Visit this site to watch a short video of Wirral's first Junior Poet Laureate, Holly Green, when she performed some of her own work as part of Wirral Bookfest 2008. The video includes shots of West Kirby, the beach and marina, and the venue for Holly's reading is West Kirby Library.

If you're quick, you can spot me in the audience.

http://www.wirraltv.net/wirral-bookfest-the-best-word

Ooow, what a gorgeous Autumn day it's been here! Walking along the beach without need for a jacket, enjoying the amber sunshine with my two dogs, my feet drenched from having performed an impersonation of Dr Faustus as we meandered through a glittering pool of sea water... Now that's what I call a good break from the computer!

Yesterday afternoon saw me taking part in a Poetry Marathon hosted by Central Library in Liverpool, and organised by Pauline Rowe of North End Writers as their contribution to National Poetry Day. It was a free all-day event, with a continual stream of poets (known and unknown all being treated alike) performing their work for the public.

The audience was a respectable size. People wandered in and out, of course, and the poets’ styles were as diverse as could possibly be hoped for. Everyone had been previously allocated ten minutes each, which gives some indication of the large volume of poets taking part – plus some people came along on the day and asked if they could take part, and room was made for them too.

I read three of my poems: Druid’s Journey, a philosophical piece which described the soul’s evolutionary progression through countless incarnations; Conversations With Dad, a poignant of my late father’s struggle with Alzheimer’s; and The Tale of Tristram Gnome, which I wrote when aged around seventeen, a tragic-comic adventure of a tipsy garden gnome.

I’d say the event was a great success! Here’s hoping it becomes an annual event.

The event was held in the Picton Library which, when I used to work there, used to house the Religion & Philosophy Library. Usually, when we visit places which we used to know well, they seem smaller than how we remember them. I had the opposite experience. Sitting under the familiar blue and white dome, the library seemed larger than I recalled it. It’s not important; it’s merely an example of how perceptions can’t be relied upon as accurate.

Chrysalis


fragile
like butterfly wings
scorched by too much sun

each faint gesture
slow and arduous
as if will alone
commands brittle limbs

so shrunken mow
those once-callused hands
skin taut round bone and tendon
nails like thin glass

he held my hand between his
his cool dry skin stroking mine

but his smile was warm
I knew he was chuckling silently
by the dancing light in his eyes

a light which faded as I watched
his head sinking deeper on the pillow
and planned speeches flew through the window
as time ran out

We went to visit my father on Wednesday. He was asleep when we entered his room in the nursing home, but he slowly stirred into wakefulness when he heard my mother’s voice. He’d been carefully shaved and his clothes were clean, and the bed linen looked freshly changed too. (We’d not told the nursing home we were going to visit.) He was lying on his side, curled up almost in a half-foetal position, and seemed to have a bolster cushion between his knees to ease pressure. He is extremely frail and has lost even more weight since I last saw him; even his round nose looks pointy now.

He most certainly did recognise me, and though he doesn’t seem to be able to speak anymore, his eyes – for a few minutes, at least – were aware and “with us”. I made some crack about the awful brass band music on the radio and he silently chuckled. He reached for my hand and held it between his, stroking the back of my hand with his palm. This must have been hard for him as he seems to have very little mobility even in his arms now. He tried very hard to say something – his chin lifted and his lips made speech movements but all I could hear was a short murmured whisper. So I said, “I’m sorry, Dad, I can’t hear you,” and he seemed to sink a little deeper into his pillow and looked resigned, as if that much effort had exhausted him.

Several times he awkwardly pointed to the foot of the bed. There was nothing there that I could see or sense. I talked to him for a little while – his eyes seemed to be following what I was saying, and he smiled broadly a few times, but then his eyes glazed over as if he’d “switched off” somehow, as if his psyche is now only tentatively tied to his body and drifts away then returns then drifts once more. I asked him if he wanted to sleep now and he nodded slightly, just once, before his eyes closed.

This was probably the last time I’ll see my father in this life.

I won’t pretend that it wasn’t emotionally gruelling, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Much sorrow, yes – but there was so much beauty too. And peace; the room was filled with peace.

Goodbye

The morning’s so beautiful;
Summer’s golden warmth
Envelopes this room,
And I know you’re out there
With the sunlight in your hair,
Laughing at some little thing –
I love you!
I sense the emptiness between us;
The time we spent together
Was so precious,
To me at least;
And now we travel on,
Our orbits drifting further –
I love you!
Under the same sun
But with a measureless distance
That I will not try to cross,
My own journey proceeds
With the weight of raw memory
That burns yet from your touch –
I love you!
Goodbye….

Have you ever met anyone who taught you some important things about life and living? Things which you may not have learned had you not met them? Perhaps I have been fortunate, as I can easily recall several such people who acted, knowingly or not, as living sign-posts who pointed me in useful directions at the right time.

A friend of mine once described her life as a being like a series of mini-lives linked together, rather like the segments of a chain. Her life had progressed through distinct phases, each quite different from the other. With each phase she’d learned something new before moving on. The process of change was often difficult but nonetheless valuable in itself. Always it seems that some out-grown things need to be annihilated in order to make room for something new. And we often like to hang on to that which is familiar, like a child who’s not quite ready to discard a favourite teddy bear. (And sometimes you can find yourself feeling more like the teddy bear who’s been discarded.)

Yesterday, two Mormon “missionaries” knocked on the door. Dressed in identical black suits, with a big plastic ID badge on their lapels, they looked to be not long out of school. How arrogant, I thought, to presume to preach to anyone about how to live life when they’ve hardly experienced any of it yet! What can these self-proclaimed "missionaries" possibly offer other than phrases learned from books?

If spiritual knowledge could be gained from books, then every university would be thronged with saints.

This was my overriding conclusion after having attended several seasons of lectures held by The Theosophical Society in Liverpool. Its members seemed perfectly amiable people and were most welcoming of any visitors. No-one tried to apply pressure to join or to impose their point of view, which was a pleasant change. The lectures themselves covered many aspects of Theosophy, and the speakers had clearly dedicated considerable time and energy to preparing their enjoyably scholarly talks. However, the most striking words I heard while there came from a lady who’d given a lecture on angels. She said, “I don’t know any of this; I just got it out of books.”

How rare it is to encounter someone who does not merely quote memorised phrases but who actually embodies real knowledge, who truly lives according to their philosophy. Such people have no need to quote from a book; their knowledge is embedded in their psyche; their knowledge is a vibrant part of who they are, and hence is an inseperable part of their lives. Such people need not be without flaw. (After all, who is?) But certainly I have benefitted from the privilege of spending time with several such people.

When these times, these phases, come to a close it can be difficult to accept such changes. We’ve learned so much and clamour for more; or perhaps we simply miss the enjoyment of sharing time with a similar soul – a rare enough event in itself.

But needs must. All things end, no?

Knots

The knots we created
tangle our hands;
these scissors cannot cut
without bloodshed.

Will we reach for the blades
or just stare
like hares caught in headlights,
hoping these tangled threads
may yet uncoil?


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