Being Me

Here's a poem about nature that I wrote this morning although my observations were made from the warmth and safety of the indoors as regular followers will not be surprised to hear.  A morning in March   The neighbour has frisbeed stale slices of bread across his scraggy lawn beneath the apple tree, its branches winter-bare save forgotten Christmas lights. But the birds can take incongruity with more grace than I do.   First come the pigeons, plunging in like gossips to a whispered conversation. One triumphs away a whole slice which hangs uncertain from its beak, wondering if it will survive the journey.   The sparrows arrive next, flitting up down up down as though on the end of a conductor’s baton. They peck-kiss at the slices, checking left and right for rivals, then dart upwards as though caught thieving.   Last, a robin, a lone actor. It observes from a branch until the sparrows have flecked away, then hops to...

I wrote this poem, which was published in MsLexia magazine, after seeing a news clip about an 88 year old lady. She had recently learned to read and had therefore discovered a whole new world of stories. You can see the news report by clicking on the link under the poem.  Once upon a time Once upon a time, all she could do was drift her hands along each silent spine or turn hieroglyph pages like a visitor lost in the streets of a foreign land, her forehead a frown of lines – a message of bewilderment she hoped others could not read.   Then, like whispers, or baby footsteps, or leaves dropping like scraps of tissue kissed by an infinitesimal breeze, shapes on pages birthed sounds on her lips - each day a new one, a tiny gift – and in her mind, dragons, heroines, castles, pirates, the sighs of reunited lovers.  Watch the news clip - have a tissue handy

It's Independent Bookshop Week in the UK so I thought I'd post a poem I wrote in celebration of bookshops. It was published in the Bookseller magazine recently.    To bookshops (with apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)  How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love the jingle-jingle of the bell announcing my arrival with a smile: ‘You’re in a bookshop. All will now be well.’ I love the spines of books upon the shelf that promise romance, laughs and mysteries. I love the smell of paper, print and ink, the rustling of pages in the peace. I love the ‘Recommendeds’ and the ‘New’, the joyous promise of that corner chair that tells me I should choose a book and rest - convinces me that I have time to spare. I love, I love, the beauteous books you sell. (My bank account does not love thee so well.) What do you like best about bookshops? Do you have a favourite one? Tell me why. 

A Tragedy Involving Froth I went into the kitchen, unaware of huge disaster waiting for me there. The bowl was stacked with dirty crocks, of course: the detritus of pork with apple sauce. In haste, for I was keen to watch TV,  I squirted in the Fairy recklessly which meant, before too long, the froth had frothed so frothily I knew all hope was lothed.  Imagine if the sea were all detergent - you’ll understand how things became so urgent. Huge bubbles on the ceiling and the floor and mutinously bubbling through the door and bubbles scaling walls just like Bear Grylls and on the windows and the windowsills. I wished that I had not been so remiss - I now had froth in every orifice - so, when I sneezed – a sneeze so loud and long -   a million bubbles added to the throng. Attacked by bubbles, terrified, afflicted, I waited for my death by Fairy Liquid.   The emergency services knew Fran was under there, somewhere 

Happy Christmas, lovely followers! I know it's not been the year any of us would have ordered (had we been asked) but here and there I have tried to offer humour, cheer and a moment's distraction. Thanks so much for being around, for reading, and for your super comments which I love until they are funnier than my own.  I hope you are able to spend some time, however limited, with family or friends. Our plans were disrupted but we're still able to see one set of family so, counting our blessings!  I've been adding videos to my Youtube channel and these two are Christmas-themed, so I offer them here for your entertainment over the holiday. The first is a poem, the second a song. Take your pick or enjoy both :)  See you in 2021 😊

I wrote a poem for Remembrance Day based on Ecclesiastes 3 verses 1-8. You may know the original verses better as a famous Pete Seeger song.  First, here are the verses as they appear in the Old Testament. Following them is my own poem 'There is a Clock-Strike' Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 (New International Version of the Bible) There is a time for everything,      and a season for every activity under the heavens: 2       a time to be born and a time to die,      a time to plant and a time to uproot, 3       a time to kill and a time to heal,      a time to tear down and a time to build, 4       a time to weep and a time to laugh,      a time to mourn and a time to dance, 5       a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,      a time to embrace and a time to refrai...

Have you seen the recent TV programmes and news items about young children being taken into care homes to cheer up the residents? What a fabulous idea. I wish my gran had had the benefit of this before she died last year. She loved the regular visits of the therapy dogs - great slobbery Labradors she loved to stroke and pat. She'd have relished visits from singing toddlers. On the couple of occasions I took in my grandchildren to see her, she grinned from ear to ear, round her head, and back again.  I wrote a poem about it.  Care Most stretched afternoons we are sat (don’t judge my grammar erroneous because I mean someone sits us) in front of Flog It, Homes under the Hammer, and, particularly cruel for those of us with months, not years, Countdown. Tepid tea is served from a trolley forgotten in a corridor while Elsie Brown is rescued, trembling, from the lift. A woman with a headmistress bark speeds us through Bingo and crosswords as though...

It's World Poetry Day today or, as it's presented on Twitter, #WorldPoetryDay. I never know whether these things are official. Every day is a special day on Twitter. Who's made the decisions? WorldPoetryDay sounds like one of the more significant ones, but #WorldSproutDay, #WorldTreasuryTagDay and #WorldEyelashDay won't be far behind. To celebrate #WorldPoetryDay, here's a video of me performing my poem 'Pickle Aisle Bride' at a comedy club night. It's deep, meaningful and profound. That last sentence was a lie.  Do feel free to groan, along with the audience, at the puns. It's all part of the fun. While you watch this, I'll get busy thinking about what I'll post on #WorldSproutDay.

I saw a news story about an 88 year old woman who had just learned to read for the first time. I wrote this short poem in response and it was published on a poetry website.  Once upon a time Once upon a time, all she could do was drift her hands along each silent spine or turn hieroglyph pages like a visitor lost in the streets of a foreign land, her forehead a frown of lines – a message of bewilderment she hoped others could not read. Then, like whispers, or baby footsteps, or leaves dropping like scraps of tissue kissed by an infitesimal breeze, shapes on pages birthed sounds on her lips - each day a new one, a tiny gift – and in her mind, dragons, heroines, castles, pirates, the sighs of reunited lovers. Here's the dear lady's story, if you'd like to watch the news clip. Can you remember anything about when you learned to read?  My father taught me to read when I was three years old. He wasn't the kind o...

My husband bought me one of these for my birthday last April. Beware. This is the most dangerous piece of kitchen equipment known to man.  I've written a poem about it. Addiction I fear I am addicted to a substance - may need a doctor for some quick advice. This substance is so tempting, I can't help it. One portion of it just will not suffice. The minute I indulge I sense euphoria. I want to tell the world, to raise my voice, and yell, 'I so love cheese and onion toasties. I admit it. Toasties are my drug of choice.' The instant I think, 'Cheese and onion toastie!' My mind begins to tease and play some tricks. Whatever I am doing, I must drop it and get into that kitchen for a fix. I'm grating cheese so fast, I grate my fingers but nothing stops me once I'm in the zone. I'm chopping onion like there's no tomorrow ignoring email, Twitter, Facebook, phone. I'm lathering the butter on the slices as though I'm...

As it's Shakespeare's birthday today, and Easter is still in our minds, I thought I'd post a sonnet I wrote in honour of chocolate, and celebrate both at once. A shout-out to Elizabeth Barrett-Browning, too. HI, ELIZABETH! Anyway, sonnet and chocolate nearly rhyme, so it makes sense to put them together. How do I love you? Let me count the ways. I love you when you're cast in bunny shape or in a simple slab from Sainsburays or from the fridge, or melted, or in cake. I love a Minstrel cool upon my palm. I love a Cadburys button on my tongue. I find it hard to stop - you have such charm - before I know it, I've had twenty-one. I love you whether white or Swiss or Belgian. I want you to myself. I do not share. I'll eat you 'til my little belly's bulging and I can barely get up from my chair. Oh, chocolate! I'll love you 'til I die (though when I do, you'll be the reason why). Someone said 'I've brought you ch...

A sonnet in honour of Bakewell Tart ice cream, written after last week's holiday in Cornwall. I bought you from an ice cream stall in Looe. The day was balmy. Seagulls screeched above. You cost me two quid which I thought was steep until I tasted you. I fell in love. I ate you by the harbour, looking out at boats, and children crabbing, while my heart expanded with a flaming passion, hot for ice cream tasting like a Bakewell Tart. My previous loves - vanilla, toffee fudge, or rum and raisin - these would all, I knew, be tossed aside, rejected, bade farewell, in favour of the ecstasy that's you. Since tasting you, you haunt my nights, my dreams.  You are the crack cocaine of Looe's icecreams. The moment Fran realised that all other loves, so far, had been inferior, and wondered how to tell her husband that she was leaving him for a dairy product.

I finished writing an article yesterday about hedonistic instincts for food, alcohol and sex in Shakespeare's The Tempest. It was for an educational magazine aimed at A level English students. I kept saying to my husband, 'I need some inspiration' and he was very happy to bring me some crisps and a glass of sherry, but kept well away otherwise as I'd had garlic aioli for lunch. Usually, once I'm on a roll and all fired up with a subject, I'm a rapid writer, but this piece performed reluctantly, like an impacted bowel. I've been collating material for the article and putting it together, with difficulty, for weeks. Yesterday, when I finally emailed it off to the editor, I felt relieved, as though .... er ... see previous simile. Writing that paragraph reminded me of the word 'scatological' which I learned 15 years ago at university but which I haven't used since then. It means 'the study of faeces'. Why did I need that word at univer...

I wrote this poem about a million years ago. But I thought it might amuse you as we approach the mince pies and lashings of mulled wine festive period .... Note  the shape of the poem.                                                                                                                              DIET I went on a diet on January First. By Feb I felt quite a success. By March I was thirteen pounds lighter and could get on my little black dress. In April I stayed on a plateau, but by May I was finding it tough.  In June I had quite a few bad days. By July I had had quite enough. I didn't do much until Christmas ...

If I've posted this poem of mine before, it was back in the Edwardian era when I started the blog, and those followers have died now, or got bored, or perhaps died of boredom, so here it is again. It's called Love Note, and I think you'll sense the fond feelings and affection coming through. Love note You're late - I've gone to Mother's. Your stew is in the dog. The Peugeot’s got a teeny dent. I’m never good in fog. Johnny's at the Youth Club and needs picking up at ten. Kate’s at that new boyfriend’s house. She didn't say 'til when. The washer in the kitchen tap is letting water through. The dog has chewed your slippers And your brand new ipad too. The cat’s had tummy trouble and has had some in your shed. The rabbit’s looking peaky and the hamster’s looking dead. The TV's going uh-uh-uh. I can’t work out what’s up. The dishwasher won’t open and the freezer door won’t shut. A tile slid off the r...

Long-term followers might have read this one before, but I thought I'd give it a Christmas airing. A sequel to the story of ‘The Three Little Pigs’, subtitled, ‘Always check that meat is properly cooked’ A family of pigs, brothers three, were leaping around, Christmas Eve. The wolf had been caught (or so they had thought). From his huff and his puff, they were free. Relieved at the end of their scare, they danced round the fire, unaware that in that hotpot was a wolf who was not fully cooked, but just medium rare. As they went off to bed, closed the door, from the pot there protruded a paw. Though more warm than he’d like, he’d not give up the fight. A poor sign for the porcine, for sure. He’d wait until midnight, then soon, he planned by the light of the moon to exit that pot, give those piggies a shock, and be gorging on trotters by noon. But all of a sudden, his light was blocked out by a terrible sight. A HUGE man with a beard ...

I'm teaching the great Irish writer Samuel Beckett's 'Waiting for Godot' to sixth formers. A telling line in the play is when one character, Estragon, says, 'There's no lack of void.' After reading this line on Monday, we discussed how the characters in the play (and people in general) 'avoid the void' with useless, repetitive activities to distract themselves from how meaningless their lives seem. Estragon and Vladimir play silly games, swap hats, insult each other, sing nonsense songs and engage in faux-intellectual conversations, just to pass the time while they wait for Godot. (Spoiler alert: he doesn't arrive, folks.) I guess if Beckett wrote it today, he'd have Vladimir and Estragon playing Angry Birds on their phones, joining in with #ruinasongtitlebytakingawayoneletter on Twitter, and checking Facebook to see if anyone had a ham sandwich for lunch. I told the class I thought my title for the day's lesson 'Avoid the void...

A Facebook status from poet friend Martin Hodges  (thanks, Martin!) inspired this posting.  It's a poem written as the result of a poetry exercise I did somewhere, in some place, at some point, with someone. It may have been the result of a session on memory or reminiscence but I don't remember that either. Errrr - what did I come upstairs for? Martin was saying there are many things he likes the idea of doing, such as climbing Kilamanjaro.  I'm the same. List  (I also fancied borrowing an idea from Piaf and calling this Je Regret Loads, but it's not really a comedy poem.) I have never worn a ball-gown which sparkled under chandeliers or eaten grilled sardines while watching a Mediterranean sunset. Nor have I dived. I have never climbed a snowy slope while attached to a rope and friend or danced the quick-step, the tango, the waltz or the rumba. Nor have I read ‘Gigi’. I have never climbed into the basket of an air balloon or thro...

I've updated this Christmas version of 'The Three Little Pigs' which I wrote years ago. A family of pigs, brothers three, were leaping around, Christmas Eve. The wolf had been caught (or so they had thought). From his huff and his puff, they were free. Relieved at the end of their scare they danced round the fire, unaware that in that hotpot was a wolf who was not fully cooked, but just medium rare. As they went off to bed, closed the door, from the pot there protruded a paw.... Though more warm than he’d like, he’d not give up the fight. A poor sign for the porcine, for sure. He’d wait until midnight , then soon, he planned by the light of the moon to exit that pot, give those piggies a shock and be gorging on trotters by noon . But all of a sudden, his light sas blocked out by a terrible sight. A HUGE man with a beard down the chimney appeared. Wolfie peed in the gravy with fright.  ‘Ho ho ho,’ said the man, with such...

I didn't really like my Games teacher at school and I think I can safely say the feeling was mutual. When she saw my name on her register at the beginning of the 5th year, she blanched a little.  I never had my kit.  I messed around, whacking girls around the ankles with the hockey stick rather than playing the game.  And I claimed, week by week, that I needed to be excused from Games, because I had some minor injury, or a blister, or a headache, or was on my period.  Rightly, she challenged me on this last one, saying, 'Not many girls have periods that start in September and are still going by the following March.  You are either a freak of nature or a liar.' If we did genuinely have a period, we were desperate to get off doing 'cross-country' in particular, because of the nature of sanitary protection in the 1970s.  It was embarrassing to run around in public wearing only gym knickers.  If you don't understand what I mean, try jogging round your lo...