February is the worst month...

I know. January is usually my worst month, and it was pretty dire, but February is giving it a run for it's money this year. Maybe it's just another of those age things, you know? The older you get the creakier your bones, the worse your eyesight, the longer it takes to get up out of a chair, for wounds to heal, and maybe for the January blues to clear.
Maybe it's because we haven't had a proper winter this year...hardly any frost, no snow to speak of, just lots of greyness and rain. Or maybe it's because this year, more than any other, I simply fail to see a light at the end of the tunnel, no silver linings, no brightside. I always see a brightside, even - or maybe especially - when others can't. Don't get me wrong, I am sure there is one, I just can't see it yet. Maybe March will be my month. That's a lot of maybes.

February is Post-It Note Poetry Month. I have been looking forward to it for a while - it always cheers me up and gets me writing - usually badly but that doesn't matter. The important thing is to be writing. Plus it is good for my succinct style. It is perhaps a testament to my state of mind this February that in 11 days I have posted just 3 poems. Massive fail. Something must be done - not sure what yet, but for sure it must.

For now, I leave you with today's post-it poem. It's not great but I quite like it and writing and posting it made me feel better.

I hadn't intended such an introspective post to break the block, sorry about that. Onwards and upwards, as they say.

Rule of Thirds

Two is company
Three is a crowd.

Three,
Three,
Three, that's a magic number.

Three little pigs.
Three billy goats gruff.
Three bowls of porridge.
Three chairs.
Three beds.
Three bears.
One Goldilocks.
I grant you three wishes.

One is lonely.
Two is company.
Three. Three is a crowd.

Connect #developingyoureye 5

 .

Connections come in all shapes and forms. I have been mocked occasionally for my references to friends who I know only online. But those connections have proved more enduring than some so called "irl" ones. The connections are no less real just because they are rooted in the ether.
This poem came to me at work through the post (mail) from the other side of the world - from a connection made online. A palimpsest of sorts. I love that.
The poem is by Jodi Cleghorn. She's a Twitter mate.
To be fair, the photograph is not great. But the connection is.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/blogging-university/developing-your-eye-i-materials/#day5

Gudbye t'Jayne

Today is the start of NaPoWriMo. The early prompt for today  was  to write a poem in the vernacular beginning with 'I guess it's too late...'
In the great tradition of the Hartlepool Writers group I obviously ignored that and posted a Too Late haiku. This morning on Twitter, reading the other posts and thinking about the evening before, I tried it again. Obviously being English I can't start it 'I guess...' and being a member of Hartlepool Writers group I couldn't make it a 'too late' poem but I think I got the 'in the vernacular' ...just about. I definitely got the sentiment right.

Gudbye t'Jayne

I s'pose I should be grateful
For the good times we have had
But today tbh
Jayne's Leaving just
Leaves me
Sad.

#NaPoWriMo

A poem a day keeps the word doctor away.

It feels like I am barely out of Post-It Note Poetry and now we have NaPoWriMo.
I struggled to write a poem a day that would fit on a post-it note and now here I am contemplating another daily challenge.
I very much doubt I will stay on target, but I miss the focus of being required to write something. Mr Malone and the rest of the Heugh Writers gang will no doubt laugh...or at least smile wryly at that. Like I managed to even produce a poem a month for that project! But, as I told Martin, it wasn't that I wasn't writing anything, it was simply that I was too terrified to hand over my few meagre words.
Strangely, despite all my doubts, it seems that people like my meagre words. Either that or they are being very polite.
But I digress!
My point was, I need something tangible to focus on. Someone - or something - to say, "Here, Denise, write about this today". And so, for my sins and for the salvation of my writer's soul, I am signing up to write a poem a day. Again.
Lord knows where I will find the time or the words. But perhaps the writing gods will be merciful and send down manna from heaven.

There now follows a Shameless Plug on behalf of the Heugh Writers Party!

I should say, on behalf of the poets from the Heugh Writers, copies of 'To Cross the Wine Dark Wave' are available to purchase from Hartlepool Libraries. A snap at £4 - cheques payable to Hartlepool Borough Council. 
Ta very much.

/Shameless plug ends!

And if you're interested in the Post-It Note poems you can read them here https://guerillawriting.wordpress.com

Shell Shock

Last week I went to my first poetry reading.

Hang on, you say, Denise has finally lost her marbles. We all know she has been to poetry readings before, in fact we know she's organised a fair few of them herself!
You're right, I have. But this was different! This was a reading for the launch of a new poetry pamphlet that includes me. I stood up - well, sat up - and read words written by me, to complete strangers.

I know!
Steps back in amazement!

Me - the "I am not a writer" person. I have poems (plural) in a book (published!). And what's more I'm in there with proper poets. People who do write, and call themselves writers.
I am, to put it mildly (and not too poetically) a bit gobsmacked. And it is perfectly okay if you all are too!

How on earth has this astonishing thing come about, you cry? And well you might.
For the past year I have been part of a project set up and run by Martin Malone, writing poetry to commemorate the centenary of the Bombardment of Hartlepool in 1914. I have spent a Saturday afternoon once a month holed up in the Heugh Battery on the Headland, Hartlepool, learning about war (and people's reaction to it), and poetry (and people's reactions to that, too). I have in fact spent not much of that time actually producing poetry, much to the consternation of Mr Malone. (If his hair had been long enough to get hold of he'd have torn it out by now).

Martin's idea was to produce a pamphlet of poetry that went to the hearts and minds of the people affected by the Bombardment. Not to glorify the fighting or lambast the politicians, but to document the emotions and reactions of ordinary people caught up in an extraordinary event.
At the time Martin was trying to get the group up and running a few people had said one or two nice things about the scraps of writing I had done and I was looking for a way to develop myself and my writing. Writing about people and feelings was something I was pretty sure I could do, I thought.
But, oh my word it was hard! Coming from a base of inexperience and very shaky self confidence, and discovering such a wealth of talent in that little cafe in the Heugh, I wondered what on earth I was doing there. I felt a complete fraud, sitting among people who could pull words together and create such expressive and poignant pieces. Surely I had no right to be there? But I gritted my teeth, girded my loins and I held the line.

Every month I brought along a scrap of writing, and every month I skulked away with it unread in my notebook. Mr Malone, I am sure, despaired of me. It became a something of a standing joke that I came to a writing group but never wrote anything. In actual fact I was writing, I just wasn't confident enough to share it (imagine that!). In eleven months I handed him three poems and each time I felt sick with trepidation, because surely to god, this four or five lines couldn't count as a poem? And even if it did, it was not likely to be any good...but apparently (to quote another proper poet*), "it was good enough".
In the end, I managed four scraps, handed in at the 11th hour (but not of the 11th day) and probably surprised everyone, but frankly, no-one more so than me.

It's been an experience - a scary one, and a challenging one but a good one. The reading was unbelievably daunting, but the work, read in sequence as it appears in the book, sounded amazing and incredibly moving. I am immensly proud to have been part of it and to have my words included in the pamphlet alongside some right proper poets.

If you are interested in the pamphlet, get in touch with Martin via his website or Twitter, or pop into Hartlepool Central Library where they will be on sale shortly.

http://www.hartlepoolmail.co.uk/news/local/memorial-day-to-commemorate-the-bombardment-of-hartlepool-1-6944087

*John Hegley - another proper poet who has considered my words good enough.

Inspired by poetry.

They sat in the inglenook, talking quietly. All around them customers arrived, sat, ordered, drank tea, left. Delicate china tea cups rattled in saucers, silver teaspoons tinkled. Sugar was spooned, cream was poured, cakes were eaten. Waitresses scurried to and fro, serving tea and cake, presenting bills, clearing tables.
And all the while the couple in the inglenook sat and talked. Safe in a world of their own making,  enveloped in a calmness, a togetherness that excluded everyone else in the room. The noise and bustle didn't impinge on their world. They felt no need to raise their voices, as the noise in the tea shop rose, they simply inclined towards each other, unconsciously, as if breathing in the other's words.
Time ticked by. The tea room filled. People waited to be seated. No-one approached the couple to suggest they might care to abandon their nook to another couple.
At 3.30 she glanced at the clock and laid a hand gently on his arm. He briefly covered her hand with his and then waved for the bill. The first and only touch.
The bill was presented and paid, with a generous tip for the smiling waitress.
He held the door, and then they were gone.





"Let us not speak, for the love we bear one another -
  let us hold hands and look'
She, such a very ordinary little woman;
  He, such a thumping crook;
But both, for a moment, little lower than angels
  In the teashop's inglenook.

A bit of fun, a poem and some astonishment

What do you do after a long week of setting up rooms, moving furniture, cajoling people to come along to meet an author, fretting in case no-one does come (sometimes they almost didn't), or your author doesn't turn up, or, god forbid, too many people turn up?

Obviously, you go to a poetry gig...one where you are in the audience, able to relax and enjoy it, because all the fretting and furniture moving has been done by someone else this time.

That's not quite true. I dragged my husband along, assuring him it would be fun because John Hegley is a nationally renowned poet. He's been on telly and everything. But the Other Half doesn't really do culture. He does sport. So there was an small element of fret. He hasn't really ever recovered from the last bit of culture I dragged him to at Washington Arts Centre

But, to John Hegley. Excellent. Funny. A natural showman. Not slick exactly, words sometimes got tangled and "photographed feet" came out as "potatoed feet"...but as he said, he covered that well. We barely noticed it (no really, it was all part of the act, wasn't it?).

The audience were cajoled (not by me this time) to participate, with singing, and French translation and guillemot arm actions.
And, during the interval with a poetry competition. Just a bit of fun with a copy of the book as the prize, and using something from the evening as a prompt...so maybe potatoes, or dogs, or feet, but also maybe linked to the place.

The room was pretty much full of local poets and writers. There were at least five at the table front of stage.

So for a bit of fun there'd be no shame in joining in and at least being able to say I'd entered into the spirit of the thing?
And as my group at the library know, I only ever manage three lines so a haiku it would have to be.  I shrank from scribing my paltry 18 (I couldn't quite get it to 17) syllables in the corner of the A4 sheets available. I wrote my 3 lines carefully, legibly in my bestest writing on a leaf from the very small notepad in my bag. Two inches by three. A white rectangle holding my tentative words.

I added it to the growing pile on the table. Laughingly admitting to having added the icon of a pair of specs in the top corner in the event of a tie break being needed. Not a chance in hell it would be needed but I liked to show solidarity with Mr Hegley as a fellow specs wearer.

And so it was done. And I felt slightly foolish and not a little unworthy to be placing my words among those of such talented people. I sat back, drank my drink and enjoyed the start of the second half. A couple of the poems were read out; dogs and potatoes featured. The rest were despatched with the judges (two guest poets Silvia Forest and Rowan McCabe, and Eileen, of who's precise role I am uncertain  other than as an impromptu translator of french potato poetry and purveyor of limerick competitions) to be judged and short-listed.
John assured us that even though not all would make it to the short-list or be read out that night, he would take them all and read them after the show. And if they did not make the short-list it was not because they were no good, it was simply that they were not good enough.

When the judges were called back, the pile of short-listed poems was handed to John. Several sheets of A4 and a small white rectangle - about 2 inches by 3.
I swear my heart stopped. Had these three people deemed my three lines good enough?
Then my natural cynicism kicked in and I thought "No way! That's not my piece of paper". Someone else had obviously used their own notepad too...

The three short-listed poems were read out. I heard two of them. I heard the funny dog poem. I heard the laughter. And then Rowan stepped forward and read:

Penshaw Monument
stands guard above the pitheads.
No miners end their shifts.

And I heard an intake of breath, and an "ah!" and an "oh!" and someone said something but I didn't really hear what because the blood was pounding in my ears and my heart was thumping in my chest and I was not actually breathing. And my husband was laughing at the expression on my face.

Three lines apparently can make an impression, even in a room full of proper poets.  They (I) created a "powerful image".

So much so that I now have a signed copy of New and Selected Potatoes by John Hegley that says to me that my poem was good enough. 

me?

As yet untitled

A fledgling.
I barely knew
myself.

A daughter,
a sister.

I married.
Became a wife,
a mother of sons.

Now.
I become 
Me.

What's in a name?

I have an unusual name. It draws comment, and questions.

"Sorry, could you just spell that for me?"
"Pardon, I didn't quite catch that? Oh, I thought that was what you said!"
"Are you serious?"
"How unusual! Where does that come from?"
"Sparrowhawk? That's like two birds, isn't it?"
"Oh dear!"

The very best one was from the owner of the hotel in the Lakes on our honeymoon. We were asked to phone if we were likely to arrive later than 4pm to be sure our room would still be available. The lady later sheepishly apologised and confessed that this was not something they usually asked people to do but they suspected we might be playing a practical joke. The Hotel's name was Hawksmoor. Not the best start to my life with a new name!

So just to clear up some common FAQs.

Yes, it is really my name.
No, I am not kidding.
Actually, it's more like three birds.
Yes, it is quite unusual up north, but not so much down south.
No, I was not born with it, I got it when I married my husband - the clue here is in the Mrs...
My maiden name was Honnor, and yes, that was equally unusual, and yes, also always in need of spelling.
No, I don't know the origin of it.
No, I have not traced my family tree.
And finally, no, I am not an American Indian.


Eventually I grew used to the comments and questions, began to share the jokes. Depending on my mood, and how many times I'd had to spell my name in any one day, my responses would vary from light flippancy to deadly sarcasm.
Over the years I have had some interesting and amusing conversations with complete strangers. I am glad to say that the outright rude comments have been few and far between. Most people are politely incredulous, one or two laugh out loud. Bit rude, I think, but there you go. And just occasionally I get a lovely response, which makes it all worth it. One such was from Aidan Clarke.

Aidan came to perform his poetry in the library. Knowing the importance of a name, I am mortified to admit that we spelled his wrong on the publicity. He was immensely gracious, saying it happened all the time. I'm sure it does, though I am also quite sure from personal experience, that it irks the life out of him. We do at least have the ignominious honour of being the only ones, so far, to get both his forename and surname wrong. Sorry, Aidan. But like I said, we don't do things by half...

Aidan didn't know my surname when he met me. His response after the event, was to send me a poem which he would have read on the night, had he known. I can't reproduce it here, as it has been entered for a competition. It's a beautiful poem and I wish him luck with it. He has however sent me it's companion which can be shared.

Window on the World

I’ve sat for an hour

At a small round table

In a café window.

For a far, fierce hour

People, times and places

Have thronged

On a circle of wood.

This small circle of wood

Is an immense station

Where journeys

Intertwine and separate.

It’s a maternity wing,

Airport, motorway services,

Hospice and harbour,

Dedicated to arrival and departure.

There are armies on the march.

Celebrities come and go.

It’s an avenue, a hill

And an ocean dotted with sails.

Above it all, a hawk hovers.

I’ve sat for an hour,

(Or was it a lifetime?)

At a small round table

In a café window,

Listening to stories

Only time can tell.

Aidan Clarke

30^th April 2012

So what's in a name? Not much, really, it's just a name...

You can find other poems by Aidan here.   If you get the chance to see him perform live then grab it! 

Breaking news( or rumour, at the very least...)   Amazingly, it seems there is a possibility that i could be an American Indian after all. Well not me, actually, but maybe my husband and sons! New information (as yet unproven!) has come to light that suggests the Sussex Sparrowhawks might be descended from an Indian who came across with either the Wild Bill Hickock Show or the Buffalo Bill Show I suspect the latter, (the source of the informaion is not entirely reliable)...well I'll go to the foot of our stairs! Who'd have thunk it! 

Celebrating words - written, spoken, sung, or simply implied...

In November last year the central library where I work celebrated its 21st birthday.

This is, of course, the "new" library on York Road. The "old" library on Clarence Road had been around for considerably longer but we out grew it and so a replacement was conceived and finally born in 1991.

Of course the new building was a bit of a Marmite experience. People either loved it or hated it. The old library was well, old, and quiet, it had that musty book smell and the hushed restrained atmosphere. People whispered while they were in there...it felt like a library. 

The new building was new, bright and airy.  It was ugly and brash and modern, and it has to be said, noisy!  People who had never set foot in the old place came in and talked, noise carried. On top of all this the books had some new-fangled "categorised" shelving system. How were people meant to find what they wanted!? Where was the peace and calm, the quiet solitude that our borrowers expected from their library? In some circles the old building was mourned and the new usurper shunned. 

The Old Library

The old building was also situated at the edge of town, on a traffic island. You took your life in your hands some days crossing the road to get there. The new library was built smack bang in the town centre...nestled among the banks, building societies and wine bars. Right next to the bus-stop and the entrance to the shopping centre. A prime location! When it first opened we had to daft in extra staff to man the counters. We had queues of people waiting to join, waiting to bring books back and take books out, waiting to reserve the latest Catherine Cookson! It was fabulous and exhausting! One member of staff actually brought in a pedometer to measure how far she had to walk in a single day! 

The newly refurbished Central Library

Twenty one years later and it's quieter. We would give our eye-teeth to have those queues back. Well, I would. Not so sure the staff on the front line would appreciate it quite so much. Queueing is seen as a bad thing still. Possibly even more so now than back then. Today if there are more than ten people on a waiting list for a book it is regarded as unacceptable; people start asking why more copies haven't been bought. Back in the day we might have over a hundred waiting for Ms Cookson and there might be 20 copies in stock. Times change. And so do libraries. 

In 1991 we opened our lovely new library with one author event: Ken Follett came and cut the ceremonial ribbon, all the council dignitaries turned out for it. Not so many of the public. Having actual authors in a library rather than just books was a bit new to us back then.

Mari Hannah and Russ Litten 

Twenty one years later, after a much needed and long sought after refurbishment, we celebrated with 21 events over a six week period: authors, song-writers, poets, illustrators. They came, they talked, sang, recited and drew...and they were fabulous. They also said lovely things about libraries - and in particular ours. And they said they'd love to come back and see us again, which is good because we are doing it all again this year...without the 21 theme, obviously. 

Thanks to the following who helped us celebrate! 

Trisha Ashley    Guy Mankowski    

Beda Higgins  Malcolm Green   Elizabeth Gill   

 P A Morbid    Lee Maddison   Mari Hannah and Russ Litten    

Peter Brunton    Dan Smith    Pauline Rowson   Alexander Gordon Smith  

 Paul Torday   Andy Briggs   Valerie Laws    Steve Cole   Phil Dunn  

 Keith Robson  Jeff Price and Aidan Clarke   Sean Cooney

  

Balancing words and images

At the beginning of October I arranged a workshop at the Art Gallery based around the Adrian Gray "Balance" Exhibition. The group worked with Linda Robinson co-author of  Words and Pictures: Photography with a Pen Poetry with a Camera . Below as promised are some of the words inspired by the session. Thanks to the Gallery staff for their help in making the workshop possible.

Stone Sculptures

A life in balance

Are they trying to improve on nature?

Seeking a moment of equipoise,

Feeling the pull of the earth.

and saying “what the hell”
Seeking to make a mystery or magical moment.

Brings a whole new meaning to the word “Rocker”

 

Balancing Stones

I walked the beaches of Hartlepool:

Seaton Carew and the headland.

Seeking rocks for symmetry, balance and equilibrium.

Both natural and of human origin.

And all I found were covered in weed,

Slimy weed, that defies adhesion.

Human waste and industries poisonous pollution.

Green and black and yuck.

If I intend to find a point of balance

I need a wire brush or sandpaper,

To make them clean or pure.

Brian Geddes

All in the Mind

Stone 

on

Stone

in a frozen teeter

Poised

but a reluctant grain,

a scintilla shifts

a grind

as

          plates

                   shift

And new striations

Crack

          On Crack

across the face

Aeons of 

compressed energy

Spurt

From an id

Of repression

  

In the Zen Garden

One white stone on another 

Each stone a promise

Each stone a prayer

Each a memory

Like stones on a Jewish grave

Some stand upright, hard, resistant

Some ground to fragments

          like crushed bones

Some stones like pebbles

Hard, turned 

In

on themselves

Stones as many as the scattered

between

the sweated iron tracks.

Japanese general

Sitting in your Zen garden

Did you meditate this?

Tony Hey

Stoned

In a pink fizz sky

Precariously poised,

A lemon slice.

Contradiction 

Monolithic balance

in solid stone

Strength and weakness

combined.

Denise Sparrowhawk