Welcome back to the Poetry Drawer. Dobby and I have done some further digging and came up with this
Isn’t it stunning?! Dinky and so beautifully made. Now, once again, I’m cloudy as to how I obtained this unique piece, but I have no regrets about buying such a beautiful pamphlet.
Extraordinarily bijou inside, it tells a brief tale of Joe Orton and his partner Kenneth Halliwell.
We know this did not end happily, and one really shouldn’t damage library books, but some of their blurb was hilarious! Especially Dorothy L Sayer’s book jacket.
As one can see, there is a minimum of detail inside.
There is other content in here that’s not wise to publish, but thank you Hazard Press for producing such a stunning pamphlet.
Dobby also found these!! How many have I collected through the years?! Aren’t they gorgeous?! Too small to be real useful writing pads but so so pretty…. I had forgotten what beautiful things I possessed.
Thank you for rooting through the Poetry Drawer with me, PL’s. We’ll be back with more poetry action real soon….
Recently I had the honour of being asked to review an anthology titled Leaving, published by Bennison Books.
I have to say the intelligence and poignancy of these five poets kept me utterly absorbed. A collection of poetry about dying, grief and the mystery of absence, that will sit with us all. Please note, these poems are far from gloomy. If anything, they will inspire us and give us strength.
So I’m proud to present my review from the Poetry Basket
Leaving
An Anthology of poetry about dying, grief and the mystery of absence
Published by Bennison Books
This collection presents us with a variation of bereavement and loss, seen through the eyes of five poets. Written from every aspect, there is a wealth of experiences, personal and otherwise from innovative writers. Painful and stirring yet we wouldn’t dream of turning away from these profound pieces. Do not assume this book is daunting reading, there is an edge of optimism and faith while dealing with the pain of separation.
We start with Cynthia Jobin’s Bereft. A succinct heading that could tempt one to shy away, but we are greeted with the monumentally visual Sunflowers, followed by the powerfully detailed Future Perfect. The title piece Bereft is a real insight into the ultimate grief of the ones left behind, while Real Estate tells us of the mixed emotions of inheritance. A material gain while being robbed of something more valuable. The Sun Also Sets simply tells us of tenderness and longing. So many struggling emotions are brought to life.
The Cruelty of Hours heading, written by Thomas Davis, looks at this painful era from another viewpoint. Cliches is absorbing, proving these really are the truest words – and the most tragic. A Son’s Eternity captures the true pain of outliving one’s child.
The compassion and the official in The Moment of Shattering highlights the intrusion and the poignancy of time slowly ticking away. Most readers, myself included, will be moved to recall how brutally that clock ticks, and the poet cleverly balances the practical with emotion. His Mother’s Arms stirs heaving emotions as a parent holds their child while dying.Back in New Mexico is a fitting end to this section, with vivid colour tinged with sadness at reattempting a so-called normal life. The Cruelty of Hours slows down time for us all.
We’re brought to Not to be Afraid by Ethel Mortenson Davis, an absorbing title that brings comfort. Death jumps out at one with its effective structure, and Messenger follows powerfully. The Bell is simply haunting, while In The Night gives us an insight into sheer longing for a lost one. Deathbed, a word we often use carelessly, brings a focused picture into a barren loss. Very cleverly done and The Healer is brutal and profound. Grief by its very short sharp words speaks volumes.
We arrive at John Looker’s Circumnavigating a Death and the title poem details a sharp image of a loss with the tangible aftermath of separation, and how we cope – if we really do. Still Life With Violin is painfully and visually beautiful, and Bulletins from the Sick are voices of the dying. The line ‘and will be in a hospice shortly, new journey begun’ rings loudly. Winter Closes In highlights the barrenness and surroundings of a very human situation.The Death of Pocahontas, a character from our history romanticised many times, details her demise in an alien culture and the grim surroundings of London in 1617. The reader welcomes a fresh look at this iconic figure. Old Age Becomes Him gives us a detailed account of fighting back.
Holding On is the penultimate section by A. Carder, whose title piece details physical pain, while Clarity brings visual and stunning descriptions. Home is looking at the things we love slipping away, and Not Yet is emotional without being mawkish. A personal favourite of this section is Many Rooms, the poet skilfully looks at the familiar with new eyes. Moments Mori is a parting piece with unforgettable words.
The late poet Cynthia Jobin concludes with a Night Draws Near chapter. A worthy tribute for a talented poet. North, Early December could be mistaken for being melancholy but we see its tinges of hope, as is To a Tulip with its unravelling of beauty. Among Other Things moves us with a reflection on colour and bareness. A strong way to end this powerful anthology.
Well, poetry really is all around us. Particularly at the back of a drawer it seems.
Aren’t they dinky?! The tiny Battery Pack pamphlet I took at face value and assumed it was a forgotten instruction manual! Nearly meeting its fate in the bin! Thank Goodness I realised.
Now Battery Pack volume III’s origins is a complete mystery to me. Did I buy it? Was it handed out? I guess we’ll never know.
However, the larger pamphlet/handout was given out by a feisty poet Luigi Coppola at poetry@3 in the Poetry Cafe. Lord knows when! A while before COVID I suspect.
This poet had a lot to say, and good for him. I’ve chosen my favourite extract;
Manifesto
Sonnets lack sense;
Ballads all bore;
Limericks cause offence;
And odes are good for….?
Haiku causes ennui;
Sestinas?! Who knows;
Free Verse ain’t free;
But don’t start me on prose.
Luigi Coppola
Now, the cute little Battery Pack vol III pamphlet doesn’t really deliver for me. It’s like very flash fiction indeed.
However, I’ll show you what I think is the best of them;
Ned, Steven
Ned and Steven fished together every weekend for seventeen years. Ned hauled in the biggest pike and they made the newspaper. Ned bought a house in Fergusonville, stopped fishing, lost touch, led a separate and uninteresting life. Twenty years after they fished, they collided on a sidewalk.“Excuse me,” Steven said. “Excuse me,” Ned said.
Tim Wenzell
I kind of like this one. True and sad.
I hope you liked these little excerpts of poetry, Dobby and I will keep looking through that poetry drawer (and wardrobe!)
There’s probably a drawer like that in every poet’s home, so please share what you discover in your own….
Thanks for tuning in, PL’s. We’ll be back with more poetry action real soon….
Welcome back to the talk show studio. (Rapturous applause)
Today we have the honour of welcoming talented poet John Looker (Audience cheer)
(Our esteemed guest glides down the lighted stairs to great applause)
Welcome to the show, John. I hope Dobby didn’t nip you on the way.
Why don’t you fill us in on your background?
A pleasure to be here, Heather. I managed to give Dobby the slip (for now).
I suppose I should start with a confession Heather, although I’m afraid you can’t claim it as a scoop: ‘John Looker’ is a pen name. It’s the name of my mother’s father who was killed in the London Blitz in 1940. I was born five years later and my parents named me John after him.
Years later I felt some right to the name Looker, and also some obligation. In a family of immensely practical people, I was the bookworm and I sense that it comes from my unknown grandfather’s DNA.
He left us his books, the best books in the house. There was a glass cabinet with volumes of Shakespeare, George Bernard Shaw, the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, Palgrave’s Golden Treasury and so on. When I was old enough I dug deep into these.
Also I discovered a box far back in the cupboard under the stairs with the original John Looker’s books on theosophy and comparative religion – hidden because they were felt to be disturbing.
Other than that my life is unremarkable: happy childhood on the southern edge of London, uni, civil service career, happily married raising a family in the Surrey Hills, and now lovely grandchildren.
I travelled widely through my work, though, and this fed into my poems. Often with a historical twist.
So for example, I was in Bogota and in their gold museum there was an exquisite gold sculpture from pre-Columbus days: a miniature raft carrying El Dorado, the prince covered in gold dust. Years later I used that in a poem. It began:
“Beneath his feet the raft rocks, unevenly.
Disdaining the cold, he stands proud
to receive the gift of the sun as it clears the peaks …”
but it ended with intimations of the approaching conquistadors. That poem was published in an anthology marking the Austin International Poetry Festival’s 20th anniversary.
What a lovely personal legacy, John. I can see you treasure them. And taking your grandfather’s name is such a poignant link.
That is a stunning poem too, and I’m pleased it got the success it deserved. That miniature is so beautiful.
When did poetry become a part of your life?
As soon as I could read, I suppose. AA Milne, Lewis Carroll, Hiawatha. That’s pretty normal isn’t it?
The trouble was, in my teens I became painfully self-conscious about reading and writing verse. I was afraid that poetry was for wimps and cissies: probably the influence of the Beano, the Dandy and too many boys’ comics. I hated Wordsworth’s daffodils poem.
I remember one day, walking through the corridors at school, clearly saying to myself ‘I do NOT write poetry’. So for a few years I only wrote songs. It’s just that I was hopeless at tunes.
So, you were a composer too. Fascinating. Yes, there were many misconceptions about poetry that held us back.
Who were your biggest influences?
Screenshot
Well, my poetry-free spell came to an end when I was sixteen and allowed unsupervised access to the school library. I discovered three poets no one had told me about: John Donne, Wilfred Owen and DH Lawrence. They were a revelation. Clearly masculine. I was reassured that poetry was for men, for blokes.
A huge influence then was my English teacher, Mr Egford. He took us beyond the syllabus and introduced us to TS Eliot and others, and he encouraged me to write.
I might also point to a painter. Years ago there was a tv programme about Howard Hodgkin. He had canvasses stacked all round the studio and he explained how he would take one, put it on the easel and contemplate it, trying out minor revisions. He would have several on the go for months before signing one off. I find I do that with things I’ve written.
I see that I haven’t answered your question in the conventional way. My wife and I enjoy such a wide variety of poets together that I’m not sure where any influences lie.
We remember teachers like that, don’t we. And the library is a life-changing establishment.
Stunning painting, what an inspiration and such beautiful colours.
Are you working on anything at the moment?
Actually that’s not easy to talk about. I like a project. My first book looked at life through the emotions and experiences we encounter at work.
That was The Human Hive, published by the independent publisher Bennison Books. I owe them a lot because they also published Shimmering Horizons on the theme of the journey, the quest, the odyssey.
One thing those two books have in common is that they are not about me. Or not directly. They look outwards. They try to look for our common humanity – down the ages and round the globe.
There’s a new project I began in 2021 which should keep me happy for a number of years. It’s a sequence of poems which also looks at human life historically …
… but I don’t mind talking about something else. I decided at the start of 2023 to write a poem for each of our ten grandchildren, pitched as best I could for the interests and age of each grandchild – because they range from young adults to five years.
It started when a granddaughter took one of my books to school to show her teacher an earlier poem about herself when a toddler. I’ve just finished and given the last of the new poems to a grandson. They’re not for publication of course.
Ten grandchildren?!Oh what a great and personal project. You were very busy indeed!
So, (sweeps everything off the desk. Audience gasp) …..
What is the best poetry gig you have done?And the Worst?!
Screenshot
I’ve never performed in a gig. Although Magma once invited me, and others, to read at the launch of their European issue. My poem was about three exhilarating moments in European history: the arrival of Christianity, Petrarch and the Renaissance, and Copernicus.
There was also the launch of an anthology in New Zealand, published by the Caselberg Trust to round up the winners and runners-up from their annual competitions.
I had a poem in it called Conversation with a Sea Lion. I wasn’t able to get there but two daughters live in Dunedin and they went and were made very welcome.
But if you’re looking for a memory of something embarrassing, I can think of a grandson who came home from school complaining about a poetry lesson saying “Even Grandpa’s poems are better than that!”
They don’t pull any punches, do they?!
Thank you for being such a fascinating guest. Are you out on the town tonight ?
I’d better lay low, Heather. Dobby and her pals are out there!
(Our esteemed guest legs it up the stairs – fast. Cries of pain follow)
Oops! Looks like Dobby got to John after all! Wasn’t John Looker a wonderful guest. Very interesting. Do look at John’s site, it’s a real treat http://Johnlooker.wordpress.com
Thanks for coming to the studio, PL’s. We’ll be back with more poetry action real soon.
Yes! It’s been three years since the sought-after Slagg’s Cafe opened. We are currently reporting live from the anniversary ‘Do’.
By some miracle, all 3 of us Booming Lovelies have been invited – I’ve begged and pleaded for an invite in the past – and now Mrs Slagg has relented and let us join them in this gala. Provided that we read a poem each!
Well, me and Trisha Broomfield and Sharron Green were happy to provide this service in exchange for basking in the Slagg’s glory.
So, I’m getting up on the platform first, wish me luck….
Congratulations! It’s the Slagg’s Cafe anniversary
they’ve gone upmarket with a lending library
and a Bistro restaurant serving pies
this is now where eating out lies
A stand-up comedian tells a blue joke
you have to have sugary tea and smoke
And there’s poetry and exhibitions of art
as long as you eat Mrs Slagg’s apple tart!
Phew! Not a bad reception from Mrs Slagg. I’d better light up quickly now.
Our next poem is from the lovely witty Sharron Green. Break a leg, Sharron!
The Slagg’s Cafe is now 3,
and there’s a festive mood.
Birthday cake and pot of tea,
one stale and the other stewed.
The floor is extra sticky,
the air a fog of smoke,
but if you’re not too picky
you’ll meet some crazy folk!
Excellent Sharron. And so true! A hearty round of applause there. Here’s your (sugared) tea, you deserve it!
So our last but never least poet, the wonderful and prolific Trisha Broomfield will be sharing her anniversary piece with us. We’re with you Up There, Trisha!
Of course we should be starring
The night could see some sparring
Compulsory will be required fags
Lounging around, a few old lags,
But the applause will be stupendous
And we will be tremendous, poets!
Marvellous, Trisha, very well deserved applause! Now, you’d better eat up that pie because I think you’re right, sparring could be happening very soon. So we’ll make a hasty getaway (once I finish this Woodbine! Cough!)
Thank you, fellow Booming Lovelies for coming up with the goods and getting us an ‘in’ with Mrs Slagg. Her bashes are equivalent to Truman Capote’s notorious Black & White ball – where even Tony Curtis was not invited (allegedly).
Thanks for tuning in, PL’s and sharing Mrs Slagg’s finest hour. We’ll be back with more poetry action real soon…..
Most of us will recall diets through the decades. The pain and ludicrousness of it all.
I personally remember counting all those calories (under a 1,000?!) and buying those slimming biscuits.
So lovely and talented poet Trisha Broomfield has summed all this nail-biting era up with her wonderful piece below. Some of her details will make us cringe and some laugh out loud. What were we like?!
I must share with you the great event of last night.
All The World’s a Stage was a production at The Hampton Hill theatre last night. Devised by the wonderful Anne Warrington and directed by Ken Mason, it was a great success. A colourful revue of poetry, prose, comedy and music. We were all proud to be a part of it.
Here is Anne in the dressing room just before we were due to go on. I am gazing at myself in the mirror as usual.
I held off demands for my own dressing room on this occasion, and enjoyed the great atmosphere in that room. Expectant and nervous but most of all, a real feeling of unity.
So, from the left, we have the star of the show, Graham Harmes. He did a magnificent job of narration and reading. Next is the enigmatic Sam Ball with his amazing puppetry and The Miller’s Tale. Then chrystal-voiced Sue Bell reading poetry, and clever Connaire reading about pantomimes. The last picture is someone ruthless in red sharing her reminiscences about amateur dramatics and Baron Bolligrew!
I have to say, it was very unnerving looking out onto the dark auditorium. Not like the normal intimacy of poetry at all!
Here is Heather Montford sharing her pain over the school play. Oh I remember that hurt so well!
Velvet voices from Robin Legard and Francis Abbott rang out, and then a treat from Lottie Walker and her tribute to Marie Lloyd. What a wonderful performance.
How can I not mention the beautiful music from Annie Morris and Ian Lee-Dolphin?!
Everyone was wonderful, including Andrew Evzona (left) and Nathan Haisley
Thank you for sharing this journey with me, PL’s and to everyone who came along last night.
Welcome back to the Talk Show studio. (Audience clap ecstatically).
Our esteemed guest today is the talented and prolific poet Heather Cook (standing ovation).
(Our guest glides elegantly down the lit staircase.)
Welcome to the show, Heather, and thank you so much for coming.
Adore that crochet two-piece and platforms. (Audience cheer in agreement)
(Dobby snarls) – Now Dobby, what was that chat we had?! Be nice to our guest !!! Heather has cats herself, you know!
Why don’t you fill us in on your background, Heather
Thanks very much for inviting me, Heather.
I’m a south-east London girl and launched myself at the unsuspecting world clutching an A-level in English, a couple of Bob Dylan singles and a general belief that things would probably work out okay. I then did my best to sabotage things by making a fairly disastrous first marriage and moving down to the west country.
Realising the error of my ways at an early stage, I pulled myself together and returned to more familiar territory. I joined the Civil Service – not the Diplomatic Service, you’ll be amazed to hear, but Social Security, and put benefit claimants through their paces in several London offices.
Later I worked for Social Services, but retirement is easily my favourite occupation.
Oh mine too, hands down. A very different life now…
We really learn by these past things and they make us stronger.
When did poetry become a part of your life?
I know this is a bit of a cliché, but I honestly can’t remember a time when poetry wasn’t important to me; poetry and words.
My dear old mum loved reading almost as much as she loved William Wordsworth and John Betjeman (I don’t think it progressed beyond a respectful admiration, but she was never actually put to the test!). I can remember her reading poems to me that I didn’t understand, but I could feel the music of the words and loved it.
I’m an only child and my mother and I were alone together for much of my childhood – I’m not complaining about that, because particularly in later life I’ve realised how valuable our time together was.
What lovely cherished memories, Heather. You’ve painted a very moving picture there.
Who were your biggest influences?
I knew this would happen – I’ve wandered into answering this next question in my last reply!
I must mention my lovely English teacher who was a very positive influence on me at a time in my life when I could have slipped into all sorts of trouble. I always hated school and didn’t apply myself as I should have done until this clever woman somehow unlocked my dormant passion for words. It wasn’t quite a miracle, but it wasn’t far off.
I regularly feast now on Seamus Heaney’s wonderfully evocative poems, and those of Simon Armitage, who rather selfishly refuses to share his Poet Laureate appointment!
I am a member of the Poetry Society, but struggle with some of the poems in the Poetry Review; others are a breath of fresh air and stretch my elderly brain – in a good way. It beats trying to remember why you wandered into the kitchen!
Oh so do I. I agree with you about The Poetry Review. It’s such a beautifully presented journal too. Yes, that Armitage! Self, self, self!
Congratulations on being a joint winner in the Frosted Fire pamphlet competition. Very impressive. (Audience cheer wholeheartedly)
Tell us how Out of the Ordinary came about
Thank you so much! I’m a bit of a competition junkie and have entered lots of single poems with mixed results. This time I decided to have a go at entering a small collection.
Reviewing my folders of poems when I was wondering which to submit, I realised that many reflected the extraordinariness of ordinary life. I am fascinated by people and by my surroundings and my inspiration comes very much from my everyday experiences.
Since stepping down after 10 years of volunteering at a local Category C prison, I’ve had more time to write, so most of the poems in my pamphlet are recent pieces.
That’s just wonderful, Heather.
Now (sweeps everything off the desk. The audience gasp in anticipation) what is the best gig you’ve ever done? And the worst??
I’m very much a newbie in the world of poetry gigs, and I would like to put on record how exceptionally encouraging and supportive my poetry friends have been.
To anyone who thinks they might be entering a world of stand-offish, head-in-the clouds types, I would say that the reality is that you will be welcomed into a warm, amazingly talented and very welcoming community.
My best and worst gigs were one and the same! To almost quote from Rocky Horror, ‘it was a dark and stormy night’ when my husband, aka Poor Roger, ventured into the backstreets around Borough Market looking for a pub where I was due to read my poem, A Carer’s Prayer.
We got hopelessly lost and soaked to the skin before somehow stumbling into this wonderful old pub, packed with lovely people. A couple of large glasses of red wine later, I was unstoppable and had a great time!
Poor Roger, and You. I would have got lost round there too! I wished I’d been there. Yes, there is still a misconception about poetry readings.
Heather, you’ve been a fascinating guest, thank you so much for coming on the show and congratulations again.
(thunderous applause. Security look nervous)
(Heather ascends the stairs where Battersea Billy and Stumpy Malone are waiting for the studio Robin Reliant home)
Wasn’t Heather Cook a wonderful guest? I’m looking forward to our double act! Two Heathers! Can you imagine?!
Heather will be a featured poet at The Fiery Bird, Woking on 25th January and at Poetry Performance, Teddington on Sunday 3rd March. (Message me for details).
The Death of Pocahontas, a character from our history romanticised many times, details her demise in an alien culture and the grim surroundings of London in 1617. The reader welcomes a fresh look at this iconic figure. Old Age Becomes Him gives us a detailed account of fighting back. 
I then did my best to sabotage things by making a fairly disastrous first marriage and moving down to the west country. 
I can remember her reading poems to me that I didn’t understand, but I could feel the music of the words and loved it. 
Heather Moulson 