The Pages by Kristina Meredith

The Pages

A Willing Santa’s Helper…

November/December 2008

Issue 3

The Pages

Editorial 5 An Apology... and a Chance to read ‘Chance’ in full.

Submissions 6 Guidelines

Articles 15 The garden at little oak: 2 7 The Christmas Spirit 11 Travel Article – The Virgin of Yemanja

Fiction 8 Flash Fiction - Santa’s Sweatshop 23 Short Story - Grounded

Poetry 9 Muse Storm Brewing 10 The Christmas Tree fairy Next to the Turkey 13 ...More Poetry 22 New Year’s Resolutions for the Twenty-First Century 24 Newborn New Year’s Eve

And… 28 The Diary of a Would-Be-Protagonist cont.

Contents

The Pages

Contributors

Marit (aka Anna Reiers) was born and brought up in Norway, but settled in South Wales,UK in 1972. Married, with 6 daughters and an ever-increasing number of grandchildren, she’s kept very busy on the family front - but makes time for writing. She’s had comments, articles, poems, true-life stories and short stories published, as well as having work in anthologies published in aid of charities. Marit has just completed her first novel, and is still stunned by the fact that she managed to do so - after several attempts where she ‘dried up’ two thirds of the way in. It is being published through YouWriteOn/Legend Press. Visit her website and check out The Challenge. www.freewebs.com/annareiers/

Kristina Meredith (Stina) was born and brought up in sunny South Wales, to a Norwegian mother and Welsh father. A brief interlude to London to study fashion, didn’t quell the cravings for the green, green grass of… well, Valley’s or fjords - it just added to her identity crisis. Now a mother to a very lively and curious 14 month old boy, life keeps her very busy. Design has taken firmly to the backseat, leaving her time to pursue her ambition to write. The Apprentice Writer was set up by Kristina and Marit, in order to interact with likeminded souls, and to help Kristina as she pursues her writing ambition.

Albert Oxford was born in the UK at Epsom, Surrey and still resides there. His work focuses primarily on the emotions generated by human relationships, but frequently includes references to the chalk hills and beech woods of the locality in which he grew up and which has given him his enduring love of the natural world. alex.oxford@ntlworld.com

Paola Fornari was born on an island in Lake Victoria, and was brought up in Tanzania. Having lived in almost a dozen countries over three continents, she speaks five and half languages, describing herself as an ‘expatriate sin patria’ She explains her itinerant life by saying: ‘Some lead; others follow.’ She recently took up writing, and her articles have featured in diverse publications. Wherever she goes, she makes it her business to get involved in local activities, explore, and learn the language, making each new destination a real home. She lived in Montevideo between 2004 and 2008, but is in the process of relocating to Belgium. http://www.writelink.co.uk/blogs/Chausiku/

Paul Burton was born in Manchester. He is a 35 year old Economics postgraduate from Manchester University, living in Cheshire. He works as a commissioning officer in local government by day but still finds time to relax by writing at night, often until the wee small hours! He started writing poetry in his teens and has honed his skills via a short course with the Writers Bureau. Besides writing, his diverse interests include playing tournament Scrabble, reading widely (both fiction and non-fiction), films, music and the occasional pub quiz. He has had several poems published in anthologies and on Writelink, a web-based writing community.

Rosa Johnson was born in Hampshire. She taught agriculture and animal husbandry. She is married to a horticulturist and has two grown up children. Writing has been a hobby since she was in her teens. She wrote (writes) short plays, dialogues and character studies for children. Short stories, articles and several attempts at novels came much later. Keen sportswoman until her spine rebelled; she was forced to adopt a more sedentary way of life when surgery failed in 1986. Rosa must now be content to follow international tennis, rugby and cricket on the radio. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a dabbler and will have a go at anything. Sewing, bonzai-ing, decorating, art and crafts, acting, writing. Anything but singing! Her ambition is one day to find that she can excel at something.

Sarah James is an Oxford University modern languages graduate and former newspaper journalist. The prize-winning poet and fiction writer has been widely published in literary magazines and newspapers including Orbis, Raw Edge, the Guardian online and Poetry Nottingham (forthcoming). She also has poems/short stories in Leaf Books, Legend Press, Earlyworks and Second Light Publications' anthologies. The 33 year old currently lives in Worcestershire, England, with her husband and two young children. When she's not reading or writing, she's most likely to be found helping at her older son's school, chasing his brother round the park, frightening other swimmers with her mad sprints up and down the pool or doing the most uncoordinated belly dancing you've ever seen! Her website is at http://sarah-james.co.uk .

Marie Fullerton Barrett is a freelance writer, illustrator and poet. Originally from 1066 country, Hastings (UK) she now lives in the Portsmouth area with partner Harry. As well as bringing up eight children and looking after countless others as a childminder, Marieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s worked in a boarding school for children that had behavioural and learning difficulties encouraged her to develop her writing for classroom use. She has also produced and edited school magazines and newsletters and continues to write worksheets for colleagues at a further education college. Marie has written since she was a child and at the age of 51 she achieved a 2.1, BA Hons in English that included creative writing in order to enhance her writing skills further. She is also still involved with critiquing, proofreading and work-shopping for creative writing colleagues at the University and illustrates for other writers in her spare time.

The Pages

Editorial

Our sincere apologies to Albert Oxford whose poem ‘Chance’ was published in Issue 1 of The Pages. We inadvertently missed out the first - and very important scenesetting verse – and as well as here, it is reproduced on www.freewebs.com/theapprenticewriter/ , in its entirety.

Chance Do you recall how she held his hand? Her smile, her laugh, the sunlight on her hair? Of course you do for we were together then, in love, and there. We knew the joy they knew, we saw that glance: The look that only lovers share, Which speaks of tenderness and care; Decreed by fate, you said, while I claimed chance. Yes, they were a pair and we were a pair; I know you recall, for we were together then, in love, and there. We saw them watching us and smiling too Because of the shared delights we all four knew; Because of the way their eyes vowed love was true Which mirrored that same joy in me and you. It seemed, you said, that it was destined from the start, How a pulse would race for the beat of another’s heart. Our midwinter breath formed clouds of laughter in the air: I’m sure you recall, for we were together then, in love, and there. At the road’s edge they paused as we drew near, Her eyes, still fixed on his, were bright and clear. We later said, though we could say no more, How close we were, what happened, what we heard and saw. The sun-glint on the icy road, that’s sure; her laugh, The car that skidded sideways on the path. Four seconds maybe, though each one seemed long, A hand’s-grip lost, a cry and she was gone. Do you recall her last-breath’s vapour hanging in the air, Close to the ground, thinning, unaware As though it held some pale regret, some morsel of despair? Yes, of course you do for we were together then, in love, and there. His face was blank with disbelief and woe, He stared at his empty hand that felt her go. Perhaps the driver’s eyes met hers, just for a fleeting moment at the end, But chance has neither enemy nor friend. So carelessly, impartially and brief, It dealt a random card whose name was grief. And how you clung to me and how you wept. Do you recall how you could not accept A life erased; such cruel finality That could have just as well been you or me. Even now, though our paths are far apart I’m sure that fear still lingers in your heart And sometimes, when your breath forms clouds in air I know you recall, for we were together then, in love, and there. © Albert Oxford

The Pages

Editorial Cont.

We’ve got more apologies. This issue is about a month later than planned, but we didn’t anticipate that both our laptops would break – one accidentally, and the other one (mine) probably due to wear and tear. I returned from hospital, eager to get back to writing, only to find a black screen. A lot of tugging of hair and scratching of heads ensued (our own, not one another’s) – but we’re happy to report that we’re both back by our respective, new laptops. Thank you to my girls for my early Christmas present! The results of the photo story/poem competitions will be announced in the next issue and again our apologies for the delay. Our judge was involved in an accident, and although not physically injured, we felt that she needed time to recover. So you’re still in with a chance of the winning spot. As announced in the last issue, we’re running a ‘Stories for Advent’ slot on The Apprentice Writer site and we’d like to thank our contributor Rosa Johnson for stepping into the breech when submissions were thin on the ground. Rosa, you’re our star! There’s still time to join in with a story or two, though – or even a poem. You’ve got till the 24th. We hope you enjoy our little Christmas offering – and thank you to all of you who have contributed this time. A special thank you to Santa’s Helper (and his mum and dad!) for allowing us to use his photo for our cover.

Marit and Kristina

Submission Guidelines In each issue we aim to publish at least two poems, two short stories, an essay or open article, an article on the Writing Life – from any angle – a travel article and a piece of Flash Fiction (up to 500 words), minimum. An opinion piece (or call it a ‘rant’) would be good, too – and we’d like to see book reviews and extracts. Humour is always welcome. If you have an idea for a series for future issues, we would welcome suggestions – and we would also like to see some illustrations. In short, we’ll consider all suggestions and contributions that come our way. We cannot offer payment as of yet, but aim to do so in the future, depending on incoming revenue. 6

The Pages

Article

The Christmas Spirit What is it about Christmas that gives us that feel good factor? The atmosphere changes and that special kind of magic fills our thoughts. It is a time of celebration and feasting, of gathering the family together and maybe taking time to play the games we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t during the rest of the year. Maybe we remember people from times that have slipped past in our lives. But it isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t only people that we remember. Christmas is also a time that we tend to get in touch with feelings that have been stored along with the decorations. Nostalgia is high, along with our expectations, and to make each Festive Season special we often seek to recreate the Christmases of long ago. Where does it come from? Christmas celebrations I mean. We are all familiar with the Bible story of the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem, but the actual celebrations, and the reasons for them, have changed over the years. Today many people have moved away from religion, yet still celebrate Christmas. Somewhere deep in our genetic blueprint I believe it is a memory from down the ages, from a time when man fought to survive and feed their families, that compels us to give thanks for the world around us and remember something from a more basic time in our long past human history. Before the days of Christianity, people held great feasts in mid winter in order to appease the Gods to make sure the Sun would rise high in the sky bringing warmth and light to the earth again. Long before time was recorded there is evidence of the Winter Solstice being a time to celebrate the lengthening of the days and a time when crops and plants will begin to re-grow as the days become longer and warmer. The proof comes from dark monuments like the 2. Passage Tombs in Ireland, that were built over five thousand years ago, where the only time the sun enters to light the darkness is at exactly the moment of dawn on December 21st, no light would enter the tomb at any other time. After the long, cold winter months, the return of the sun at the Winter Solstice and the promise of the warmth that will give strength to budding life was a reason to be celebrated across the world. Native tribes like the Hopi Indians or Ancient Aborigines, who had no elaborate instruments to calculate the solstice, would notice a slight elevation in the path of the sun. Having had to survive on stored food and whatever they might catch it became the focal point for feasting and dancing to celebrate the beginning of a time for things to re-grow, the time of new life and rebirth. The timing of this celebration is significant because as the days begin to grow longer it also reminded people that there was no death and that life continues in a cycle. This celebration has always been honoured at the Winter Solstice which is on December 21st/ 22nd. This is around the time also chosen to celebrate the birth of Christ, not that it was his birth date but that the message of new life and rebirth that was already celebrated seemed to fit the Christian message. In Northern Europe Yuletide was celebrated with feasting and singing and a Yule log was burned on the fire throughout the festival. In Rome, Saturnalia, which fell at the Winter Solstice, meant that slaves and masters swapped places. Homes were decorated with evergreens and gifts were given. Merry making and disrule was the order of the day.

Then, when the Christian Church took over it announced the twelve days from the Nativity to Epiphany would be held sacred and festive but many of the pagan customs were adopted and adapted to make Christmas a time of celebration, thanks giving, dancing and gambling. However, it was in the late sixteenth century that the Puritans banned Christmas altogether because, 'More mischief is that time committed than in all the year besides ... What dicing and carding, what eating and drinking, what banqueting and feasting is then used ... to the great dishonour of God and the impoverishing of the realm.' 1 The view was that Christmas was just an excuse for excessive drinking, eating and gambling, not to mention a general bad behaviour. So in 1644 an Act of Parliament banned the celebration much to the people’s disgust. Many continued to celebrate in a more restrained way in the privacy of their homes. But it was the Restoration of the Monarchy that restored the celebrations, however, it was many years until the festivities began to recover and by then the merry making of Medieval Times had become just a nostalgic memory. The influence of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert in the 1880’s was great and the Christmas tree, hung with bright baubles and small wrapped sweets became an important part of Victorian Christmas. Cards were sent and the ‘arrival’ of Father Christmas and games made it a time for children. Because Victorian Britain was a time of great poverty Christmas also became a great time of charity. Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and Oliver Twist depicts those times perfectly and his books in particular are great reminders of Victorian Britain. Today, the traditions from all over the world have come together and once again Christmas is a lively celebration. The only thing that threatens to mar our celebrations is commercialism but even that has had the effect of giving meaning to nostalgic memories and our deep rooted traditions. The carols and songs we sing help us to re connect and reaffirm our beliefs and, from a wider perspective, Christmas brings up in us a deep feeling of happiness, and peace. For those that are not religious the feasting and celebrating of Christmas becomes a reminder that no matter what we believe we are celebrating to give thanks, to share and honour friendships, give gifts, end feuds and just share in the peace and joy of a united nostalgic memory. So maybe it is a genetic blueprint that we all have from ancient times that reminds us that December is a time in the year when the winter is beginning to come to an end and the world will be reborn, the reminder that life doesn’t end but continues in an endless cycle. So whether pagan or religious is it captured in man’s nature to be thankful for the reassurance of life eternal? Whether we believe in Christmas, the Winter Solstice or just like the excuse to celebrate, this time of year is a great reason to give thanks and share in the joy of the new life, a great time to reflect and to think of others, and a great time of nostalgia that encourages us to share that peace, goodwill and happiness. The true Spirit of Christmas. 1.

Philip Stubbes, in the late 16th century

http://www.heritageireland.ie/

The Pages Muse Yours was a place where people were whilst mine was an island where wreckage squandered, a solitary beach before your waves crashed tsunami-like, bathing me in your creative juices. A heady cocktail, fusing rhythm and light but the melody eluded me, fleeting glimpses of a nether world drowned out by white noise. ÂŠPaul Burton September 2008

Storm Brewing Forecasters warned a month's rain would fall in one day, urged we wrap walls around us. But it was the wetness blanketing the house which created warmth inside that would otherwise have passed unnoticed. Roads became fords unmapped with rivers or streams. Drains were fountains.

There was a strange beauty in the danger; its unstoppable nature insinuating submission, leaving us subdued but still breathing, unbroken, yet... ÂŠSarah James, aka Sarah Leavesley

Poetry

The Pages

Poetry cont.

The Christmas Tree Fairy. I'm the fairy on the Christmas tree, the object of a jest because I'm old and feel the cold, I need to wear a vest. This fairy once was fair of face her figure neat and trim, her hair was sleek and silky, her legs were nicely slim. Her wings have started withering she no longer sings in tune her crown is very crumpled, her complexion's like a prune. The roses in her dimpled cheeks have, alas, begun to fade, her sparkle and her bubble's gone like last nights lemonade. Can anybody tell me Is there a Welfare state For dilapidated fairies Who are past their sell-by date? ©Rosa Johnson

Next to the Turkey 'Twas the night before Christmas and quiet in the house When right next to the turkey, we spied a big mouse! Its whiskers were twitching and tail curled with care: It was almost like someone had placed it right there. I imagined the in-laws sat shaking their heads: There was certainly no way we'd sleep in our beds. Now John went to catch it with such a big clatter. “There'll be more,” I said firmly. “This one doesn't matter.” I swear then he stopped, and turned pale as the snow. While he ran up to phone, I just waited below. With my suitcase in hand, I tried hard not to whistle cos that Christmas, at last, we were off to the Thistle. ©Sarah James (real name Sarah leavesley)

The Pages

Travel Article

First published in ‘The Oldie’ expat column March 2007

The Virgin of Yemanja Today, 2 February, is the feast of the Yemanjà: the patron of fishermen. I stroll down to the Rio de la Plata before sunset to see what it’s all about. The beach is almost deserted. On the shore is an exquisite cardboard boat, decorated with tinsel and flowers. Watermelons are strewn everywhere. A group of about half a dozen people, dressed in long white robes, are carrying a big cardboard boat down the steps. In front of the Casino Hotel, a few white-clad people are building a sand altar. I wander towards them, nearly tripping over a bloody headless chicken. A blue-haired girl is lining each side of a path from the altar to the sea with alternating candles and flowers. "Señora," I say, "Could you tell me about this feast? I'm a foreigner.” "We're preparing for the Virgen de la Yemanjà. She’ll be here soon". "The Virgen? She's coming?" "Yes, but the bus must have got delayed . Here, take this card." The Virgen's business card? "La May Adelcia", it says, under a faded 60s photo of a smiling buxom young woman. I approach a couple. Maybe they can enlighten me. I show them the card. "Ah, the May", they say. "That's a woman priest. She’s the Virgen's representative." “What about the watermelons? And the chicken?” “Oh, those are sacrifices to the Virgen , the Goddess of fishermen, to thank her for last year’s blessings, and pray for protection next year. They send jewellery, perfume, and flowers out in the boats. If the gifts sink, the Virgen has blessed them; if they come to shore, she has rejected them. They will party until dawn.” “Is it a sect?” “More a religion. Its origins are Yoruba. The slaves brought it to Brazil, but it’s become very big in Uruguay now.”

The beach is filling up. Each group has a maté, the calabash which Uruguayans carry around, containing a strong type of tea, sipped through a silver straw. I look at the sand altar. There is some activity now. It’s almost eight. In the centre of a group an elderly woman wearing a long pink satin dress and a rich brocade beige shawl, surrounded by white-clad acolytes. I recognize her as an aged May Adelcia from the card. On the altar stands a statue of the Virgen, decked with bead necklaces, wearing a blue satin dress and a brocade cape. In front of the altar is a large plastic inflated dinghy. People are queuing up to lay gifts inside. I can't distinguish between participants and onlookers. The May gives a signal, and she and her assistants walk down the path to the river shore, chanting softly, arms raised high. Suddenly there is a loud hacking noise. The May is laughing - a strange, guttural croak. They walk backwards to the altar, except for one young man who prostrates himself in the water. The crowd is thick now. It’s cold and eerie. The May and her followers are chanting and shuffling. The May is pouring Fanta onto the statue’s expensive-looking clothes. I decide to get some sleep, go home, and set my alarm for five. As I drive out, dawn is just breaking. The May and her followers are in the dinghy, their arms raised to the sky, with the Virgen, in the Rio. The beach is packed now, a frenzy of chant and dancing. Empty bottles, dead flowers, and rubbish are strewn on the beach. A few people lie face down in the river. I see now that the dinghy has a small engine. Slowly, it disappears into the misty morning. © Paola Fornari Hanna

The Pages Oh, Christmas isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t magic any more We've forgotten what the Christmas Spirit's for. Wise men travelling from afar sold their camels and bought a car Christmas isn't magic any more.

Has Christmas lost its sparkle and its glow? The fairy on the tree tries not to show her little tu-tu's grey not white It won't do up it's far too tight Has Christmas lost its sparkle and its glow?

No, Christmas isn't what it used to be Santa Claus won't do deliveries free. Christmas cheer is so commercial And that's why it's controversial No, Christmas isn't what it used to be.

Bring back Christmas like the ones we used to know, Plum puddings, sledges, icicles and snow, Remember how the sleigh bells rang And how the carol singers sang Bring back Christmas like the ones we used to know.

ÂŠRosa Johnson

More Poetry

The Pages

Flash Fiction

First published in Stories for Advent, www.freewebs.com/theapprenticewriter/

Santa’s Sweat Shop It's not all candy canes and carols up here at the North Pole. What do they call it when people are forced to work for 24 hours a day with little or no wages? Slavery! That's what. The trouble is no one ever notices us little guys. Or if they do it's just to comment on how cute we are. They see us running around like green and red arsed flies, with our cute little outfits, bells on our hats and pointy shoes - by the way, do you know why we have bells on our jolly little hats and our cute pointy shoes? So that Santa can hear us if we try to make a run for it. You know nobody ever leaves us a glass of Brandy or a Mince pie on Christmas Eve, we're the ones that do all the hard graft - even the reindeers get a carrot here and there. Santa puts his feet up all year then takes on a jolly on the sledge, which turns into a house crawl with Santa getting pissed on your cheap port and brandy. But if I lived to see three hundred, I wouldn't see so much as a brussel sprout and I’m telling you if you've ever lived on a diet of candy canes and gingerbread men - and that’s 365 days a year folks - you'll know it really isn’t great for your digestion or good health, diabetes is rife in the North Pole we've got limbs dropping like pine needles up here. The curled up pointy shoes wouldn't seem so cute either if you saw the curled up pointy toes they're hiding. Somewhere along the way Santa decided we didn't move fast enough for his liking, so rather than fork out for a set of skis for every elf in the workshop (and if you've ever received a Barbie doll instead of a BMX for Christmas you'll know what a tight sod he can be), in his wisdom (ho ho) he decided to bind the elves feet in order to resemble a mini ski. The upshot of which is an entire race with truly ugly, curled and pointed feet, which for the record doesn’t resemble a mini ski at all and in fact are so painful we now hobble rather than glide. Production in Santa's workshop has since decreased by 25%. He was really, really mad about that - I beg of you please, please don't ask me to explain the ears. It’s still an intensely painful memory and one which I don't want to repeat. That's right, Santa's not all presents and Ho ho ho, In fact there's another guy who runs around in red and whose name is spookily similar - coincidence? Mmm maybe… okay I’m sorry, I'm exaggerating, really. Deep down (...say if you were in the North Pole digging for penguins) he's a good guy; he spends the whole year making one day special just for you, doesn't he? Actually he just shouts the orders but I guess the thought’s there. A word to the wise, just don't forget… he's knows when you're sleeping and he knows when you're awake, he knows when you've been bad or good, so for your sake you'd better be good! Because Santa Claus is coming to town… Kristina JJ Meredith

The Pages

The Garden at Little Oak Oak :2

This garden piece was written before Autumn's brazen colours had taken over from the lush green of a wet Summer. This was probably as well because a January/February report would be very similar to the November/December picture of the garden.

Green woodpecker

Late flowering bougainvillia

Rosa rugosa

Borage hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t featured in our herb garden for several years. We keep it away from other herbs as it tends to seed all over the place to the detriment of plants around it. Four years ago, in isolation on the side of a vegetable patch several plants flourished, distributed their blue stars like confetti and disappeared at the end of one season. The patch was dug over, no seeds germinated again until this year, and as though it had been trying to restore itself to its rightful place a very substantial borage plant arrived in the middle of the herb bed. It was superb. I have a theory that plants seeding themselves and growing where they choose often flourish and look better than those we plant where we want them. We grew houttuynia in a bowl so that it was unable to gallop across the patio and over the stones round the fish pond. The colourful green and red leaves were contained for one summer only. In the following year the display they put on around the patio and the fish pond were far better than anything we could have dreamed up. They didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t grow as tall and gave us an astonishing splash of colour underfoot. A few years ago we bought a rosa rugosa from two sisters who opened their small walled garden in a town near here. It grew rapidly and since then it has produced hundreds of pretty, pink, single, summer roses among its delicate, blue/green foliage. A bonus is always the brilliant display of scarlet hips which follow the flowers and then as extra free gifts the plant throws up some seedlings which quickly grow to be distributed round our boundaries and among friends. A wild briar took off up through a small oak tree on the boundary last year and this year went on enthusiastically spreading throughout its crown. The pale pink and white blooms enhanced the oak tree in showers as the briars hung down and now the bright red hips hang in their place and we have a marvellous splash of colour eight feet from the ground. Red seems to be the dominant colour this autumn as escallonia horizontalis spreads over a little wall and along under the front windows. The holly (ilex) and pyracantha 15

are also putting on a fine show. The berries of these plants won’t last long. Blackbirds love them and pigeons sit in the holly gobbling the berries as fast as they can. Pigeons having already produced two broods this year, are actively mating again. With jays and magpies they are the only birds we dislike. Jays and magpies for their destructive nature, although they are aesthetically pleasing. Both species predate on songbird’s eggs and fledglings; jays will split broad bean pods from one end to the other like a saw, leaving a jagged edge and an empty shell. We are fortunate to have so many birds in the garden. We have thrushes by the score this year. Their speckled breasts look so smart and fresh, as they go through the ferns looking for snails, and the colour scheme is perfect. The blackbirds have had a good year too. The woodpeckers have been spectacular. The young birds come down on to the lawn with their parents. Unused to moving on a horizontal surface they walk around the lawns like children in Daddy’s slippers. They make aerating holes in the turf digging with their powerful beaks for ants. It's fun to watch parents with their offspring. Robins lined their children up on one of the lower boughs of the russet and fed them in turn, dunnock families trailed through the borders after their parents squeaking and squawking with wide open mouths and trembling wings. Wrens did much the same but with less noise. Gold finches in the birch trees with their youngsters made a terrific clatter. We’ve never seen pigeons with their young. They appear to fly like adults from the nests. Some of the pots around the garden are still looking good. One lantana (a sub-tropical species), which didn’t flower earlier on has decided to bloom in the late sunshine. Several fuchsias are still looking good and the white daisies too. One bougainvillea which didn’t flower in the rain soaked months, is blooming now. The smallest one is going great guns while the larger ones haven’t flowered at all. Against all odds the hostas have survived the slugs and snails this year. One variegated specimen has been shredded but most are still whole, if tired. Colour is sparse in the borders though there are a few yellow daisies, ice plants, still being visited by butterflies, nasturtiums, brash and beautiful, small bedding begonias which have survived recent winters, and abelia, flowering for the third time this year, Lycesteria and ipomoea (morning glories) still showing brightly.

Escalonia Horizontalis

Pot fuchsia and white daisies

Leggy lycesteria

Ipomoea morning glory ÂŠRosa Johnson

The Pages

On Writing Poetry

Writing poetry. What is it about poetry that attracts us and makes us really feel good about writing and reading it? I have thought long and hard about this and you know, I don’t think it has anything to do with the rhythm or rhyme. After all poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, free verse is just as emotive as rhyming poetry. No, I think the answer is that it reflects about who we are as people. Not the just finished poem, I don’t mean that. Of course, the words are beautiful and emotive but it’s the actual craft of writing a poem that reminds me of human nature, it reflects everything we do to make ourselves feel confident and great before we go out on that special date, or to a special evening out with friends. It recreates nostalgic or romantic feelings! Now I know you might think ‘this writer’s lost it’, but read on and tell me you can’t visualise what I mean. Let’s take an imaginary trip to the home of a young woman meeting a special guy for the first time. How is she going to prepare herself so that she feels her best, looks amazing and he finds her the most attractive girl in the world? ...... The scented steam curled round the bathroom mirror, misting her naked image. She took the band from her hair and shook the day from her thoughts as it fell carelessly across her bare shoulders. A bubble of excitement knotted her stomach and she wanted to laugh out loud. The bath was warm, sweet and inviting and she slipped gracefully into the foam. The excitement was too much to allow a long soak but she forced herself to take a deep breath and relax and focus on emptying her mind for a few moments. His face swam before her as the room disappeared in her reverie. Somewhere in the distance a clock chimed and the bathroom materialised around her. ‘Damn, I need to hurry, I have so much to do.’ She sat up and reached for the razor. ‘Need a defuzz if I am wearing that black dress.’ She thought to herself stretching first one leg out then the other, it was important that every part of her was perfect. The soft towel was warm and as she dried herself she hummed a little melody. Finally, wrapping her hair in a towel round her head she wiped a clear space in the misted mirror and inspected her face more closely. A smile spread from her mouth to her eyes and she approved herself before quickly slipping into her underwear. She pulled on her robe and moved across to her bedroom to dry her hair. Each part of her make-up was applied with precision. Moisturiser, foundation, powder for the shiny bits. Her eyes were bright with anticipation and she really didn’t need the eye make-up that she was putting on them, but it finished the look, just a hint of colour to enhance the accessories and the lippy could wait till last. Now what should she do with her hair, straighten or curl? Curl, more feminine and made her look less 19

severe, or so she thought. For a second her mind wandered to what her mother might have done without tongs and straighteners when she was young. It must have taken her forever to get ready. She glanced in the mirror for confirmation again. Perfect! Now the dress. Hmm. Maybe not that one, perhaps the slightly longer one, a touch of lipstick and finally some perfume. The last touches a pretty necklace and matching earrings. The tall mirror in the hallway reflected her beauty as she doublechecked that everything was as she wanted it to be, then satisfied, she left the house. ...... What on earth does that have to do with poetry? I hear you ask. Before I go on, the same analogy can be applied to the guys. Well maybe not the make-up but â&#x20AC;Ś you get the picture.

Let us break down and structure the preparation. 1. The bath, remove the thoughts of the day and concentrate on getting ready. Dream of the great guy you are about to meet. 2. Defuzz the bits that might be unsightly in a short dress. 3. Let the excited thoughts drift into your head and burst out in a little song as you get dried. 4. Take a look in the mirror to reassure yourself you look ok. 5. Add the underwear and dry the hair. Leave to decide on style later. 6. Apply the make-up, little by little. 7. Curl the hair to enhance your attractiveness. Check in mirror. 8. The little black dress to define the figure or maybe the longer more refined look, change the dress to match the occasion. 9. Then the lipstick and perfume. 10. Before finally, a twirl in the mirror to approve of the wonderful look you have created.

Now take a look at how a poem bursts into the world. 1. Relax and remove the thoughts of the day. Allow the ideas to drift into your mind. 2. Scribble down a few notes as the thoughts come, read and remove (defuzz) the bits you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want. 3. Get excited as you type the words on your computer and allow them to flow harmoniously. 4. Read the poem to make sure it has the basis for the final poem you are going to write. 5. Check the undertones and surface meanings, are they clear? Make sure it looks good on the paper. Leave for a few days. 6. Re-write, improving and /or removing words to create the beautiful images that come into your thoughts. 20

7. Re-read, and re-touch to tighten the structure. Leave for a while again. 8. Another re-read, change anything that glares at you or doesn’t match the rest of the poem. 9. Add the title to reflect the meaning of the story. 10. Finally, re-read and approve. So what is so very different? The structure is similar. It is all in the preparation, the pretty things, sweet smelling perfumes some attractive dressing, all make both a beautiful body image and a beautiful piece of poetry. Ok, in poetry the pretty perfumed bits are done with words but the end result is the same. Something attractive that others want to look at or share time with. There are days where you just want to go out as you are and so the minimum of preparation is required. It is the same for those poems that just roll off the pen and you don’t want to change them, they are yours and that is how they remain. That is fine and often they just record a personal moment in your life. The time comes when you need to dress up poetry just the same as when you want that really special evening out. Just as there is a dress code and etiquette for different places there are rules and structures for poetry, especially if you are considering publishing or entering competitions. We use structure and rhyme schemes, in place of make-up and fine clothes that give us the perfect image of what we want others to see.

The pattern of life follows us wherever we go and the writer follows the same pattern as their poem is created. For many people sitting at home or wherever you are at the time, those moments of preparation and anticipation when starting a poem, are the same excitement and anticipation that everyone feels at the beginning of a special moment. The beauty of poetry is the fact that it is more than a picture or an image in a mirror. A moment in time is captured forever in the beauty of dressed and adorned words to be read and re-read, shared and treasured. Because we love life and treasure those memories, we cherish the moments that are reflected when we create that glorious feeling in words. As people we are all very similar in different ways but are connected closely by human nature. It is this connection that touches us when we read other’s experiences and the reason why we are attracted to poetry.

The Pages

Poetry

New Year's Resolutions for the Twenty-First Century “Tens of thousands of people have died in Iraq since the US-led invasion of March 2003...A survey published in September 2007 suggested that up to 1.2m people might have died because of the conflict.” BBC News In Depth, Iraq Violence, in figures (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/shared/spl/hi/guides/456900/456995/html/default.stm ).

I, British US citizen number 320008, do firmly resolve not to put individuals' needs before my duties to the super power state.

I will forget free thought and moral deeds, and put the dollar sign on my altar to remind me of higher aims. For he who bleeds

oil and cash from poorer countries must not falter when it comes to war. And only praise our leaders. There is no slaughter

for those that follow blindly in a daze, remembering that the weak are second-rate to those strong and rich in material ways.

I, British US citizen number 320008, will give up human rights for the richness of the great.

The Pages

Short Story

Grounded Barbara watched him through the kitchen window sucking his hollow cheeks in with every drag, but the slow suffocation of tar and nicotine wouldn’t the way it would end for Tom. She looked across at the row of windows, backlit stages where people played out their mundane lives to an indifferent audience. She wondered if someone was standing at their window watching her. She looked back to Tom, he was leant against the wall with a static swagger, she could see his lips curl around the words as he husked into the phone. Of course, he would tell her it was just a work call or perhaps a double glazing salesman. She had been a nervous wreck all evening, it was like having Royalty to visit when he arrived home, all cooked dinners, plumped pillows and endless patience. She had been a career woman when they met - the terraced house, the husband, the child - it had never been her dream. They were going to take a career break and travel the world together, he had promised her a life filled with adventure -then he got the call he’d always been waiting for – Reuters wanted him. Standing at the backdoor she twisted her wedding ring on her finger and gnawed her bottom lip. ‘Are you coming in?’ He didn’t look up. Whatever it was he was chasing now; adventure, women, his dreams – it wasn’t her. She took a long, slow, deep breath. ‘It’s gone ten.’ ‘In a minute,’ was his flat reply. She eyed the spade leaning next to him and wondered if he thought it was a garden ornament – it would only take a minute. Breathe Barbara. Stay calm. ‘Tom...’ ‘I said, in a minute.’ Well a minute would have to do then. She grabbed the mortar and pestle from the shelf, he had given it to her as a Christmas gift last year – she loathed cooking. She took the tablets from her pocket and ground them to dust. She had agreed to start a family because he had insisted it was more important to him than his job - and if it was that important to him, how could she say no? Still she adored Daisy now, but in the end that was never going to be enough. ‘Bond with your daughter’ she’d ordered with thinly veiled hysteria. It was just fifty minutes away from Daisy, but it felt like an eternity. She thought that perhaps she was making a mistake after all, but the ticket had been booked and she knew she was really going to go through with it. The low rush of a plane overhead interrupted her thoughts as it cut through the gathering storm clouds. Barbara poured Tom his whisky and left it on the side table next to his chair. When she came back to check on Tom the whisky glass was drained and he was dead to the world - well not literally. It would be a good few hours before he would stir and even then he’d be reaching for the Nurofen first. She went upstairs; leaning over Daisy’s cot she kissed her soft skin, stroked her tiny hand and whispered her goodbyes. If she had stirred she might have stayed, but she made no protest. She picked up her suitcase and checking that she had taken both passports, she left her daughter and her husband behind.

The Pages

Poetry

Two poems for the new year, by Sarah James (aka Sarah Leavesley):

Newborn The cold is still knitting its icy shawl when January arrives, expected yet early, always sudden.

Joy light, responsibility heavy, I cradle the year's untouched vernix, marvel at its fontanelle throbbing with life.

I celebrate its gift of colours: pink for a girl, blue for a boy, green for new shoots, yellow for the sun.

As it grows and puts on weight, I keep my resolutions blanket-close, pray for the unwritten future.

New Year's Eve We're skimming the other side's treetops, the valley in between collecting rain that races us down the road. Water is heavy, sticky, tarmac. But the trees are springy: we fly unsmudged through charcoaled sky, suspended till we fall like Icaurus before we've even touched the sun.

ÂŠSarah James

The Pages

Diary of a Would-Be-Protagonist

Persona Non Grata I tried to kick Anna out of bed early this morning, but it didn’t work. She wouldn’t budge - and on a beautiful day like this, too. She’d have jumped at the chance of a few hours by herself at one time. No one to disturb her, just Anna, her notebook - and me, of course. Oh, and her pen. My very best friend. At least it used to be, but it seems pens are as fickle as Anna’s sort. Everything was in place. The cockerel in a nearby field crowed non-stop (I won’t tell you how I did that!) and the alarm was set to go off at 5.30am. Not only that, but she had a very good reason other than little old me to get up that early. Her youngest was off at six o’clock. She could have given her half an hour of her time, couldn’t she (and then a few hours for me)? Oh no, Anna was tired, much too tired. She let her poor young daughter get her own breakfast and didn’t even wave her off (okay, so she‘s eighteen week after next – but she‘s still the baby of the family). I know how she must have felt, except I don’t want to be waved off. I’m staying put right here, until she takes notice of me. She told someone that I was like a cloud of gnats on a summer evening. Well, she can’t light one of those citronella candles to get rid of me. But she should be careful about what she says. I know why Anna is so tired. She was at some virtual fancy dress party last night. I don’t know why she bothered, I’m sure. She was so worried about the ‘white coats’ (I only saw one, for goodness sake) that she hid behind the artificial palm in the corner all night, guzzling Brandy. I’ll give her Brandy, virtual or not. Come to think of it, she wouldn’t much like it if it were for real. She doesn’t drink. What I don’t get is how she can get into the swing of things in a virtual world and yet ignore me. I’m as large as life, I tell you. I told her, too - but she just brushed me off. I’ll turn into a plague of gnats if she doesn’t watch herself. She can’t swat every one so I feel quite safe. As for that candle, I’ll hover around and I’ll huff and I’ll puff and no way will she get it lit. I don’t suppose it will help my cause, but it sure will give me a bit of satisfaction. I didn’t feel so safe this morning. I was fiddling around with the bedside drawer when she suddenly woke up and sat bolt upright in bed (nothing to do with me this time; I was really quiet) and stared at the clock. 9am. She doesn’t like sleeping too late, gets a headache. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Her legs wouldn’t work. I suppose that’s my fault, making her stand in that queue for three hours night before last. You know, she really should try to distinguish between what’s real and what’s not. Anyway, she got her legs working eventually, but she has to rest today. What I don’t understand is why her mind and her pen have to rest; when it’s her legs she’s got

problems with. Oh, you didn’t say that? She must have heard me. That’s a first - at least for a long time. Then she went for the bedside drawer. I’d opened it just a little so that she would have to investigate why it was open. You know what’s in there, don’t you? The manuscript. My manuscript. My life so far, if that’s what you can call it. Well, I don’t know, do I? She put her glasses on and peered at the top sheet. Oh hey, I thought. Things are looking up! Oops, no they’re not! She slammed that drawer shut so fast and hard that I thought I’d lose my hand, or at least a finger or two. Virtually speaking, of course. No care for little old me. If she thinks that shutting the manuscript away will get rid of me, she can think again. The only way I’ll move on is if she makes me complete and finishes my story. Fat chance. But it’s high time we had a heart to heart. Trouble is, I have the distinct feeling that I am persona non grata - even as a figment of the imagination. Her imagination, that is.

To be cont.

*****