The Writing Class

It’s on a Thursday evening and I’m tired from a full day at college.  Weary teaching adolescents who have far too much energy and fed up with chemistry, a subject I have hated since I was fourteen and at school myself.

But on the way to Ballysally or Ballybosnia as the locals like to call it, something magical happens.  I pick up Joan, in her early eighties, and her sweet radiance fills the car.  We talk and I love how she memorises all her poems.  Funny, touching, pieces that bring another generation back to life.  Then we enter the centre surrounded by burnt out houses, bricked up doors and broken windows.  Into a small terrace house and we climb the steep staircase.  Joan says we could do with Sherpa’s to get up them!

Into a room already beginning to fill with our usual bunch.  A girl from the women’s refuge, an autistic girl, an English women, a jokey middle-aged fellow, a twenty four year old who loves fairies, Eleanor who has her leg removed , quiet Susie, young single mother Mary and finally Jackie who finds writing tricky and has her creative words transcribed by me.  It sounds as if it should all be very sad our odd bunch.  But the magic begins and as creativity kick starts all of us, laughter takes over.

Howls of appreciation for quick wit or screams of fun at misunderstanding.  If no one has written anything they have to bear the brunt of questions from everyone in the room.  Terrifying in their unexpectedness and intrusiveness.  “Who was your first love?” or “When did you last have sex?”  Better by far to read aloud a short piece of prose than face the firing line of such unpredictable attacks.  United in creating, nervous to see others reactions to our words we write like mad.  Emotions are exposed but confidence is not just gained, confidences are shared.  Our cheeks glow and ache from laughing too much.  My stomach muscles complain and all our immune systems are topped up with this unexpected happiness.  From weariness to accomplishment we have travelled far.  And even more inspiring than the words on paper is the unity generated in our small class. 

Faith

It warms deep inside
When icy winds blow
Feeds the soul
When no reason to hope remains

It stiffens back in readiness for any load
And spurs on the deeds that light the day ahead

It turns the spotlight on one’s own ploughed field
Highlighting the bends the missed corners you need to see

An urgency to progress is lit
A fire within begins
A cry of thanks to God is heard
Drink deep this draught of Faith
Feel it, feed it, fan it.

Ain’t I a woman? and The Real Good poems

At our creative writing group today we were asked to bring in poems and there was a surprising mixture but really enjoyable.  Here are two, hope you enjoy them.
 A poem from Sojourner Truth's most famous speech (Ain't I A Woman? by Sojourner Truth Delivered in 1851 at the Women's Convention in Akron, Ohio), adapted into poetic form by Erlene Stetson.  Sojourner Truth was born a black female slave in 1797 and yet her words are so powerful it takes you by surprise.

Ain’t I a woman?

That man over there say
     a woman needs to be helped into carriages
and lifted over ditches
     and to have the best place everywhere.
Nobody ever helped me into carriages
   or over mud puddles
      or gives me a best place. . .

And ain't I a woman?
     Look at me
Look at my arm!
     I have plowed and planted
and gathered into barns
     and no man could head me. . .
And ain't I a woman?
   I could work as much
and eat as much as a man--
   when I could get to it--
and bear the lash as well
   and ain't I a woman?
I have born 13 children
     and seen most all sold into slavery
and when I cried out a mother's grief
     none but Jesus heard me. . .
and ain't I a woman?
     that little man in black there say
a woman can't have as much rights as a man
     cause Christ wasn't a woman
Where did your Christ come from?
     From God and a woman!
Man had nothing to do with him!
     If the first woman God ever made
was strong enough to turn the world
     upside down, all alone
together women ought to be able to turn it
     rightside up again.

The second poem below was just a feel good one that had heads nodding all around the room.
   
The Real Good
John Boyle O'Reilly 
         
 "What is the real good?"
I ask in a musing mood.

"Order," said the law court;
"Knowledge," said the school;
"Truth," said the wise man;
"Pleasure," said the fool;
"Love," said the maiden;
"Beauty," said the page;
"Freedom," said the dreamer;
"Home," said the sage;
"Fame," said the soldier;
"Equity," said the seer.
Spake my heart fully sad:
"The answer is not here."

Then within my bosom,
Softly this I heard:
"Each heart holds the secret:
'Kindness' is the word."

Irish temper in Greece

Found a huge pile of faxes sent by me from Greece when we lived there - here's a typical entry - let me know if this is scraping the bottom of the barrel and better left unspoken.

“My son is on his sixth week of a teacher’s strike and can scarcely believe his luck.  He’s convinced it is divine intervention.  He was on his way to school and had not done any of his homework and was beseeching God for help.  Can you imagine his reaction when he arrived to find the school gates chained with a sign saying the teachers were all on strike!  Six weeks later he is keeping his prayers going and is looking really smug and happy with himself.  I get the impression he is hoping this strike will last at least a year or perhaps even a life time. 

Having an Irish temper really works in Greece.  My English neighbour is periodically bullied by our high pitched shouting Greek neighbour who instructs him where to put our plants on the shared stairwell.   Over here she’ll tell him with loud protests and then make him move it again the next week.  I grew weary of it all and her blatant unreasonableness.  So one morning as I left the flat and she started lecturing him on plant positioning I told her roughly in Greek “Ase me!”  (rough translation –“leave me alone”)  That was it, end of story – no more lectures.  That is the weird thing about losing your temper here in Greece, it works so well.  It is as if there was a constant need to draw a line in the sand and say step over that and I’ll head butt you.  If you don’t then your private space is gradually eroded day by day.  Survival skills are always useful in every culture but I do worry that as a person I am developing the worst, rather than the best in me?”

Did you survive school unscarred?

From an old fax sent to home from Rhodes, Greece.  Apologies to any mistakes in my grammar – how I ended up teaching English with my spelling I never really understood.


Only lost my temper once today, while teaching.  One boy could not understand the difference between gradable and ungradable adjectives.  I explained quite clearly, I thought, “If I say you are a very stupid boy, or not very handsome, or a little foolish, these are all gradable.  But, if I call your English incomprehensible, unspeakable, ghastly there is no need to grade these words so they are ungradable.”  It was a lovely opportunity to insult him.  What a dastardly teacher I am.  Speaking of teachers, Daniel had a run in with his teacher in primary school here in Greece.  She called me in to see her as Daniel had snatched his book back from her last week.  In punishment she had decided to ignore him completely in the class for three days, even when he put his hand up.  Now, she wanted to talk to me because Daniel did not seem at all bothered about being ignored.  He hadn’t even told me!  Anyway, she said she’d been very upset all weekend and wanted Daniel to apologise.  I spoke to him and he was devastated he’d hurt her feelings and cried in his bedroom.  He apologised and she kissed him.  Imagine a teacher not speaking, sulking for three days.  It is almost as bad as using the English language to insult annoying students.   My question is how do any of us survive school unscarred?

What Am I?

Starting the adventure full of fire
Seeing so much to do, veins pumping
Brain fizzing with possibilities
Then middle-aged asking where the years have gone
Ironing and folding, washing and tidying away all mess
Cooking and buying, stuff that will need more cleaning and work
A cycle of endeavour that no one really appreciates
Perhaps they’d notice if it were not done
But ordering in is easily done and disorder becomes the norm
So what is this all for?
A treadmill that began when tiny bodies arrived dependent and helpless

An ocean of love demanded that all their needs be met
A moment’s hesitation could cost their life
The roads, the knives, the scalding cups
And not just this
A sudden urge to give to them something of worth
From all life’s experiences, books, films, religions, great thinkers, science, philosophy
Cherry pick and feed them the morsels of the best
And not just this
Knowing that it is deeds not words that they really learn from
Fighting to be a better example
An inward struggle not to be selfish, mean spirited, fearful, despondent, negative and far from the light
Knowing that all the while that along with the morsels of goodness
They are also consuming great drafts of polluted us
Choking on the grit of our failings

Then dawns the day for which you struggled, worked and prayed
An independent soul steps out towards the light
Sometimes you see echoes of yourself, a gesture, a laugh
But it is just a faint shadow because they are so much better and brighter than you dreamed possible
And from that place in the sun they can look back and see the darkness of us
Our failings, faults and fumblings
Suddenly feeble, lost with no parent’s authority to clothe ourselves
Watching the ceaseless tasks we fill our days with
Wondering why we chose this
And you want to tell them it was all because of love
Every day the joy of those you love
Laughing, living, being
Out of that, a routine was born and even now when all stand before me independent
Strong and capable
I continue as before
What am I to do?
For so long this was the pattern of my life
Don’t judge me
I must find a new path but am just a little lost

You see you no longer need me and that need has fuelled the last quarter century of my life
Now I clean and iron and cook and wonder what am I?
No longer what I was, but not sure what lies ahead
Fearful, lacking confidence, older, forgetful and trying to find myself anew
Stumbling forward hoping to find direction

Trying to let go and trust
Suddenly, looking inward and within
Scrambling to find self worth to cling to
It’s difficult with all this flab
But somewhere in this half century of life’s battlefield
I have learned to be grateful for this ocean of love and am
Willing myself to end the adventure full of fire with so much to do.

What a love story - in the real sense of the word

Loved this true story from Youtube - they just blow me away with their sweetness and words.  Hope you enjoy it.

Thanks

I must learn gratitude
must learn to thank God
to really really thank God
for all that life has brought
the laughter, the tears, the gains
and the losses
for all the emotions
for all the experiences
They breath life into each day
fill each moment with potentialities
and even in my darkest hours
they speak of love and hope
I know too why we must not judge each other
for no one knows one's own end
everything that has not been
achieved can in an instant be gained
Even if that second is the very last
granted on this earth
Likewise all that you think you are
can be undone in a second's mindlessness
So judge no one
look to your own field
make every endeavour
for none of us know
when this race ends
We are on different tracks
and on different terrain
Sometimes the slopes are steep on our path
while others are coasting downhill
Envy saps our precious energy
keep our eyes on the finishing line
look up, look up, there's money bid for you yet.

Pain - a path of Grace or a damaged zone?

There are times when emotions must be allowed to run where they will.  By refusing to allow them free reign it just creates a dangerous build up of hurtful feelings behind a weak dam of self will.  Rather if they are allowed to trickle where they will, one does enter forbidden regions dark and loathsome but eventually sunshine shores are discovered around unexpected corners.  The damage that is done by clinging to emotions is that long after the event, flooding has wrought havoc through previously healthy regions.  The resulting clean up inside, can take the rest of one’s life and even then not be successful.  The preoccupation with damage control will not sanction the healthy regrowth of natural emotional undergrowth.

To see a future, some hope, some way out is so important and yet during a stage of grief there is no such light.  Tears come and go yet strangely little relief.  The relief that does come is usually mostly self- pity or some other self indulgence and as such is leading nowhere good.

Time will usher you from one form of grief to another and the progress is personal, not to be forced, not to be slowed.  Those you love can sometimes act as a bridge over deep chasms that would slow progress or vice-a-versa lose you much ground.  These are acceptable risks, life without love is much too pointless and these advances and setbacks should be accepted with as much grace as possible.  It is strange that in moments of pain, loss, anger, and resentment it is then that one’s resources of what I can only call grace are at their peak.  Grace, those moments when a transcending emotion takes hold and lifts one above normal human limits into a different plane altogether.  From this plane one gets a glimpse of the purpose of all these degrees of pain, a vision of the path that is the river of your life and a sense of rightness amidst all that has seemed so wrong.

Dear Ursula Muhlschlegel

Tiny in frame both in height and breadth

white of hair, curious eyes behind
gold circles of glasses.
She has a bedroom laid out like an office
with pencils sharpened, rubbers, rulers all at hand
the drawer beneath holds envelopes
stamps and piles of crisp writing paper.
All is ordered and tidy, taken care of.
Breakfast with her is meticulous
with linen napkins in matching holders.
Tablecloth blistering white
and pots of tea and coffee just at hand.
Even as she serves you crisp fresh
bread rolls and hot drinks
you breath the aroma of
thoughtfulness that goes into
everything and every action.
Consume her kindness in word and deed
knowing that the heart within this
tiny lady beats a mighty tune
take care, take care, take care
possess a pure and radiant heart
it seems to shout.

At the bottom of the ladder

We held a memorial service for my husband’s father, a lovely gentle man, in our flat in Rhodes.  We had a room full of friends and the atmosphere was special with memories shared, tales told.  It was emotional and there were a few tears shed.  Suddenly, our next door neighbours in the flat opposite started a typical row.  Screams and shouts filled the neighbourhood and the lovely atmosphere was dispelled with foul words flying through the air.  They grew in intensity and I could stand it no more.  I went out onto our balcony and lifted some potatoes and threw them at their shutters shouting “Shut up!  We are trying to pray in here!” at the top of my voice.  The potatoes hit their shutters with satisfying thuds and rattles as I repeated my cry.  There was a sudden blissful silence in response and I entered our flat again and sat down.  I closed my eyes and tried to recapture the silent contemplative mood but the room felt different.   I opened my eyes to find everyone looking at me in total astonishment and shock.  Yes, at times even I realise just how far down the spiritual ladder I really am!

Money laundering - my style

Last night I was ironing and discovered a note of money in a pair of trousers, not mine, but one of my son's.  I remember my mother saying that it was dishonest to take money from your husband’s pockets.   However, she elaborated, if you happened to gave them a good shake and something fell out, then that was fair pickings!  The logic seemed sound if slightly morally flawed.  The note was crumpled into a tiny ball, deep in a pocket, and I straightened it on the ironing board.  Then used the iron to flatten it and was impressed how new it looked.  I suddenly decided to iron all the paper money I could find.  With what satisfaction I returned the crisp flat hot notes to my purse.  The thing is today, it strikes me as more than a little odd to iron one’s money.  Is this the first sign of madness or the last action of an anal retentive individual?  As I use the bills in public I’m careful to crumple the notes a little.  After all, no one needs to advertise how strange one has become to the whole world!

Tips for a happy life

When you are full of wind and need to fart
Let it go, let it go, let it go
When you’re angry fit to burst
Suck it in, suck it in, suck it in
When someone’s hurt your feelings to the bone
Have a big sweet coconut bun.
When you’ve done something wrong move on
But do something good twice, to cancel out the debt
When you’ve said the wrong thing  and hurt someone
You’re a pratt, you’re a pratt, you’re a pratt
If you meet a bully in this life
Stand firm, stand firm, stand firm
If you meet a hurt  soul
Listen well, listen well, listen well
When you walk a beach alone
Soak it up, soak it up, soak it up
When you’ve a good friend through thick and thin
Thank them well, thank them well, thank them well
When you can see the beauty in the rain and cold
Hug yourself tight, hug yourself tight, hug yourself tight
When you can’t sleep at night no matter what you do
Let it go, let it go, let it go
But be sure to leave the window open like your mind
Let it go, let it go, let it go

Trust

It is the foundation of everything
On this all is built
No virtue, no quality, no saving grace
Can stand without its base
Look in vain at honesty, courage and even kindness
If there is not trustworthiness all will be as nothing

Look deep to the core of people
Sense whether that trust is there, if not flee
Do not let beauty, speech or any gift of man or God
Distract you

This is the acid test
It is the spoon upon which the others are measured
If it be missing then all is lost
Poured out upon the dust they will soon be effaced
Find within the root of trust for without this
there is no fruit only the fire of loss.

Funny Poem - not mine

At our creative writing class in Coleraine someone brought Brian Rankin's poem and we enjoyed it so much I thought I'd share it here.  Brian raises money for orphans in Uganda with his books and can be contacted on email  at  bjrankin_20@hotmail.com .  Enjoy it and if you want to hear him read it himself - you can at this link (bottom of page) http://lowcountrylad.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/tha-poet-farmer-brian-rankin.html


The Ballad of "Wee Willie & Big Mary" by Brian Rankin


Wee Willie still lived with his mother
Tho' he was fifty-four
He just worked away on the farm
Never went out the door.

A miserable looking crettar
As thin as you could get
Seven stone would've been his limit
If he was soakin' wet.

Then his mother passed away
To her funeral neighbours came
No longer there to shelter him
Willie was now...... fair game.

At the graveside there were several girls
Who made sure they kissed him
But "Big Mary" waited till the end
She wasnae goin' to miss him.

A hefty heifer - man she was
As broad as she was long
She gave him a hug and lifted him!
With big thick arms so strong.

Like a roaring fire were her cheeks
Like tree trunks were her legs
Every morning an Ulster fry
Sausage...bacon...eggs.

When she finally set him down she said
"I might call some day for tea"
Willie was dizzy, feard and flummoxed
"Aye.... That's alright by me".

So she started to call with cakes and buns
For she was a fair ol' baker
He thought that she was after him
But she ... was after acres!

You see, she had a wee farm of her own
Nothin' but whin bushes
Her ween of sheep - they had to graze
In amongst the rushes.

She had got her eye on his nice land
Its rolling fields so green
The good farmhouse - the tidy yard
As nice as she had seen.

She turned the charm up full on him
He thought she was a clinker
It wasnae long till she'd reeled him in
Hook and line and sinker.

Before he knew it - the date was set
And she had him up the aisle
But they had no choice - with her size...
Had to walk out single file!

Into the wedding car was a squeeze
She must have been twenty stone
Willie was jammed up against the glass
For she filled it on her own

That night, he got into bed before her
Sort of feard - he lay still
Then Big Mary.. she got in
And he sort of rolled downhill.

"I think it's straight to sleep" she said
"For that big day did weary us"
He lay in tight at her back
The heat from her was serious.

He thought about the comin' winter
And how she'd keep him warm,
He thought about the buns she'd make
And how she'd help him farm.

She'd be a quare help with the sheep
For lambing was a battle,
And with her size - she'd fair block a hole
If he was movin' cattle!

Aye - he slowly came to the conclusion
She'd be good about the place
Soon he was drifting off to sleep
With a smile upon his face.

So how does this story end up
The marriage - was it a go?
Was it happily ever after?
I'm sorry to tell you... no.

For later on that night - disaster!
The marriage was ill fated
Big Mary rolled over in her sleep
Wee Willie.........suffocated!

Preacher Al

I had a great uncle Al, a real character.  He was an Elim preacher and was always joking around.  My Dad was showing Al the sights in Northern Ireland and had driven up the mountain to show him a scenic reservoir.  Unfortunately, the officious security guard on the gate refused them admittance.  Despite all my Dad’s pleas, the guard was adamant.  Uncle Al leaned out the window and in a booming posh voice said

“I didn’t have this trouble when I was Governor of Bahamas!”

The red faced security guard waved them on through.  Uncle Al invited us to his church in Ballymena for a service and I was amazed.  People would shout out during his sermon, things like “Yes, Jesus!” or “Praise the Lord, brother” or “Thanks be to God” at the top of their voices.  I was fascinated it seemed so lively compared to other boring church services and so unpredictable.  At that moment, uncle Al introduced us to his congregation.

“Sitting there,” he pointed at my Dad with an outstretched finger, “is my nephew Bengy from Dungiven, who thinks we all descended from monkeys!”

The entire congregation turned and glared and we slid down lower in our pew.  But even he got fed up with being heckled.  There was a large lady in the front row wearing a huge hat with a single enormous feather at its peak, who screamed out at the top of her voice during his sermon the same phrase,

“Oh, for the wings of a dove, to soar nearer to thee, oh God”, again and again she screamed.

At last, Uncle Al lost all patience, and announced in a resigned tone

“Oh God, stick another feather in her hat and let her go!”

The entire audience roared in approval.  That was the weird thing about uncle Al he seemed to get away with the most outrageous behaviour without causing offence.  It was his abundant good humour that made everything palatable.  He died singing a hymn in his wife’s arms, happy and beaming to the end.

Pari

I remember your luminous smile.  Eyes bright and twinkling laughter lighting your face.  The kindness of your heart enveloping those around you.  So many acts of kindness that it seemed to be an addiction not a habit for you.  You came to my home on our grotty estate and painted our entire living room a happy sunshine colour.  Then brought a table, round and low and very fancy for cups and cakes.  Too expensive for our estate but so beautiful.  You came to my door loaded with vitamins and supplements, sensing my pain when no one else did.  When my studies were finished you had a surprise celebratory party for me.  I remember travelling in Poland with you and singing a morning prayer sitting on a rock beside you.   In the silence that followed, you turned and told me that it was the most tuneless thing you’d heard ever heard!  We laughed so hard I think I remember us  falling off the rock.  Your Lemon cake from the Aga that had melted syrup on top.  So many other acts of kindness too many to put on paper.  Table loaded with lovely food and the best coffee and tea on tap.  The hostess whose heart was as big as your home.

Somehow I couldn’t face the Dreen without you for so long.  Then your grandchildren visited and in those two I saw your smile in smaller features and felt the loss strangely eased.  You are still here in so many ways.  There, in those happy grins and here in our hearts always.

Taking flight

In the jungle of my mind several ideas take flight.
Not one or two but a whole flock.
Rising squawking form the ground they fumble to the sky
Most have not strength at all and fall into mud,
wings beaten to despair upon the ground
But one or two take wing and rise above the rest
Beat frantically upon the still air
Desperate to gain height
Unwieldy in the morning dawn
They rise slowly
Gaining ground the two soar above the tree line
Gain perspective of the forest floor
See the blue sky above
and begin to feel the sun’s rays
warm the feather of their wings.
Then unexpected, a predator swoops
Tasking one in piteous talons
with a burst of broken feathers
Life is torn out in seconds
The remaining bird frightened by the noise, the loss
Wheels away desperate for life for hope
Dipping wings it angles away
Through tree tops seeking shelter
Finding a hidden branch it lands
Covered for the moment by foliage
It pants its chest in exertion
Breathing in and out
Until fear subsides and the call to rise grows
It rises on an updraft
and soars up into bright blue
Fast of wing and true of heart
It climbs beyond predator and fear
Until high among mountain tops
it cries its exaltation.

Brussels Torment - best left unsaid

Was trying to write about a dreadful Brussels experience I had a few years ago while working as an independent Science advisor for the EU.  Often, dreadful moments with the passage of time morph into a funny story that can act as a catharsis for the humiliation or painful memory.  However, this one is too deep a scar to be joked with yet.  It took me four pages of writing to discover that the Brussels story is still far too raw and sensitive to get out of my system yet.

This particular story will have to gestate for at least another decade before it sees the light of day!  So in the words of Forrest Gump, “….and that’s all I am going to say about that!”