When I was doing a bit of back-reading for this post I was looking at an earlier one when the guest poet was Martin Reed. The reason for this will quickly become apparent. I introduced that post like this:
“When people ask ‘Why do you write?’ if the answer isn’t ‘Because I’ve got things to say and this is the way I do it…rather than music or painting or sculpture or essays or journalism or graffiti’ then something’s not quite right. If you’re having to make yourself write, then what’s all that about? I think that’s what Keats was getting at with this business of poetry needing come as birds to the tree. Poetry. Not poems or a poem, note. That’s usually going to be difficult, because words don’t just line up and snap to attention. We’re going to draft and redraft and get second opinions, and polish and refine, and we’ll never quite get it right, because if we did, there’d be no point in carrying on. We need to say what’s on our minds. We have to have something to write about, if you like. Ideally we need to be full as an egg and brimming and bursting with things to say. “
Julie Mellor has been approaching this idea, on and off for some time in her always-thought-provoking poetry blog. If you don’t follow it already, I highly recommend it. Here’s the link: https://juliemellorpoetsite.wordpress.com/
I’ve got a different problem at the moment. I’m busting with ideas I want to articulate, experiences I want to nail down and share, and simultaneously physically/mentally tired; I can’t seem to think clearly, or concentrate in the right way, and it seems the only thing to do is just to let it be. There’s no rational reason to believe that I can’t go away and find it all waiting when I come back. Maybe what’s needed is some peace and quiet inside my head.
Quietness. I think that’s the keyword when I come to think of the work of today’s guest, Maggie Reed . It’s a quality that attaches to another poet whose work I love…Jane Clarke. I’m a noisy, rackety sort of person, and I don’t do that sort of grounded serenity. That quietness. I wish I did, and I’m grateful for those who do. At which point, let’s meet Maggie Reed, originally from Cumbria who now lives in West Malvern where she writes poetry and short stories. She graduated from Lancaster University in 2015 with a merit in an MA in Creative Writing and in 2017 achieved a Post-Graduate Diploma in Creative Writing for Therapeutic Purposes at the Metanoia Institute, London.
In 2016 Maggie had three poems published in the North magazine and won third prize in the Settle Sessions Poetry Competition. In 2017 she had another poem published in the North and self-published her first pamphlet ‘Life Lines’. In August 2018 another two poems are due to be published in the North. Previously, in 2011 she won a merit in the Nottingham Open Competition.
Before taking herself seriously with her creative writing in the year 2000, after attending an Adult Ed evening class, Maggie worked in Further Education in Cumbria, Lancashire and Central London, with a focus on teaching and supporting adults with learning difficulties and disabilities. Prior to teaching, she ran her own sign-writing business in the Lake District, painting signs for hotels, pubs, shops and cafes, whilst also working part-time in a factory packing dried food products, driving a van for Securicor parcel delivery as well as assisting in care homes for the elderly.
Maggie enjoys the beautiful British countryside and loves walking in the Lake District as well as discovering the wonderful landscape surrounding her new home in Worcestershire, Herefordshire, Shropshire and Gloucestershire. Much of her writing reflects her life experiences and the people and places that matter most to her.
She met and married her soulmate, Martin Reed last year, after meeting him at Whitby on one the Poetry Business writing residential courses – life right now couldn’t be better!”
So now you see why I was re-reading that post from a couple of years ago about Martin Reed. Essentially, this is a first: a guest poet who met, on a Poetry Business Writing Week in Whitby, another guest poet who I met on a Writing Week in Spain, tutored by Ann Sansom of…the Poetry Business. Which has a nice sort of synergy, and makes me very happy. As do the poems she’s sent me to share.
John Arnold
First week in my new job,
lesson observation still on my mind,
he came in the office to suss me out
with words like Silver Book, Ofsted.
You’re not one to rock the boat then.
He knew as soon as I smiled
he’d get at least one coffee from me.
He preferred the company of women,
wolves, some of them, circling on him
as he sniffed around the smoking room.
Had a lad in a headlock this morning.
No one throws tools in my shed.
His shed, the engineering block:
metal vices, cold radiators, stacks of scaffolding.
Lunchtimes in the pub rather than
filling forms, meeting deadlines.
Kids loved him. He could teach them
to fix a car, jazz up a bike.
Tell them how to learn best,
on the job.
He sat in our staff room
flashing his white bushy eyebrows,
his failed career at BAE Systems
waving at him across Walney Channel.
I heard and read this for the first time as a draft in a critiquing workshop. Sometimes a poem just speaks direct to a specific experience.In my case it was having to do an Ofsted style inspection in a bleak technical college, observing the ‘teaching’ of a morose individual who despised his students, the job, and probably, himself. John Arnold lifts me above that, because of its humanity, its gentleness. I feel as though the narrator, and John Arnold with his failed career at BAE Systems / waving at him across Walney Channel, are both out of synch with where they find themselves She should be lining up her lesson-observation checklist sheets; self-evidently, he shouldn’t have
Had a lad in a headlock this morning.
No one throws tools in my shed.
but there’s the mutual sympathy of outsiders who recognise each other in a cold and angular environment. And after all, kids loved him. And what survives of us is love. It’s poem that couldn’t have been easy to write, in the sense that it needs to persuade the reader to suspend a rational criticism of a teacher who assaults students, goes down the pub at lunchtime, and is a ‘failure’. But it does. Quietly.
When you listen to the next poem for the first time, you may think you’re in over-familiar territory. You may be inclined to think : nostalgia. But it has a trick up its sleeve.
Visiting.
A red-brick vicarage in a northern coastal town
near the football club by St Andrew’s Church.
My father, taking me to Roker Park,
asked a policeman to stop the traffic
so we could cross the road.
I remember cold winters, hands over gas rings,
velvet curtains drawn, matching blue carpet,
draughts under the door.
Mrs. Donkin boiling sheets, wooden tongs,
struggles with the mangle, steam,
pegging them out in the back yard,
Do you remember holidays in Saltburn,
staying in Marlborough House
on Emerald Crescent, taking Peter,
our cat, how he never ran away?
Always smiling at the flowers
in the window, eating homemade
chocolate cake for tea;
riding my bike in the garden,
no, it must have been a tricycle,
I was only three.
I remember these things because you told me
from your chair in the nursing home,
eyes searching then holding my own.
I do remember these things, don’t I?
Or was it you?
Or was it me?
I like the way (as I read it) the poem invites me to assume the “I” of the narrator who tells me about the vicarage and the policeman, and the old woman doing the washing is the voice of the poet. If it was, then I guess this would just be a piece of nostalgia, which is as interesting to a listener as a stranger’s photograph album. But something happens very quietly in one line which retrospectively made me re-read and re-evaluate:
Do you remember holidays in Saltburn.
Just like that, the poem turns from a soliloquy to a dialogue. Who asks the question? Who’s being asked? Why? I make an assumption that it’s a daughter (because it’s a woman poet; yup, that simplistic) and I know she’s visiting a parent (a mother, I assume, because in my experience, it usually is) in a care home. But the thing is, that I don’t know whose memory is unreliable, who rode the trike, who owned the cat. And at the end I don’t know whose memory is more unreliable. And I find it hugely moving. It’s quiet and unassertive and it won’t let me be..
One more poem. It reminds me of U A Fanthorpe and a kind of love called maintenance. A poem of love and undramatic happiness. Which is a condition we can all devoutly wish for.
February
It’s a day in February,
Monday, perhaps Tuesday,
it doesn’t matter.
Birds are on the feeders,
washing-up is still in the sink,
Radio Five Live on too loud.
I’m remembering images from that dream:
the crowd on the staircase
the sketch I made of pillows in sunlight,
how I ordered a sherry at the bar.
I can hear you in the shower
and think of the books you’ve read
on Stalin, Scannell, Country Walks in Worcestershire.
This time five years ago I lay
curled on my mother’s bed,
remembered how she held me,
how she loved the scent of snowdrops.
So thank you, Maggie Reed for the poems, for the quiet, and the smile you’ve put on my face.
I’m not sure about next week’s post. I have a guest waiting patiently in the wings, but on Friday I’m delighted to say I’ll be driving up to Kendall to read with my hero Kim Moore at the Brewery Poets; on Saturday, I have promises to keep, and though I’ll certainly be knackered, I mean to be at the Poetry Business in Sheffield for a day’s writing. And on Sunday I’m off to the prize-giving for the Red Shed poetry competition, and listening to all the winning poems as well as seeing Maria Isakova Bennett who judged it. So the Sunday post may be delayed.
In the meantime I’ll be trying to set up some launch events for my new pamphlet. Did I not mention that? Perhaps I can keep quiet sometimes. It’ll be out in June. I’ll tell you more about it later. Quietly. Well, fairly quietly.
The Great Fogginzo's Cobweb 