There are days
when your footsteps in the sand barely break the surface when the grains are hard packed - stacked by the receding tide the sea seeped away drained into the bay those are the days when you make no impression barely a dent is rent in the perfect surface only the occasional crack of a shell as your track shifts to the high tide line there are days when the sand shifts - drifts beneath your feet each step an effort in the soft brown sugar of the shore and others have been here before, churning, turning stirring its softness, leaving it spoiled soiled until the tide turns there are days when the top layer of sand looks firm but your boots sink several inches into its depths you plod on, across the bank leave holes where you sank but rose again there are days when the sea weeps - seeps its way back up the shore more and more till what seems firm is liquid and when stepping forward you realise a little late the fate awaiting - the fluid form lying low ready to pull you beneath its innocent surface with an insistent grasping there are days when the wind howls across the bay your boots sandblasted by the loose top layer - the poor dog’s eyes filled with grit - those are no days to sit and stare out to sea
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2021The day before yesterday I met an old friend on the street we embraced, kissed on both cheeks, held each other longer than was strictly necessary Yesterday, I went to the supermarket stocked up on what was required respired, relieved, thankful to behold full shelves and smiling people standing close and chatting not steering clear two trolley lengths away at all times Yesterday, I took the dog to the park threw his ball, watched the children on the swings and roundabout playing tig and tag, holding hands watched a mother wipe a snotty toddler nose - I didn’t flinch or move away Today I drove out, out into the countryside as far as I felt like going and took the dog for a second walk in the woods, because I could Tomorrow, I shall book a two night stay, for three months’ hence in a favourite place a treat, a retreat, a getaway a stay away - a place where I may well encounter strangers in the bar - make new friends, perhaps, sit close together, conversing The day after tomorrow, I’m going to the cinema with a friend. We’ll eat out beforehand, nowhere fancy, just out – we’ll raise a glass to friendship Tomorrow, I’ll make up the beds in the spare room, for my friends coming to visit The day after that, I won’t feel annoyed when the football comes on the telly instead, I’ll be glad for all the fans out there, enjoying their Saturday Next week, I’ll play music with my friends at one of their houses enjoy a glass of wine, company, convivial conversation and tunes The week after that, I’ll join the writers’ monthly gathering enjoy a glass of wine, company, convivial conversation and stories Today, I shook hands with someone new I met on the beach. Today, I did not feel afraid. This is a poem I wrote for last month's writers' group meeting; the theme was 2021. ![]() Photo credit : Ailsa Watson For National Poetry DayI wrote this free-form poem (with minor alterations) at the start of this year. It was a contribution to the Sustaining Life as a Creative Programme, run by the wonderful Creative Learning team in Aberdeen, which I was very fortunate to take part in. The brief was to describe our creative journey. I am
I am the small pigtailed girl Perched on the window seat, with sugar paper and poster paints, brush and water pot, newspaper protecting the wooden trolley I am that girl in shorts and tee-shirt on the west coast shore searching for crabs every summer under stones, exploring rockpools before rockpooling was a thing collecting shells and pebbles, sticks and stones I am the girl playing in the corrugated iron shed behind my granny’s house wildflowers in a jam jar on the rickety table - the hedgehog visiting - imagination my best friend I’m the schoolgirl sailing on the loch with my first love I'm the teenager climbing hills with friends gazing over Scotland - hills and heather burns and boulders, big skies I am the student, drawing in my lab book, Learning the nature of science I am the scientist, fishing for facts about Trout and mackerel and herring, I am the translator, editor, creator, putter-together of research volumes, organiser of conferences and treasurer of troves I am the mum with no clue - doing, not making, (except soup and cakes and occasionally marmalade) Making do, with a head crammed full, jammed full of domesticity, a scarcity of time to call mine I am the thirty-something friend, persuaded to trade My violin for a fiddle, To play tunes with people Who would become pals To add another dimension to being I am the mandolin-playing ceilidh band member, calling out dance steps - Oh, the feeling of power! I am the teacher of students, The organiser of labs and lectures, Marker of essays, And later, Developer of screen-based things With no song to sing Or dance to bring I am the escapee, Fleeing to evening classes - Some shaky pots, a few pale paintings, Tiny steps My sketchbook brought along On family holidays For rare moments of aloneness I am the e-learning adviser, Brain addled by screens, Quitting the squeaky lino floors Before it was too late I am the pupil once more, online And for real, (because I respond well to being given homework) I am the walker, Walking with purpose - Two Moonwalks In three years. And Ben Nevis No hesitation – meditation. I am the delivery driver, Dropping off veg Noticing things. Gathering ideas I am the spinner of stories Weaver of yarns I am the open studios partaker Opening the door to my shed, Pretending it is a studio, letting people in to my life To ask me questions Which I find hard to answer – When, What, Why, How? It seems that some Wish they had my life, whatever they May think that is – living the dream – An endless stream of ideas, most of which Get washed away in the shower - Down the drain, never to be Seen again. I am the artist, maker, Creator of things Which bring joy I am the West coast Inhabitant - Still walking the tideline In search of shells and pebbles, Bleached bones of wood Filling my pockets Again and again Still looking out to sea And finding Something there I started writing this poem seven years ago. Today I finished it. This was prompted by a conversation last night about "mental load" and being directed to a cartoon illustrating this concept. It is an interesting concept and I realised its close connection with my thoughts while writing this poem. The pie chart above was constructed in 1999; that was not just about "mental load", but "physical load" as well. I am half-hoping that the legend is illegible!
NB: The poem was written at a time when we had a dog, a guinea pig and probably a budgie as well. Obstacles This is the path That leads to the shed That Jennifer wants to write in. This is the poo That lies on the lawn That blocks the path That leads to the shed That Jennifer wants to write in This is the guinea pig Nice and warm Out in his hutch, ignoring the storm that needed fed and straw for his bed on the path to the shed that Jennifer wants to write in these are the garments washed and wet that need some drying and ironing yet here is the post on the mat needing opened fancy that! There is the telephone Waiting to ring Daring to call To see if she’s in Here are the dishes In the sink Here is the dog Who needs a drink Here is the clock Ticking away Measuring time As it slips away There is the rain Falling out of the sky Rescue the washing -It’s nearly dry! These were the obstacles All in her head Things to be done And some to be said Now she sees clearly What she must do -leave all the small stuff And find a way through To go on the path That leads to the shed That Jennifer's going to write in. Last week I enjoyed an evening out for a festive meal with the lovely folk who make up Deeside Writers Group. Of course we set ourselves a little writing task for the evening and that was to write a short piece (no more than 50 words) using the prompt "restaurant" (kindly provided by Val of Buchanan's Bistro, where we were dining). I didn't think too hard about the task, and found that a piece came to me in the form of a song. Written to fit the tune of "Oh my darling Clementine", these are the words that appeared. It seemed apt for this time of year, with the lovely orange fruits in abundance, that this tune came into my head. It was a song that my dad used to sing, mainly if not only, on long car journeys. I meandered off for a reminder of the words - "In a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for a mine, lived a miner, forty-niner, and his daughter, Clementine". It is of course a tragic story, which I had forgotten in the intervening years. So, I enjoyed my wander down memory lane; funny the paths some things lead us down. Here is my offering - I had the foresight to print out several copies, and the group was generous in their joining in. Happily the tune was familiar to everyone. Oh I do like a good singalong!
Restaurant ditty (to be sung to the tune of “Clementine”) In a bistro In the country Near the Deeside Railway Line was a pair of very fine chefs and their cooking most divine Served they dishes Of local produce and some platters mighty fine And the diners were not whiners in that bistro so divine This month's task for writers' group was to write something from a child's perspective. This is what came out.
If I were a grownup I’d stay up all night drinking whisky and watching naughty films on the blue channel on the television that needs a PIN code to get into it (I know, I’ve tried) and I’d travel round the world in a yacht, single-handed and only have a job for a while until I had enough money to be on holiday all the time and I’d live in a big house on the top of a hill with three televisions and a big bathroom and lots of pets - a dog, no two dogs and a cat and a hamster and a goldfish and a guinea pig and a rabbit. And maybe a horse. Or a donkey. And I’d drive a big black car and go wherever I wanted – to the beach mostly, not to boring castles or gardens or garden centres or the supermarket. And I’d have ice cream every day and never have soup and have spaghetti bolognese for tea every night, well maybe pizza sometimes and only eat mangoes and grapes and never boring bananas or apples and I’d have a cupboard full of sweets and nothing else. Just for me and my friends. And now for something slightly different. I don't always manage to find instant inspiration for my blog, so sometimes I go for a trawl through things I have written earlier. There is plenty of it around, I can assure you. This is not strictly-speaking a poem, it's more a "real-time" stream of observations from a train. That's how it was written. It's almost a series or collection of haiku, which could stand on their own. As you can see from the date, it was written seven years ago.
(Aberdeen to Inverness, by train, 14/3/08) three sheep, side by side bask in spring sunshine on a sloping field tops of trees cluttered with crows and their half-made nests tiny calves already wearing ear-tags lie beside their mothers bare trees poised to burst into life train track runs beside the burn we go up as it goes down river bluer than the sky smoothness hides its urgent flow ramshackle byre with a bucket by the open door ancient crumbled walls of ruined house two old trees – who lived there once? boggy ponds alongside the track frog spawn possibilities old bracken last year’s heather the colours of tweed horses with their coats on heads down grazing sheep tracks etched on the hillside centuries old narrow field ridged with sheep tracks along its length mole hills in the perfect lawn around the whisky store fluffy white sheep black faces curly horns the larches still wearing their brown winter coats birches covered in lichen beards no pollution here seven pigeons take off in unison startled by the train the gorse blooming by the track – does it ever not? piglets scamper in the mud round their little nissen huts wind farm scars the landscape - distracts me from the kestrel we can see where the mole has been - does he have any idea? the edges of the town spreading into a building site new houses with smart fences - sore thumbs I have been listening to Woman's Hour on Radio 4 again this morning, as I do most mornings. The discussion was about choosing to have children versus choosing to remain childless. I was reminded of a piece which I wrote a while ago. Coincidentally, my thoughts have been on babies and children for the past few days, as our younger child turned twenty yesterday. Finally, the teenage years are over. A new chapter is beginning. Here is the piece.
I Wish them Luck the young married couple next door have decided to have a baby good for them I wish them luck No really, I do But I also wish someone would tell them, and I know that no-one will and even if they did, the poor souls would not listen to a word of it, that they are not just having a baby – they will be having a tiny infant who cries in the night and demands their attention - their attention no-one else is going to attend to its needs they will have to and they alone or together if they choose a teething, gurning one year old who cries in the night and demands to be soothed not just once, but many times a defiant toddler who says No before he learns to say Yes, or please, who lies on his back on the floor and kicks his feet and screams very loudly when he does not get his own way, and produces large amounts of tears, snot and poo, generally into nappies and eventually, after you have worked out some sort of system or read a very clever book, but probably mostly just listened to your own mum, into the toilet. a small child who socialises with other small children and learns things from them, not just from you. Words like bum and fart and other useful terms for bodily functions a small child who has to go to school but may not understand why this is so who may go there the first day, come home and say – so, I’ve been there, where do I go tomorrow? a small child who asks interminable questions, usually in the car at roundabouts or hazardous crossings or while you are trying to remember who you are, where you work and what you should have with you in order to do that work. A functioning brain is often helpful, but scarily difficult to retain. a slightly larger child who likes to have friends round to play which necessitates conversing with other parents, which often leads to comparisons which are nearly always, no in fact are always distinctly unhelpful. Especially if their smart little Alec can read before he enters primary 1 So, the slightly larger child sounds a bit easier – yes and no – they still go to bed largely when you say so you know where they are all the time , as you have a calendar strapped to your person at all times so that you don’t forget to collect them from swimming/judo/karate/piano/French lessons, but they have by now decided what they do and don’t like to eat. So you eat what they eat. Do you like being an eight year old again? No, I didn’t think so. Best to feed then what you have, if you possibly can. Excellent. The even larger child is lurching towards being a teenager. A word that did not exist in recent times. well, when I was one, I wasn’t. It wasn’t. They weren’t. There weren’t any. Well, there were, but they didn’t know that they were. If you see what I mean. Maybe you still are one. And have just had a baby. How scary is that? So, the teenager emerges from the cocoon of puberty, only they don’t hide away much. And they’re quite noisy. Play loud music. Assert their rights. Without taking any responsibility. Treat parents like slaves. Only worse. But then that’s probably our fault. And then, eventually, this tiny infant, baby, small child, bigger child, big child, teenager, becomes a … human being so, not a baby, then? no, a lot, lot more than that. be careful what you wish for. Happy New Year. I hope that 2014 brings peace, health and happiness to you, wherever you may be.
I am constantly drawn to the sea. Whether it is stormy, calm or something in between it is constant and reassuring in a way that is hard to explain. Instead of trying to do so myself, here is a verse of "Sea Fever" by John Masefield. Which sums it up rather well, I think. I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. |
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