What's in a name?

This week's Write Poetry with Sara-Jane Arbury had three poems where the link was that each poet had used people's names in the poem.

The first exercise was to think of a person I knew in my childhood. We were asked to write a poem describing a childhood memory involving them. And to include in the poem what happened to them later in life, if we knew!

Filched 

Two cousins, each an only child;
The nearest thing to sisters.
Our annual foray into Wales
Each set of parents taking both. 

My parents took us to Borth
A seaside mobile home.
We slept in a double bed.
She turned over and I
Landed on the floor. 

Her parents took us to Cornwall
Not Wales! And stranger still
To my young mind she brought
A friend who seemed much older
Than the two years between us.
Two of us vying for the attention
Of the third. My cousin. Her friend.
Who patted a horse which bit me. 

The friend was replaced by a boy
And I was left behind.
No longer our annual shenanigans
As he became her life. 

Years passed. Her children.
My child born so much later.
Our paths diverged.
Distant friends but always cousins.
Weddings, funerals, Christmas sometimes. 

My memories are fresh as if
It happened yesterday.
But watched as her memories
Crept away until Hilary
no longer knew me.
And was no more

Artwork by Valerie Sjodin

The third exercise was to write a poem exploring the word music in your name or someone else’s.  I'm not sure I actually followed that brief.

Oh and I missed out exercise 2 altogether!

What’s in a name? 

Bernice
rhymes with furnace
the heat of which burns
within me as those
who know me well and
those who don’t
pronounce it differently. 

Bneice (buh-kneesss)
Even my Aunt
used this version when
she should have known better. 

Then there are those who
when I say my name
speak it back to me
with a different pronunciation;
As if I hardly know
the sound
of my own name.
I’ve lived with it for over 70 years. 

Berenice (Bay-ren-each-ay)
I once was called Berenice
The Headteacher spoke it out
in a whole school assembly.
Imagine the giggles - not mine!
But I’m not a Queen of Egypt
or even from an opera.
The Act 2 minuet used as
the entrance music
at my first wedding. 

Berenike
Bringer of Victory
Greek source of my name
And Nike too.
Ironic for a woman who
Barely walks, let alone runs. 

Bernice
rhymes with furnace
the heat of which burns
fiercely as mispronunciations
assail my ears.
Am I not worthy of my own name? 

It’s too late to change
to something easier like Ann.
Or would there still be a problem?
With spelling rather than saying.
With or without the E.

Thanks for being here today
Bernice
(rhymes with furnace!)

More creative writing

This week was Theme Poetry with Sara-Jane Arbury.  She always starts with a warm up exercise.

This week's idea was Litter-ature.  Sara-Jane suggested some ways we could approach this topic.  I was very taken with her comment that litter is something else before it becomes litter.  It's only litter once it leaves our hands and hits the floor and is left there.

Michael Walter on Unsplash

The Question

Why did it go wrong?
I was held upright
without thorns, bud ready.
Pinkish-red, tall, proud.
A token of love.
He held me, sniffed
my heady perfume
ready to fall to his knees
and ask his question. 

Where did it go wrong?
I was thrown to the ground.
She trod on me
twisting her foot.
No longer tall and proud
but torn apart
petals strewn across the path
As tears fell down his face. 

The theme for this online session was Sand and Peat.  Sara-Jane gave us a presentation about these and introduced us to three poems.  Then it was our turn.

Shoreline

Shape shifting
reality not CGI.
Shape shifters.
Dunes wind-blown
to angles of repose.
Miniscule crystals slide
unwillingly
transposed from height
to shore
meeting the encroaching tide.
Dragged back and forth
the grains grinding
against each other.
Eventually deposited
by the highest tide.
Dried out and wind-blown
reach the summit
to settle again in that
angle of repose.
Waiting
for the next
unwilling glide

Thanks for joining me today
Bernice

In the city

This week's Theme Poetry from Sara-Jane Arbury was based on cities. She gave us a brief history of the rise of cities.

 
Recently we have been watching Jay Blades: The Midlands Through Time which has been really interesting.  It's on Channel 5 catch up if you're interested.  I was almost tempted to use that as inspiration for the city poem but decided instead to write about commuting.

We always start this session with an unrelated piece of writing.  This was based on a poem called Vulnerable by Elma Mitchell, which starts 'Everything is ..'

In the Close 

Everything is quiet by 10pm.
The Close is almost silent.
Just one or two late arrivals home.
The teenager brought home
by his girlfriend’s mother.
No more deliveries, no Amazon Prime
or supermarkets trucks.
No phone calls. It’s impolite
to phone after ten o’clock
isn’t it?
Downstairs lights off, upstairs lights
turned off. The only lights
the moon and the street lamps
shining in the darkness.

Suburban Lives 

Short, suburban trains, stopping
at suburban stations,
wend their way to the city centre,
racing between the stops.
Hurrying people to their destination.
No eye contact made.
All looking at their phones
or studiously ignoring fellow travellers.

Rushing through the station, commuters
strangely eager to reach their desks
displaying a keenness to get the day over
when in the late afternoon, they can return
to their slower suburban lives. 

 

Thanks for joining me today
Bernice

Long Haul

Whilst back to creativity and the latest poetry zoom with Sara-Jane Arbury, I still hadn't shaken off my trip when we were asked to write a poem about the passing of time.

(c) Eva Darron  (Unsplash)

Long Haul

The seatbelt sign

flickers as all around

settle into their seats. 

The clunking sound of

metal into metal.

Searching the inflight

entertainment for something

to while away the hours. 

Various announcements. 

No smoking, no vaping, no

lying on the floor.

No children’s blow up beds.

The meal is served.  Saving the planet

with bamboo knives and forks. 

But drinks in single use plastic cups.

Darkness falls.  The lights turned low

apart from the flickering

of numerous seatback screens. 

The lady across the aisle

seems to be watching the screen

of the person sitting in front of me.

Why?

After three films I try to sleep,

jealous of those who snore, softly,

open-mouthed for hours.  I manage

twenty minutes.

I walk up one aisle and down

the other, past the sleeping beauties

and the shining screens,

shadow actors playing out

their silent scenes.

Lights, action, breakfast.

Of course it could be lunchtime.

It must be somewhere in the world.

But after seven time zones

who knows what time it is.

The cabin crew decree it’s breakfast time,

although spinach and fetta slice

doesn’t sound like breakfast to me.

Slowly the chattering of passengers rises

almost drowning out the loud

thud

that signals

wheels down.

The crew sit down, no longer moving

through the cabin.  Strapped in,

leaning back, as

the ground rushes up to meet us.

The engines howl

as they are thrust into reverse.

The plane lands awkwardly veering

slightly left and right.

Will there be enough runway?

Sighs of relief as the plane comes

to a standstill.  Seatbelt sign off.

A rush to reach bags stowed

in overhead lockers.  Why do we do that? 

It takes so long for steps

and collecting cases in baggage reclaim.

But after seventeen hours trapped

in a metal tube, we want to escape

and finally reach our destination.

Thanks for joining me today
Bernice

The Sigh

Last month's Theme Poetry session with Sara-Jane Arbury was about Heirlooms and Keepsakes.  For the warm up exercise she gave us a list of objects to choose from and write about.

I'm not going to tell you what I chose.  You'll work it out as you read, I'm sure. But the picture is not a clue!

(c) Karen Wicks

The Sigh 

 I crunched my way through the woodland
Boots crushing the brown, dried leaves,
some still frosted from the night time chill.
No other sounds. All wildlife stilled
as I, the interloper, crushed the woodland floor.
I stopped to sniff the air, the chill
fierce against my cheeks. 

The air scented with Autumn
A pyre for the end of the year.
As I walked further in,
wisps of smoke wafted past me.

A dangerous place for a bonfire!

I hurried forward uncertain of my path
and found to my surprise
as I had walked these woods so many times before
a ruined cottage. No roof.
Just walls and a chimney.
Snatches of smoke appearing
not from the chimney
but the cracked and broken window.
Brambles and nettles
growing round the door frame, in mockery
of the roses-round-the-door
chocolate box image of a country cottage.

No sleeping beauty here; I pushed through
the weeds to find the lingering remains
of a fire in the hearth.
A heap of ashes still exhaling
last breaths of smoke.
Not all was ash. A remnant remained.
A partly burnt notebook.
Cramped indecipherable writing
closely packed
filled the remains of pages.
Crinkled edges where the flames
had charred the outer margins. 

No name.
No reason
why the book was there
and burned.
But as I turned the pages
I heard a sigh.
Was it from the book
or merely the wind in the trees? 

 

Thank you to Karen Wicks for being able to use one of her prints for this post.  You can find her on IG @iacartroom or at Ghostbuildings.

Thanks for joining me today
Bernice

PS
Did you work it out?  It was 'a partly burnt notebook'.

More Poetry

For the next few weeks I'm only going to post once a week on a Saturday rather than twice a week.

In our Write Poetry zoom group Sara-Jane introduced us to poems that had strong emotions and an element of urgency.  Here are my poems from the three exercises we were given.

The persistence of why 

Why is the sky blue?
Why does the moon move
in the night sky?
Why aren’t the stars out tonight?
Why do the clouds hide the sun?
Why do I have to get up?
Why do I have to clean my teeth?
Why do I have to eat green vegetables?
Why do I need to wash?
Why do I have to go to bed
when it’s still daylight?
Why can’t I roll in the mud
like the dog does?
Why can’t I jump in the puddles
like the raindrops do?
Why can’t I swim in the sea
when the waves are high
and crashing on the beach?
Why do you always answer
‘because I said so’? 

Sometime Never

Make the time,
take the time to rest,
to dream of future hope.
Don’t say sometime I’ll take the time
to dream and rest
as sometime never comes.
Take the time to take notice
of what you’ve done,
of where you’ve grown,
of where you’ve come from,
of where you are now.
Ignore the social pressure of
‘you’re not enough’.
It’s not true.
You are enough.
You are you, in all your beauty
and your imperfection.
So, take the time, make the time
as sometime never comes.

Not Invisible

I am standing here
Can you not see me?
I am here in front of you
Surely you can see me.

I am standing here
a sixteen not an eight
Quite large really, almost plus size
not a catwalk stick insect.

I am standing here looking
at the shelves, choosing
a flavour of yoghurt
but you step between.

I am standing here.
Can you not see me?
Pushing your trolley
into me while I’m standing here.

I may not be dressed in purple
or wearing a red hat. I’m not
so old that I’ve withered
to a ghost of my former self.

I am standing here,
standing right in front of you,
surely you can see me.
I am not invisible. 

Thanks for joining me today
Bernice

Theme Poetry

Last month I joined in Sara-Jane's Theme Poetry online workshop.

The session started with Sara-Jane giving us a list of things we might write about as a warm up exercise.  I chose 'up in the air'.

The View from Above

The coloured silk had lain
on the ground, beside
the wicker basket. It too
lying on its side. 

The noise of gas burners
forcing hot air into the silk
until it ballooned aloft
dragging the basket upright.
Pegged down, the basket convulsed
trying to escape the ground.

Climbing into the basket
trepidatiously, I wondered
what possessed me to think
that this was a good idea.

Ropes and pegs released
we lifted from the ground.
Husband and young son
becoming smaller until ant-like
they lacked visual form.

The currents took the basket
almost where they willed.
Occasional bursts of noisy power
interrupted the silent sailing
through the air.

The panorama stretched before us.
The rolling hills of Warwickshire
The patchwork fields and tiny trees.
Magnificent Oaks brought low
by height and distance.

A beautiful sunlit early evening
displaying mile upon mile upon mile
of pristine English countryside.

But all good things
come to an end
and time had run out.
It was time to land.

It wasn’t a pleasant experience
landing heavily in a locked field
brought down to earth with a bump!

But all these years later
nearly 20 years
the memory lingers of seeing earth
from God’s perspective. 

The theme for the session was 'In Minature'.  Sara-Jane did a presentation about 4 aspects of miniature or small things and introduced three poems to us.  She gave us a variety of ways we might write about small things.  One of which was to write from the point of view of the small thing.  Here's mine.

Trapped

It’s so dark
I cannot see my associates.

I’m flattened, squashed
amongst the obscured leaves.

It’s lighter now.
The cover has been opened.

Paper rustles as it’s turned
bringing the light nearer.

A discarded bookmark slides in
brushing against me.

The light is getting closer.
It’s almost time for me.

The reader sighs at words' end
as I, the final full stop

bring the adventure to a close.

 
Thanks for joining me today
Bernice

 

Natural Creatures

This month's 'Write Poetry' zoom had a link with the creatures in the natural world.  Sara-Jane introduced each exercise with a 'mentor' poem.  One about fish heaven, one about a fly on a battlefield and the third a series of poems that were words-as-animals-as-words.

The first exercise was to choose an animal, insect or other creature and write about what that creature would think was heaven for them.

Rapture

No more twilight barking
Full sun
Warm on the coats
Of dogs.

Bountiful balls
To chase and retrieve.
Spherical,
Unpunctured,
Countless.

A cacophony of barks, shouting
The same joyful tune.

More balls, abounding treats,
No shortage of flavoursome food.
Unending playtime.
Unceasing sniffs.

Rolling in the sticky mud, clogging
Fur and feet.
Running in the ripples
Of the ocean.
Digging in the sand
Snout covered, sniffing the detritus
Of dead fish and seaweed.
Back fur squirming into the malodourous heap.

No humans threatening a bath.

The second poem inspiration was to look at a human event through the eyes of a creature.

The Dove

Drifting over the Mount of Olives
The dove eyed the quiet of the Garden.
Gently alighting on a branch
The dove prepared to rest.
Hidden by the foliage.

The peace disturbed
Marching, shouting
Lamps aflame.
Swords rattling.

The dove marked the moment
The man was constrained.
Peace returned to the garden
As the rabble move on
Rushing the man to judgement.

Catcalls, whistles, shouts of derision
As the man stumbled through the masses
Carrying his own device of death.

Unnoticed
The dove attracted by the possibility
Of food, followed the masses
To the hill.
But frightened by unnatural darkness
The dove remained aloft
Soaring to find another rest.

Fragments of fractured wood
Pounded into dust and mixed
With myrrh, lovingly prepared
To preserve the body.
Carried carefully by women
To the burial ground.

On her olive branch
The dove spied the women
Coming nearer to her roost.
The cries of the women
Disturbed the bird.

The dove took flight
Soaring above the empty tomb.

And lastly we were asked to write a poem using words-as-animals-as-words.  To be honest, my poem doesn't really reflect the task.  To find out the inspiration for words-as-animals-as-words look for poems by Barbara Juster Esbensen from her collection 'Words With Wrinkled Knees'.

Why butter?

Why not flutter?
Flutterby, not

 

Bouncing, flitting
Flittingby.

Kissing, caressing
Dancing along the flowers
Tasting with their feet.

A proboscis ‘straw’ to slurp
The nectar, juice or sap.

Why butter?
The gossamer winged beauty’s
Excreta resembles butter!

Thanks for joining me today
Bernice