Well, what a lucky find I had while trying to find a final poetry book for The Sealey Challenge!
Going down my bookshelf and coughing from the dust, I found Michael Parkin’s book of Louis Wain cats with some beautiful poetry. Cat lovers and otherwise would not resist the charm of this book.I remember Mum buying this for me in the early eighties and it’s been down in the vaults ever since! So it’s time it had an airing….
Here’s some extracts…
Cat in the Flowerbed
‘I’ve bided my time for many a day
And passed by many fine cats
But the finest of all, the one I love most
Is elsewhere worrying about rats’
My favourite cat too! I love the expression on this tabby’s face. Some of these pieces are credited and some are not.
Monarch of the Garden
‘I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.’
(William Cowper)
I think that’s your feelings too, Dobby.
One of my favourite images out of many, is this one of a mother giving her kitten profound advice;
‘Now, my kitten, remember these proverbs: “One swallow does not make a supper” and “A mouse in the paws is worth two in the pantry.”
What excellent advice, wouldn’t you agree, Dobby? Er – Dobby..??
I think that’s a hint to wrap it up for now, more from this beautiful book later on….
Thanks for tuning into Cat’s Hour, PL’s. We’ll be back with more poetry adventures real soon……..
Welcome back to the What I did on my holidays series.
Well, apart from the Sealey Challenge, I’ve been seeing and reviewing a lot of the Camden Fringe. Going on through the whole of August, so much talent is packed in and without the chaos of Edinburgh’s Festival, its biggest rival.
However, Camden is not without its own noise but at least you can go home afterwards!
Min Theatre’s Glad to be Dead?, on the first day of the Camden Fringe at the marvellous Hen & Chickens theatre, was haunting and atmospheric. Making me sleep with the light on! Followed by Covadonga Camblor’s Maybe I Do? – an absorbing turmoil of a young girl’s decision to marry.
The Hen & Chickens Theatre in St Paul’s Road is literally opposite the overground station. However, not all venues were so straightforward.
The beautiful Upstairs at the Gatehouse for instance, was a right old hike uphill from Highgate tube and don’t get me started on The Rosemary Branch Theatre! However we hit pay dirt with This Girl and An Evening with Gene Montague respectively. A real learning curve about the complexity of Camden’s borough! Never underestimate such a place.
On safer ground at the Hen & Chickens, I had the privilege of seeing 222 Production’s Trustfall, Lewys Holt’s Phrases, and Dave Lee Morgan’s Poems on Gender.
I returned to the Etcetera Theatre in throbbing and vibrant Camden Town and its intimate space was a great venue for Shaira Berg’s Gaslight, a very disturbing play. Followed by Heleana & Sophia Blackwell’s Wife Material at The Camden People’s Theatre. My first visit to this terrific venue, and a terrific show.
I was sad to go to my last production at the Hen & Chickens but How to be Jewish again, wittily performed and written by Gillian Fischer was a fitting end.
Thank you, Camden Fringe and Mark Aspen Reviews for making this such a great journey.
Thanks for tuning in, PL’s, and reading about my travels. We’ll be back with more poetry action real soon…..
Sorry it’s been nearly a week, I’ve been busy as a bee!
The Sealey Challenge has been one of my preoccupations. Just to refresh your memory, the plan is to read a poetry pamphlet every day for the month of August and post it on social media. And I’m nearly fresh out! August is such a long month. So it’s up the library for me.
It does not help that Dobby has gone on strike and refuses to pose with any of the books. She’s demanding more sardines – but that’s impossible, they’re bad for her tummy, and so negotiations have broke down completely.
Luckily, I had back up with Mum’s Russian dolls and the Homepride Men, but I’ve since heard that they’ve come out in sympathy and are picketing outside!
These are just some of the wonderful books I’ve been featuring and re-reading. I’ll keep you posted on my progress and that I will actually make it to the 31st!! Wish me luck.
Thanks for tuning in, PL’s. We’ll be back with more poetry adventures real soon ……..
Now, as most of us cat lovers are aware, it was International Cat’s Day on Tuesday. So clever poet and friend Trisha Broomfield has penned a wonderful tribute to these felines, especially Perry who seems to have adopted her.
Adorable cat but a mystery background. Here, Trisha sums up her feelings for Perry very well. Read on….
The cat who isn’t ours Hurries to greet us when we return home Elegantly leaps through open windows
Curls up on blankets, towels or vacated seats Any time he can, without a backward glance To him his home is here, even though it is not.
We do not feed the cat, who is not ours Honestly, maybe a small portion of turkey at Christmas Or a morsel of chicken, when we weaken.
In his mind there is no reason why he Should not be welcomed in No excuse for us not to stroke his fur, allow him To sit on our laptops, cat’s love that
Wasn’t that a wonderful piece?! Thank you so much for that, Trisha. My love to Perry… Now, who would like to write about their own cat? On a postcard please, to the usual address…
Thanks for tuning in, PL’s. We’ll be back real soon…..
So who remembers that relentless summer of ‘76?! Most of us, I bet. That three weeks in July of scalding temperatures and droughts. That picture of me above said it all!
Not being a great fan of the heat, I thought I’d buried it, but clever poet Sharon Andrews gave the most wonderful prompt this week Where had Summer gone? And 1976 came flooding back……. I remember that heatwave sloped off as quickly as it had come. I’ve tried to put this over in the piece below. Read on…..
Where Had Summer Gone?
Where had summer gone?
They asked after the relentless
heatwave of ‘76
Had it melted into badly paid
summer jobs and other heartaches?
Swallowed up by lost loves
and the Italian boys on the street?
Half lagers in the Castle pub
while sneering at punks ?
All that remained was red peeling
skin on tired shoulders
And a nagging hosepipe ban
It simply merged into an indolent
August
And crept away as fast as it came
Wasn’t that a great prompt?! Please keep them coming, Sharon. Thank you for that.
Thanks for tuning in, PL’s. We’ll be back real soon……
Today we tackle one of those seemingly mundane things in life. Yes, the shopping list! A staple in our everyday existence – but have you ever written down what you truly need?!
Have a look at this piece I’ve penned plus the tumult I suffered trying to rhyme the last line. I got a bit desperate as you will see.
Shopping List
A special thing to make you laugh
To cut your jadedness by half
You can afford to renew your humour
Avoid products containing trauma
And items that are melancholy
Simply select the brightest trolley
A juicy orange to cut in half
fresh soap to wash in the bath
Go to the section with the fresh outlook
Before you think about what to cook
Buy energy, and cross off doubt
That’s if they haven’t sold out
Confidence that you pre-ordered
(The grudge section ill-afforded)
Luxury items like poise and trust
But have that chocolate bar if you must
Your loving trolley the checkouts will scan
vibrance, patience, virtue – and spam!
I hope you liked that, PL’s. Forgive the Spam at the end but I was truly worn out at the end. Now, there’s a shopping trolley in all of us, so get writing in…..
Thanks for tuning in, Poetry Lovers, we’ll be back real soon. Don’t touch that dial!!
you heard right! We’re back in the talk show studio.
Today, our esteemed guest is that enigmatic and very talented poet Connaire Kensit! (Rapturous applause)
Now, settle down and make our guest welcome. (Connaire glides elegantly onto the talk show set).
Welcome to the show, Connaire. I’ve been looking forward to having you on for some time. Please fill us in on your background;
Connaire
Well, Heather, I had three Irish grandparents and one English granny. The family was middle class, but not rich. My mother and her mother had little education but plenty of traditional skills.
My father had studied English and French Literature at Cambridge University; he worked in education, and served in anti-aircraft gunnery during the war.
My mother also spoke French, acquired working in France as an au pair. When I was six they got my sister and me speaking French: we used it as a second language. This was my first step towards a career in linguistics. I worked on several other languages as a teenager, then at University studied Chinese with subsidiary Japanese. With each language I looked at its poetry.
My more distant Irish relatives were Christian, but I have no religion; I’m a third generation Humanist.
That’s so impressive, Connaire. A bilingual background is a real asset.
When did poetry become a part of your life?
With nursery rhymes, playground skipping songs, and then school English lessons, of course! I’m old enough for a song to be something you sing, rather than play recordings of, and as a teenager I started translating songs into English or French, from French, English or Dutch originals.
The translations were for singing to the original tune, so I had to match the original verse form. I still do verse-translations like that; the hobby came in handy when later I taught a module in literary translation.
Verse-translating is a way of producing poetry without having to think of anything to say, a bit like buying half-baked bread rolls to finish off in your oven at home. I did it long before writing any original poems of my own.
From 1972 my job included teaching linguistic science to students of literature. A convenient way of presenting linguistic concepts such as phonemes, morphemes, syntagmatic and paradigmatic relations and so forth to these students was to use examples from poems they were studying as literature.
To prepare my lessons I would analyse the structure of poems and work out how the poets must have gone about constructing them; it served as training in the poet’s craft. In 1978 it occurred to me, “I could do this myself”, and I began writing poems of my own.
1978 was a good year!
Which poem or collection is your personal favourite?
I find some poems more rewarding than some others, but which I like best varies with re-readings. I have a favourite haiku, one by Buson (Japanese,18th Century), which I translate Something stabs me: stepped on in our room, my late wife’s comb. So much implied by so few words!
Among narrative poetry collections I’m much impressed by the Lais of Marie de France (French, 12th Century). Such simple, lucid language, ideal for performance to an audience keen to know what happen next!
Among poets of our own time and place my current favourite is Wendy Cope. I love her mastery of rhythm, and her wit.
I love that amazing haiku.
What are you working on at the moment?
At any given moment I always have a bunch of unfinished poems. Some of them get finished soon, some after months or years. Can I be said to be “working on” what’s sitting in a drawer?
In 2016 we had a Putney Verse Workshop session on mnemonics (things like Thirty days hath September, April, June and November . . . ). I thought of writing one for remembering the names and order of geological periods—Cambrian, Carboniferous, Permian, Cretaceous and so on. I started on this but it began to grow into a lengthy epic on Earth History. I’ve done a few dozen lines and got as far as the Ediacaran era (just before the Cambrian). But new discoveries in earth sciences are coming thick and fast, so I’ll need to update my knowledge before continuing.
If I ever get it finished it will be several thousand lines long. It could be useful for geology students.
We’ll be fascinated to see the result. What’s the best reading you’ve done and the worst?
By “reading” I take it you mean public performance of poetry? In the past ten years I’ve been consciously working at improving at this, so logically my best performance should be my most recent, which has also been my most carefully prepared, and for which I had expert guidance from Ken Mason and Anne Warrington; that is my small part in the Cry Freedom show at Hampton Hill on June 4th this year.
My worst was probably in extracts from Hamlet in a school English lesson around 1955. This was before I learned to understand Shakespearean English, and one can’t perform well what one can’t understand.
That is so true, Connaire, but still we do it. Yes, your performance in Cry Freedom was stunning. You should be proud of that.
Well, thank you for coming on the show, Connaire and giving us such an insight to your life and work
(Rapturous applause as Connaire leaves the building).
Wasn’t Connaire a terrific guest, Poetry Lovers?!
Thank you so much for coming to the studio. We’ll be back with more poetry antics real soon
Now as we know by my most recent broken Handbag post, the loss of a much trusted item takes time to get over. However, we never think of the injured party’s side of things, and clever poet Sharron Green has given us the bag’s version of events. A very poignant view.
Wonderful piece, thank you Sharron. Do read on….
Emotional Baggage
I’m sorry dear Heather,
that I’ve let you down.
I love that you took me
on trips into town.
At poetry gatherings
we were a great pair,
I held you together,
and now I’m not there.
I was in charge of
your bits and your bobs,
your lippy and fags,
your hankies for sobs
your cardie on cool days
your brolly for rain
gloves in the winter
it was quite a strain.
And that’s why my handles
could handle no more –
you’re lucky they didn’t
give up long before.
But now’s not the time
for me to let rip,
we need time to mend,
or at least get a grip.
I’m hoping you have
a replacement for me,
a glance in your cupboard,
reveals two or three.
But one thing I’ll say
now that I’m not in tow
is thanks for the mem’ries
and on with the show!
@rhymes_n_roses
Wasn’t that wonderful?! So witty and astute. Thanks again, Sharron for such a well written piece.
Thanks for tuning in, PL’s. We’ll be back with more poetry adventures real soon….
Well, that talented poet Sue Burge came up with yet another extraordinary keyword in her weekly mind gym, a mythical pet named with the initial K.
I didn’t need to think twice about that staple childhood cover star of the Dandy. Not that I would have had Korky as a pet, more of a mate really. Second to Beryl the Peril who I longed to play with after school. Korky had a cunning yet very tender side…
Anyway, I’ve jotted down some thoughts, do read on….
Korky the Cat
Oh Korky the Cat
Behaving like the worst type
Of human being
Your round green eyes and flicked up tail,
inked so splendidly in feline glory
on the Dandy front cover
Spoke volumes every Thursday morning
Raising the day to a new level
No one could smoke cigars
And steal chickens the way you did
I never once questioned why you didn’t purr
Nor tolerated strokes behind the ears
And not got taken to the vets
H M 2023
Well, thank you Ms Burge for taking me down that inked comic route. Poor Korky got dropped from a great height in 1984 from The Dandy front cover before the comic itself shuffled off on 4th December 2012.
Thanks for tuning in, PL’s. Let me know who your favourite comic character was……
Yes, you heard right, Friday night was a triumph for The Booming Lovelies at The Guildford Fringe.
Upstairs at the beautiful Keep pub in an inhumane temperature, we embraced an audience of 17. Far more than we anticipated.
After a stiff gin and tonic downstairs, 40 fags and two bathroom visits I made my way upstairs in apprehension at what the coming night would bring.
The colourful Trisha and Sharron and I clung together that vital hour before. There was however nothing to worry about it seemed, as once that magic 8 pm came, the words and emotions seemed to flow. However, I forgot my words on at least two of the pieces. Bore!
Trisha started with Cold Soup & the Joy of Sex, I followed with Beryl the Peril, and Sharron read about her home town The Tree-Lined Village Square. We knew then that we were on an even path (kind of).
So 50 minutes later, or thereabouts, we finished in a haze of glowing perspiration, all three of us reading A Certain Age.
As if it wasn’t bliss enough, I could also do sketching while the others read. This is how I perceived the audience;
Not quite sure how a skinhead got in there but he’s probably an arty one. We look forward to our next gig at the Slaggs Fringe shortly. I’m the one leaning on the bar.
Seriously, thank you so much Booming Lovelies for this amazing opportunity.
Thanks for tuning in, PL’s. Off to Scarborough for a week, then back with more poetry action