a blog to share my word-whispers and nearly seventy years of poetry

Saturday, 30 March 2013

This could be fun ...!

I am re-focusing today, sorting projects - those on-the-go, those impending, and some about which I had forgotten. Like this idea that for some reason came to me almost two months ago and was filed away (the page on which I wrote it was scanned, and that was that).

I think at the time, I must have been thinking of the new booklets I will make for this year's Warwickshire Open Studios (beginning of July) when again I will be exhibiting in our caravan, sat in the courtyard outside our door. Time then to play, and think of Autumn projects ....

This is the word-whisper I wrote when the spark came, and an explanation of how I would create the booklet. I've now moved it into my WOS 2013 box along with many other possibilities. Eventually, they will all have to be prioritised.

Sunday, 10 March 2013

A strange post for mother's day

This year, Mother's Day happens to coincide with a sad and poignant occasion in my young life, and one I never forget, as 10th March arrives every twelve months. I vividly remember the occasion, and even in writing this 'word-whisper', remember too my beloved Mummy, who even with all the problems in her life, of which I gradually became aware, she always believed in me. Though never in a demonstrative way, I knew she cared.

So this image of her hugging me is all the more special to me, for I cannot recall another.  Eventually, I understood; but that's another story.



Not sure how old I was here, as I don't recognise the dress, around two I think, and before she had to make what must have been, for a mother, a difficult decision; to leave me with my grandparents whilst she accompanied my father on a concert tour of South America. They were out there when war broke out (World War II).

Friday, 8 March 2013

Not spilling, but floating

I have not had a good two weeks, work-wise; feel totally drained and incapable of writing other than necessary prose. A terrifying experience; though they go in waves, my poem-spills. Today, as we drove across country for feed for the chickens, and food for ourselves, it was as if a shutter had fallen; my head throbbed and R. talked gently to me of my fears, and of what was going wrong.

And then, oh blissful then, a trickle. Out of my bag I pulled a bank envelope - all I had to write upon; dug into my pocket for a pen .....