Heather Moulson

Hello Poetry Lovers

Welcome back to the Poetry Basket Review. And in our basket this week is

My Acrostic Mother, the brand new collection by prolific and talented poet Trisha Broomfield. Every page contains such absorbing pieces. Do treat yourselves to this wonderful collection. Meanwhile I have given it a very hot review below.

Read on…

My Acrostic Mother

By Trisha Broomfield

Presented with an abundance of glamour and nostalgia, this very personal and introspective collection of acrostic poetry gives us a sharp insight on a mother’s era. Striking a chord of recognition in us all.  

  Pieces going as far back as Land Army Girl, this will touch something deep within us. From the rustle of our mother’s petticoats to the texture of their lipstick. So many rich and wistful subjects are covered and I’m happy to take you on this glorious bittersweet journey if you’ll hold my gloved hand. 

Classily laid out into sections with witty quotes from iconic women, my favourite being Dorothy Parker’s, and full of inked black and white illustrations, we delve into this collection of acrostics.  This form isn’t easy for some but for Trisha Broomfield this came naturally and swiftly.

However, don’t be fooled into thinking this is an over-sentimental collection. It’s bright and sharp, and never maudlin. 

One feels the elegance of Gloves and Hats, once a must-have for a woman, and the evocative The Red Net Dress that draws us in beautifully before it eases us wistfully into Negligees, the ultimate glamour with the witty realities of those impractical things. 

I am particularly drawn to Caftans/Kaftans. The latter reminding readers like me that I treasured such a garment in 1975.

‘Now I feel,’ you’d say, ‘Swish and stylish, like Elizabeth Taylor, in a way.’  

We are almost in the room. 

We move to extraordinarily detailed pieces with the unforgettable Mascara, receptive of much womanly spit in a hard block case. In Clear Nail Varnish, we can hear a mother’s echo so distinctly.    Plus the painful Face Packs, and The Home Perm. Truly mother territory, agonising yet cherished

Mum and a pile of turquoise plastic rollers in the sink.

 Weren’t they endless?!  

Pond’s Cold Cream will put a shiver down the reader’s spine, recalling the sophistication of that pert white pot. A solid staple on the dressing table.  The reader will become more wistful.

We move onto that disappearing domestic staple of Sunday Lunch and Toast and Dripping that will have us salivating, or an urge to run to the shop after reading Walnut Whips.  Not to mention the other hallowed whip, Bird’s Instant Whip that has such intricate detail.  Surprising the reader at how these foods are still treasured.

The subheadings are skilfully done, moving the reader to tears – and hunger. For instance, Mackeson still stays on the tongue. 

Mum swore by a daily dose.

They did indeed.  Then we visit that fabulous adage of the sophisticated Rothmans.  Once a vital social prop. 

Rothmans were elegant. 

Such a true line. 

Snowball reminds us of that extraordinary illuminated yellow drink with the panache of the vivid red cherry – a ritual once for ladies in my own family.   In Darning Socks, a clear and bittersweet image of every mother armed with a large needle and a dark sock will come to mind. 

Socks worn until they resemble holey cheese.   

Classic line.

Knitting Patterns, once a commonplace sight in every household, visually beautiful and much missed, and the Football Pools now nudged onto the internet, that lost its personal interaction on the doorstep. 

Accelerating to darker waters and a layer is stripped away with the poignant Miscarriage and the real hazards of Agoraphobia.

   And no-one else could see the world that she could see.

A very private hell indeed. 

The stirring Writing Letters and Stories will remind us of that regular occupation with Basildon Bond and other relevant material, such that is used in this glorious piece.  A very private view of a lost world.  We forget the volume of letters written back then.

We travel right back to a wartime childhood with Little Sister, that unravelled family traumas and every girl’s terror of spinsterhood.  A terrible fate back then. 

The heartbreaking Desmond really gives us an insight into the poet’s mother’s other life, a cad being a recurring theme through generations, then we are even more illuminated by the astoundingly visual Terry Wogan’s Fight the Flab.  Dean Martin gives us a haze of glamour from that glossy show and constant cigarettes.

Now she’s gone, we share Dean Martin Live at The Sands. 

A very poignant link and an apt way to end this touching collection.     

Some of you will want to stay on this journey and go round again.  I highly  recommend that you do.

 

Do treat yourselves to a copy, PL’s. Available on Amazon now.

Also catch Trisha Broomfield’s poetry page on Facebook. Great pieces put on there.

Thanks for tuning in, PL’s. We’ll be back with more poetry adventures real soon….