Virtual Silence?

Poppies

By Liz Lochhead

My father said she'd be fined

at best, jailed maybe, the lady

whose high heels shattered the silence.

I sat on his knee, we were listening

to the silence on the radio. 

My mother tutted, oh that it was terrible,

as over our air

those sharp heeltaps struck steel, rang clear

as a burst of gunfire or a laugh

through those wired up silent streets around the Cenotaph.

Respect.

Remembrance.

Surely when was all said

two minutes silence in November

wasn't much to ask for the dead?

Poppies on the mantlepiece, the photograph

of a boy in a forage cap, the polished

walnut veneer of the wireless,

the buzzing in the ears and when

the silence ended the heldfire voice

of the commentator, who was shocked,

naturally,but not

wanting to make too much of it.

Why did she do it?

Was she taken sick - but that was no

excuse on the radio it said,

couldn't you picture it?

how grown soldiers buttoned in their uniforms

keeled over, fell like flies

trying to keep up the silence.

Maybe it was looking at the khaki button eye

and the woundwire stem

of the redrag poppy

pinned in her proper lapel

that made the lady stick a bloody bunch of them

behind her ear

and clash those high heels across the square,

a dancer.

Who tells us to be silent at 11am? 

I noticed how pushy twitter became this morning. How rude is it not to observe a virtual silence? VIRTUAL SILENCE? I mean, what is that?Does it mean silence from the woodpecker clicks of the iWorld? Can we click keys whilst being silent, if I put my phone on silent?   IT did make me think of a beautiful line of poetry by Liz Lochhead though; 'listening to the silence on the radio'. The idea of the brash lady wearing the poppy behind her ear in defiance. Who instutionalises time?

I took time to think of my Nana who was buried on this day, but I didn't do it at 11am sharp.

I'll be fined at best, jailed maybe.

So take time to think of your loved ones, it doesn't have to be 11am on a Sunday because the world says so.  

I had to type this poem in myself, it is my little gift to you as it can't be found anywhere on the internet. The academic in me feels she should reference it. Showing admiration for the poet whilst doing so. I always go back to this poem especially when I am stuck. Either that or I look at my foot. 

KINSMAN. J.(ed) (1992) Six Women Poets. Frome & London: Oxford University Press.

Not So Simple Suppertime Thought.

So once again it is Friday. This day happens on a regular basis, but it is gone before you know it. I have a whole weekend ahead of me to think of poems for an assignment. I need one ripe with plenty of words, words that look good in any combination, words easy to use but rich in flavour. (Do excuse me I've been watching Nigel Slater's Simple Suppers).

Firstly, I thought about using Night Mail by WH Auden but I cannot induce doggerel, so I'll need another. DON'T EVER SUGGEST WORDSWORTH TO ME! What do we do when we are seeking inspiration and wandering the videoblogosphere? We go to the friend of the procrastinator; You Tube. You're lucky, it's not chicken olympics this time but something utterly terrifying; OLD RADIO SPEAKING!

Haunting bellowing tones. W.B Yeats' recordings incite fear at the very thought. I wouldn't sound so scary reading out a poem, but their voices bellow over vale and yonder, drenched in sadness and woe.

I can't type any more I'm trying to find videos of Nancy Mitford speaking quaintly on the eccentricities of her life. BRB etc.

And then I found William Carlos Williams

This is just to say

So I am sat here practicing modelled reading; that is to expressively read aloud. I'm using one of my own poems to practice. I am also googling red Ford Mondeos. All will become clear. It made me think though, think of all the useless things I look up on a daily basis. Aside from the Morrissey videos and make up tutorials I found myself keying the letters c-h-i-c-k-e-n-o-l-y-m-p-i-c-s. Yep, that's right. CHICKEN OLYMPICS. What an earth is going on there? Do you even want to know? (There was a slightly humorous advert with a chicken doing a triple jump.) The worst part of this is, I couldn't even find the Happy Egg Company advert where I saw it. What I did find was someone videoing chickens in a race.

 Here you are, my  pleasure etc.

Well the strange thing is, I could have thought about these chickens all day. I could have looked up breeds of chicken. I could have looked for another word to describe the chicken's feathers? pelt? who cares? How they pecked angrily around nonchalantly crossing the finishing line. Think up a half rhyme for Usian Bolt. What for exactly? I don't know but it gives me something to talk about here. So if I think of these things on average 468 times a day, what else do I do?

Eventually, I found an image of a red mondeo. It isn't even that exciting.

An Apology to the Great Red Shark

It served me well

travelled

for fifty thousand miles.

Was spacious

bright;

The Great Red Shark.

Bumper cracked,

dented

wing, but.

But I’m sorry

it just had to go.

Be replaced

with something

so cool

so old.

At the time of writing this, I was well and truly in the throes of love for William Carlos Williams. Something about tangible everyday object you say? YES please I say. When I asked @timkeypoet what his favourite poem was he told me it was 'This Is Just To Say'. It is safe to say I am now in throes of writerly admiration for Tim Key. 

Click to read the awesome 'plums' poem.

November? Movember?

Movember? NaNoWriMo? No.

A blog a day keeps the demons at bay.

It appears to me that November seems to be a month for getting things done. Is it because the evenings are getting shorter and we need more goals to get through a truly miserable month? It's not December, but it's not back-to-school September or half-term-halloween. A month sandwiched between two eventful months. 

First up; Movember. Such a pleasing idea to me. Thing is I am still too proud to show off my mustache in support of men's health. I would guys, but I need to keep hold of some kind of dignity while I can. 

Some other people use November to write a novel. So many words per day etc. Strange? I know. I just cannot entertain the idea of a plot at the moment, busy and all the other excuses you could possibly think of. I still need to flex that writing muscle before it gets weighed down in Havard referencing and objective writing. I am in no way procrastinating here. Well, I lie. I am a bit. 

 So 500 words a day. I wonder how many people that statement has already put off. To cut a long cliched story short I have decided to create a blog so it becomes #NaBloWriMo. National BLOG writing month. Here we are stuck in a dreary November and I really have nothing else better to do. 

I'VE SAID IT NOW I HAVE TO DO IT!

What is it going to be about? Well, it is already the 6th November and I've failed to come up with a unique selling point for my blog. Can't think of a witty name to join the dearth of beauty bloggers out there. So it's a LIFESTYLE blog. How ingenious? It covers most aspects. I can ramble on about books from my Manchester Shelf (yes, I've made it a proper noun because it is that good), make up, poetry, Lego or whatever takes my fancy. Lifestyle yah?

Today poetry takes my fancy. So here we are.

Those Intimate Times

There is no other mouth but yours,

Your mouth belongs to me.

I am there first thing in the morning.

Standing defiant

Awaiting your kiss,

whilst slightly obstructing your view to the mirror.

An intimate moment

when you pick me up,

I’m still tired from last night!

Your fingers,

so sleepy, so warm and so wet

grasp me tightly.

Run some water and freshen me up!

Slide a smooth paste all over my prickling bristles.

Next is my favourite part

When you open your mouth

And guide me in.

Letting me search your deepest crevices

exploring, sometimes finding new cracks.

I wrote this. It is my favourite type of poetry, well the only type of poetry. Poetry about inanimate objects; not periods and moons or wombs. When I wrote this I became obsessed with the word 'paste'. The way it whirls around the mouth before reliving the 'spitting sound' of the second syllable.

"Enough" she said "that is it until tomorrow!"