IT’S TIN, IT’S POTTERY, IT’S PEARL
This morning the warm air brings the scent of coffee underscored by rich dark chocolate. I stand still to linger in the moment and breathe deeply.
Alt text says this week’s photo is of a stuffed animal in a bush of yellow flowers. I say it is Ronnie ‘pre-cataracts’ ignoring the fact that there are lots of spines on gorse bushes while posing for a photo at The Great Orme. This is also the photo for August on the #LookThere calendar this year. The photograph was taken during my MA when I was exploring locations for my video poems as part of my reading poetry aloud project. The project included putting together a collection of short poems which could then be read by me and by someone else. The idea was to compare the two readings and also address my nerves around reading out loud. It was a fun and interesting way to explore poetry performance, and I have fond memories of bringing the work together and of the people who took time to record my words. Each poem was 14 lines which made it the right kind of length for a quick and simple recording. This also reminds me of the times I would want to improve my skills by reading aloud at an open mic, but thought that choosing the shortest poem possible was the only way to combat my nervousness. Reader, it wasn’t the answer. Finding my tribe and finding my voice was the way forward.
My week has included some lovely opportunities to send and write anniversary poems. I was very proud to have set aside time to write one for L and O, but had counted too many years so they received a ‘tin’ poem when it should have been pottery. The kettle then went on, and I sharpened my brain to compose the correct kind of poem for their ninth anniversary instead. Pleasingly I managed it just in time. The week also included thirty years of marriage for R and S. I didn’t know until I saw a post on social media, but it felt serendipitous because I had been wanting to write a pearl anniversary poem for a while. I thoroughly enjoyed having the right inspiration to be creative right there and then, and I was delighted when the poem was well-received. It was also the first poem written entirely at my newly restored writing desk. There’s something special about writing in a dedicated space, and although I like the portability of my laptop and the joy of having a notes app on my phone and a good range of notebooks that mean that I can take my writing anywhere, I also love the ritual of desk writing. So all in all it’s been a lovely week of gifting words and of extending the number of poems I have created to celebrate the symbolism of different anniversaries.
I walked a lot during July, but didn’t quite get the ‘medal’ on my app because I missed the 30-minute brisk walking target on one occasion. I love the fact that I nearly succeeded and the feeling of getting back into the rhythm of walking. I have listened to a range of albums recently whilst strolling, but I still return to the joy of Mary Chapin Carpenter’s Personal History. For me this album continues to be the perfect accompaniment to my solo walks more than a year after its initial release.
This week I choose to share a poem that was written some years ago, after a boat trip from Whitby harbour which had me reflecting on how courageous my grandad was for all the time he spent on the seas and oceans.
WHITBY’S OLD LIFEBOAT
Last trip round the harbour!
The sailor announces the end of the afternoon.
Grandad would approve –
out on the water, breathing sea air,
catching spray on skin and hair.
Salt water in his veins, not blood,
Nan said.
Or, on another day,
Always down the bloody seafront!
Pushing aside the smell of fish
and the vastness of that water
we paid our money,
expecting a life jacket as well as a seat.
Silently disappointed, we headed out.
The straight route out of the harbour was fine
until Whitby became a postcard.
One minute the waves were rolling over,
offering us their bellies,
the next they were rising solid grey,
lifting us, dropping us down.
They threatened to throw me out,
fill my eyes with seaweed and brine,
send my lover north, my bag west.
My stomach quivered;
I was the wrong kind of petrified.
I wanted to be a breakwater; ancient wood
salted over time,
aged, steadfast.
The old lifeboat was a fairground pirate ship
and I was clinging on:
fixing my smile,
picturing a hammock
and an Arctic Convoy Star.
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