scribbles tagged ‘poetry’

let hope move on

Friday, February 14th, 2014 | tags: , ,  |

Freeway ExitThat moment, when you realise “I don’t love you any more

  • When your order a meal and he tells you, again, to be careful about your weight.
  • Walk in the rain towards a warm friendly bar and he says he wants to go home
  • The phone call to say he’s working late

A moment of a relief because of the freedom it implies. A deep seated pain because love is too wonderful a treasure to lose lightly. The desire to hold on, to try to rediscover that love is so strong that the temptation to disbelieve the moment is too often overwhelming. To hold on after love has died in the hope it will reappear in the magical way it first arrived. It can’t be gone for good, surely this is just doubt, just a moment of hurt. Surely love is still there, just hidden beneath the mundanities of everyday life, it’s head will rise again with all the joys that implies. But it doesn’t happen.

Don’t wait too long. Let go. Change direction.

 


2 bits of fabulous banter »

who’s got who?

Saturday, July 13th, 2013 | tags:  |

The lamp is besieged by agile tumbling moths

Neither can escape

 


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passed and past

Saturday, February 16th, 2013 | tags: , , , , ,  |

planted crossThe graveyard at Cemetery junction in Reading town is a ‘Garden Cemetery’, designed and planted to enable visitors to promenade.

Most weekends I’ll take a stroll around the cemetery, enjoying the natural peace and beauty and the wonderful sculptural art placed there as remembrances to people….

passed and past


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rococo hedgerow

Wednesday, February 6th, 2013 | tags: , , , ,  |

Rococo hedgerow


4 bits of fabulous banter »

broken wing

Sunday, January 27th, 2013 | tags: , , , ,  |

broken wingAs the snow recedes it reveals the debris of an unseen drama.

A perfectly formed wing, depaired from it’s partner.

Did the wearer ‘fall’ or were they pushed?

 


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steam cleaning souls

Thursday, April 26th, 2012 | tags: ,  |

Chapter House Stairs, Wells Cathedral c.1306wearing and tearing

washing and drying

sin ickle stains lifted

away in awarm steam

clearing a pathway to

purity


2 bits of fabulous banter »

source of the Tiger

Friday, March 9th, 2012 | tags: , ,  |

How did Tiger get that particular online psuedonym?

From a ‘pet’ name I gave him at high school and this William Blake poem which sings of his mysterious, creative and beautiful being


5 bits of fabulous banter »

Sea below

Monday, December 19th, 2011 | tags: , ,  |

 

 

 

 

 

BLANK PAGE


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Success (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Sunday, August 7th, 2011 | tags:  |

To laugh often and love much;
To win the respect of intelligent persons
And the affection of children;
To earn the approbation of honest critics
And to endure the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty;
To find the best in others;
To give of one’s self;
To leave the world a little better,
Whether by a healthy child,
A garden patch
Or a redeemed social condition;
To have played and laughed with enthusiasm
And sung with exultation;
To know that even one life has breathed easier
Because you have lived -
This is to have succeeded.

girls swinging-things, dancing


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raddishing

Monday, May 9th, 2011 | tags: , ,  |

Raddish Crop3 mins from garden to tummy

My first crop was crunchy-yummy!


8 bits of fabulous banter »

blood on the patio

Saturday, April 16th, 2011 | tags:  |

Fresh bloodIf anyone noticed the blood on the patio, they didn’t mention it.

Polite English society or people too busy partying to notice?

I’ll never know.


3 bits of fabulous banter »

no blog entry today*

Tuesday, April 5th, 2011 | tags: , ,  |

* you are imagining the title, the footnote and anything approximating a series of 5 previous none-entries. Please do not comment on or refer to the absence of this post in any public arenas, its existence will be denied.


3 bits of fabulous banter »

corruption

Wednesday, March 30th, 2011 | tags:  |

my SIM card is toast

my toast taste like plastic

I’m tethered to a landline while the

support agents’ holdin on, and holdin on, and holdin….

his accent is no form of English that I can understand

pass the whiskey mac…


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moving

Friday, February 25th, 2011 | tags: ,  |

bed gone

everyone

moved on

The first in a weekly series – Five-word Flash Fiction Fridays (5F)

1 wonderful musing »

counting on the waves

Friday, December 10th, 2010 | tags:  |

Kalaloch Beach filtered....

We roast on the beach, submerged in glowing inactivity

Counting the waves while I listen to your mood swell and recede

Riding the tide into the evening we reassure ourselves that

what counts most, cannot be counted


3 bits of fabulous banter »

the benefit of my advice

Wednesday, October 27th, 2010 | tags: ,  |

feeling compelled to share my experience I’ll ask

  • have you tried this…
  • do you know about that…

captive silenced female mannequin

Asking before I’ve heard all the story. Not finding out all the twists and turns in the story as the teller may find it. Not giving full space for the storyteller to explore and reflect at their own pace, in thier own perspective, which is so much more full of more relevant feeling and being.

The story may be about a problem, but the telling of the story may be all that is needed. No solution sought, just the time and empathy of the listener.

Sometimes it’s difficult to remember that even pragmatic advice may not be of real benefit, it may even detract from the real value of talking around the problem.


6 bits of fabulous banter »

mixing my imperatives

Wednesday, September 22nd, 2010 | tags: ,  |

want

before tell

ending in need


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barrel of love

Saturday, September 11th, 2010 | tags: , ,  |

Locks of love on a bridge over the SieneA bridge over the river Siene is decorated with messages of love.

Padlocks.

On the barrel of each padlock is a message of love, some in black pen, some in red varnish.

Beautiful art emerging in one place, bought by so many lovers.

It’s visual, community poetry, in action. Sculpture. Very moving


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ex terminate!

Friday, September 3rd, 2010 | tags: , , ,  |

only big trains from now onThis is the end of short trains,

they will be terminated,

only long trains from now on.

Those French are both assertive and sizist.


1 wonderful musing »

mixing drinks

Friday, August 20th, 2010 | tags: ,  |

me: your glass and my glass together make a full glass!

you: And an empty one

me: I can go to the bar with the empty glass and get a fresh pint in it

you: so you get a fresh pint and I get left with the warm mixed up 2 half pints

me: hmmmm..  probably best that you keep your current half empty glass.  I’ll drink my half then we can go our own ways


1 wonderful musing »

when normal isnt normal

Thursday, August 12th, 2010 | tags:  |

i suffer from mental health

is there something wrong with me


2 bits of fabulous banter »

indoors

Friday, August 6th, 2010 | tags:  |

I’m a one girl phobia

I’m a hidden soldier


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para graphical sentences

Tuesday, June 15th, 2010 | tags: , ,  |

when writing blog posts I sometimes find it difficult to percieve where the sentence ends and the paragraph starts

the difference between a sentence and a paragraph

its a para normal experience


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not built in a day

Monday, March 1st, 2010 | tags: , , ,  |

Home can be anywhere, anytime,
It can be in more than one place and time.  
Home is always there and never there.  
Unlike Rome my home doesnt need time to be built.
Like a shadow it follows me around.
Always welcoming,  its presence  waxes and wanes through my days.

Morcheeba sang rome wasn’t built in a day


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reading at Reading

Tuesday, January 19th, 2010 | tags: , , , ,  |

Ashley F Harrold Lesley Saunders reading her work
Ashley F Harrold and guest  Lesley Saunders reading at Reading’s poetry cafe.  

In May one of my most-favourite poets, if I am  allowed more than one favourite, Brian Patten, will be the guest.     That’s as exciting as the delivery of dry chopped wood to a house heated by a wood-burner during a cold-snap when the current supply of wood has run-out.

There appears to be an ongoing controversey about the  labelling and meaning of the sections. These sections, bits,  stages,  modes, are referred to as ‘halves’ by the young bearded Mr. Harrold.   This controversey is revisited at the begining of each cafe meeting to ensure the audience is not suprised by the unexpected onset of an interval or ‘half’.

Many locals take part in open Mic’ sections.   That’s not open micky-taking it’s open-microphone in trendy shorthand.    I’m beginning to recognise some of the open mic  regulars,   especially those who’s work I like.  

In 2004 Ashley  said:

Most of the open mic poets we have are pretty good, I think they must put something in the water in Reading as we always have a decent quality, compared with other open mics elsewhere in the country, which is heartening and inexplicable.”

Absolutely


3 bits of fabulous banter »

poetry support line

Sunday, December 27th, 2009 | tags: ,  |

I dreampt a poem, it didn’t rhyme or have rythm, it wasnt a love poem, a funny poem or an action adventure poem.   It was a short story:

A person experiencing trouble writing poetry phoned  the poetry support line.    

we offer a non judgemental listening service for poets suffering from extreme distress   Through tears  the poet  described his pain,   all the rhymes had been used before by other, better, poets.   People that heard his poetry, smirked or even  laughed at his serious poems, looked baffled by his funny poems and fell asleep during his epic adventure poems.   For months now he had been unable to show anyone his poems.   Nothing worked, he had failed as a poet.   He’d even tried Haiku. There was no point, he was going to give up.  

We are here to listen.   After a short silence the poet read the last poem he had written then described all it’s shortcomings while he shed a few tears, then thanked the listener for not criticing his poem and for not pretending that the poem was better than it actually was.   He felt better now, thankyou, goodnight.

 


1 wonderful musing »

Lifelines

Monday, December 21st, 2009 | tags: , , ,  |

Poets for Oxfam

John Hegley  delivering St. Georges day


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Blah mange

Sunday, December 20th, 2009 | tags: , , , , , , ,  |

AFHJohn Hegley

Once again Reading’s December Poet’s cafe offered the treat of  the engaging Mr. Hegley.  

Mr. Hegley manages varied and entertaining audience participation during his perfomance.  

For one poem he found a member of the audience that was prepared to nominate another member of the audience to translate a poem from French.     John would read each line and the audience member translated.   For each line John would comment on the quality of the translation.      Some of the French phrasing lent itself you English people making   translational errors.   The mistakes lead to some smile and laughter inducing imagery.    

I giggled myself off the chair on several occassions,  

Another form of participation involved the audience being given a line to sing on cue from John.   For example,   when he said ‘blah’ we had to say ‘mange’.   I do like being able to take part.

During the evening’s events I learned many things including

  • there are many, published, poets in Reading that regularly attended the poets cafe
  • John’s head moves with agility through  all sorts of angles, often quite dramatic.
  • AFH’s fingers are prone to splaying  and twirling

I wonder what bodily movement I should develop to enhance my (to-be-developed)  poem delivery talents?


2 bits of fabulous banter »

snippets

Wednesday, October 21st, 2009 | tags: , , ,  |

Wandering around the stunningly topiaried gardens of a stately seat in Kent.  There some some significant, and in significant, discoveries:

  • a pole dancing topiary bear
  • a Virgin balloon full of hot stagnent air
  • Woodwormed Jacobean panels beside a spiral stair
  • Ms Scarlet’s radical stealth mohican-style crop of not-ginger hair
  • some bushes (not Scarlet’s)

topiary-tastic


3 bits of fabulous banter »

early captive

Wednesday, August 26th, 2009 | tags: , , , , , , , ,  |

My parents took the family on a day trip to London, to the Tate gallery.   At 7 yrs I was not well equipped to appreciate the treasures on display.   Mum and Dad seemed to spend ages looking at dull boring pictures of clouds (Turner).   I asked permission to explore the galleries at my own pace and was allowed to wander off.   I walked briskly,   errr ran,  around the building capturing impressions browsing for literally seconds at vaguely interesting paintings that I’ve long since forgotten.  

Then.   I turned the corner of a gallery to be confronted by the death of Chatterton.  

His vibrant orange hair glowing,   his purple velvet breaches full of warm lively texture in the daylight.   The torn paper on the floor.   His face white as marble.   Clearly dead.   I was captivated,   I stood studying the painting for what seemed, to a 7 year old, like eons.   I fell intrigued.   Who was this beautiful man?   Why was anyone that beautiful, dead before being old and wrinkly?  

He became my first love.   He was a local Bristol boy,   I was a local Bristol girl.   Later I read Peter Ackroyd’s book ‘Chatterton’ and wondered whether his death was an accident or deliberate. I visit St. Mary’s Redcliffe  occassionally,   the place where Chatterton reportedly discovered the manuscripts on which he forged his texts.   He has remained young, beautful, and with my thoughts.  

From AElla

O! Synge untoe mie roundelaie,
O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a reynynge ryver bee;

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.


4 bits of fabulous banter »