Poetry Thursday 67- Spirited

 A bit of an epic read this week. Brush up on your Mackem and read aloud. It is a different, colder view than Dickens intended. 

Spirited

 

The room was a massive space,

sparsely decorated with an ornamental tree,

next to it a huge armchair,

in it the queerest shadow I’ll ever see,

with indeterminate and changing shape.

 

Ye’re the oddest shape I’ve ivver seen,

what are yer, where’ve yer been?

The accumulation of over seventy Christmases,

(heard as if in a dream),

all of them belong to you.

 

And what are yer after bonny lad,

a worse misnomer was nivver used.

To take you back to when you were bad,

and show the errors of your ways.

 

It’s aa’reet am not that bothered,

ahd rather gan back ter sleep.

 

Not your choice young man,

then he showed pictures of my Christmas sins,

not all seventy three,

just those poor examples of me being me.

 

You want to go back to restful sleep,

nightmares from that tale, awake will keep.

 

And the prophesy of the shapeless shade,

was quite correct for I tossed and turned,

as in bed I laid,

until further disturbed by a crying babe.

 

The room with the tree had an uncertain light,

that as time went on seemed more steady 

and bright,

the babe now a strident, belligerent toddler,

fixed on me a youthful glare.

 

How today goes is up to you,

but may be influenced by this view,

It’s a’reet am not that bothered,

ahd rather gan back ter sleep.

 

Not an option – from the young man

with a fixed glare on my face.

How’s tha gettin ahd so quick?

Yer were nowt bura bairn ten minutes ago.

 

‘Watch folk enjoying the day,

think on the sagacity of changing your way,

my time is short and the next may not be as

kind.’

 

The next?

Will tha not give ower and lerus get some sleep man?

 

Careful, returned the old man,

with the sunken eyes,

panting for breath. 

 

The room darkened,

the tree looked black,

the chair was empty,

I was shiverin’ with the cauld.

 

We’s there? I muttered,

ower scared to taak ower loud,

knain’ a wes bein’ watched or summat,

peerin’ into the void like cloud,

that’s worra thowt it wes.

 

Then the pictures started,

as gaps in the voluminous cloud parted,

then resealed like wounds

that were magically healed.

 

The scenes that appeared chilled the blood,

never intended to do the watcher good,

rather to slice into a stubborn mindset,

from a being invisible as yet.

 

Cold, dank, miserable scenarios,

avarice, meanness, loneliness,

and finally dark lonely demise,

flashed before the eyes.

 

Enuff! Stop it!

I get the message.

Then everything was still.

 

Aal hat te stop eatin’ cheese for me supper.

Still, I should invite the neighbours fora cuppa.

© David L Atkinson November 2024

God Bless 

Writing - Judge Jury etc

Something I am not very good at is accepting others' judgments. I've had some wonderful comments from lovely people who have displayed great kindness or at least caring sensitivity. Writing is a personally revealing process. On the other hand, there have been negative and destructive comments on odd occasions that I'm sure weren't intended personally, or at least reportedly so, but cut to the quick. Constructive criticism has been very helpful for which I am thankful. 

'kitchen table stories' 

An American fellow writer suggested that my stories were like hearing a tale told across the kitchen table. I like the suggestion that they were relatable in an informal way - I never intended that they were classics but rather entertaining. 

One of the ways to regard judgments of your work is to consider from whom the criticism is coming. How are they qualified? From what experiential level are they coming? More bluntly, what is their aim? Rather a defensive viewpoint, but if you consider that it is just a part of the human condition you will get passed the emotional response to being judged and either consider the words or simply ignore them. 

The bottom line is to accept that to avoid being the subject of another person's hang-ups, opinions and biases you have to stop putting your work out there. But, if you enjoy the process, don't give too much credit to the judgment of others. 

God Bless 

Poetry Thursday 66 - Mackem and me

 The offering is a mixture but as has been said in the past 'its all about me' 

Out of Sorts

 

What’s the matter pet?

Tha disint look ower grand,

a face like a hen’s backside on a windy day,

summat happened that wasn’t planned?

 

What’s the matter pet?

yer look out of sorts,

lost a pund and fund sixpence,

try to shake off negative thoughts.

 

What’s the matter pet?

Yer could trip ower that bottom lip,

thes plenty mair pebbles on the beach,

chin up, get a grip. 

© David L Atkinson November 2024

What did I do?

 

Apparently, there can be nothing worse,

bad enough to induce a curse,

than for all publishers in the universe,

to not consider Atkinson’s lyrical verse.

 

Crossed the path of a black cat,

maybe something even worse than that,

but whatever, published is not where it's at,

for the work created in my flat.

 

So using my self-reliance,

against publishers with defiance,

publishing’s no mystical science,

three books have made an Amazon appearance.  

© David L Atkinson November 2024

God Bless 

Writing - Extra mile

 Writing stories is a method of affecting the imaginations of those who read your work. Included in the strategies available to you is the ability to generate pictures in the minds' of readers. A freedom you have is to be as extreme as you wish in that description. I have referenced a couple of masters of descriptive scenes in past blogs but found an intense description from Dickens that is worth repeating. 

'It was a great surprise to Scrooge, while listening to the moaning of the wind, and thinking what a solemn thing it was to move on through the lonely darkness over an unknown abyss, whose depths were secrets as profound as Death;' 

This short passage from 'A Christmas Carol' is from part of the journey with the third spirit of the future and on the sea. The italicised section is the sea and it would probably not be wise to consider its meaning while on a cruise. 

It is not suggested that you use such obscure ideas at every page turn but it could be something generated in particularly dramatic sections of your writing. As an exercise choose subjects, consider the nature and describe using mystical or profound language. 

God Bless 

Poetry Thursday 65 - Fallen

 It is the time of year that we remember those who have died as a result of war. Particularly, poignant this year with what is happening in the Middle East and Ukraine. 

The Fallen

 

The perpetual warrior but never his fault,

he was there cos’ he needed work,

took the King's shilling for a pinch of salt,

became the pawn of any artful jerk.

 

As required he delivered and died,

he battled and fought as was commanded,

but no matter how hard he fought and strived,

the soldier's precious life sadly ended.

 

So we gather to show final respect,

and give thanks for their curtailed living, 

hoping the belated feelings reflect,

appropriate depth for their dying.

 

We should try our best every November,

To give a gift selflessly - and remember.

© David L Atkinson November 2024 

God Bless 

Writing - Interpretation

 The time of year for self-indulgence has already begun for me. I have bought and wrapped some Christmas presents, accepted a Christmas invitation and started reading A Christmas Carol. The last item is an oft-repeated activity at this time of year. I was inspired to write about Interpretation by a song and a conversation with my daughter. 

To begin with, it must be said that I have seen several versions of Dickens' great work ranging from cartoons, to Alistair Sims, to modern versions (eg. Scrooged) and even an American Ebenezer. Each presentation has its own interpretation and I wonder which the author would have preferred? Whichever, without the almost 200 year old story there would be no interpretation. 

The issue of interpretation is particularly important in poetry and art. In fact, it could be argued that the subject of Literature is almost exclusively founded upon interpretation and as such is subject to personal taste. I once argued up a grade from C- to B, on that premise. In producing art/literature it is necessary to accept that others will take your work and put on their own spin. It takes a mind that steps outside the box to produce work which is enigmatic, but to make interpretations you need to step away from norms and accept there are different ways of understanding meanings. 

What was Banksy saying when he had 'The Girl with the Balloon' start shredding itself the moment it was sold?

I have written hundreds of poems on a myriad of subjects and a plethora of styles, but very few I would describe as beautiful. An acquaintance used that very word last week. 

The song that spawned this piece was Blackbird by The Beatles, and I leave you with some lyrics, 

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly

Blackbird fly

Into the light of a dark, black night 

God Bless 

Thursday Poetry 64 - For Football Fans

 A chunk of history that continues to develop today but not necessarily in the direction that one would expect or want. 

Roker Park 

For Football Fans

 

'Possess yer soul in patience lad',

me mam was getting fed up,

I’ d been worked up for two years,

‘Get ready’, music to the youthful ears.

 

Like a religion for me dad,

part of life’s simple rich routine,

havin worked hard all week,

nee great reward for ordinary men to seek.

 

At last judged a big enough lad,

today the day when I could gan wi’im,

a pilgrimage across toon ter Roker Park,

to the magical stage where The Lads lark.

 

Even the bus ride - great wi’ me dad,

the 103 thundered into Park Lane,

and then would begin the rapid lang walk,

passed Saturday shoppers with their excited talk.

 

‘Can yer slow down a bit Dad,’

a mantra repeated a hundred times,

as he strode on towards our ultimate goal,

driven by the need to escape king coal.

 

‘Are they all gannin ter the match Dad?’

of men in flat caps waakin’ the same way,

we have to gan early to get yer a spot,

so yer can see iv'ry brilliant pass and shot.

 

A’ve nivver seen so many people dad,

thousands comin’ t’gether to watch the play,

and only a couple a bob to get in the ground,

‘just wait till yer hear the cheering sound.’

 

It’s called the Roker Roar lad,

yer’ll understand why very soon son,

the red and white clad warriors take the stage,

the uncorked sound burst like a demented rage.

 

Haway its time to gan yem lad,

but there’s still ten minutes to gan,

we can catch the Economic ter Park Lane son,

that saved me legs from another lang run.

 

Sit down and eat yer tea bonny lad,

pie and peas ter replenish energy debt,

but nowt can detract from match day,

even intervening years that’ve gone away.

  

Nowadays it’d be hard to fathom dad,

all the money, celebrity and drama,

nee longer a community relievin’ recreation,

but sadly a rapaciously fiscal operation.

©David L Atkinson October 2024 

God Bless