought I better give myself something more jarring to see if it flowed – so threw ‘cigarette’ in because I had the image of a spiral like a spiral of cigarette smoke. That made me think of a conversation I’d had once in a coffee bar and that lead to thinking of bits and pieces of other peoples relationship endings  - this is not autobiographical, and not meant to be an angsty outlet, but this – and any poem – is meant to be about distilling an idea/ideas into a poetic form to create an emotional resonance with the reader and using the form to help in that – otherwise write prose. A sestina just gives you a frame to hang it on. I had to edit this poem and double check on grammar and line breaks – and I think there are still some dodgy moments – but it felt like going through the task really helped me think about line and form generally – and was well worth doing for me for that reason alone.