White Out

The thing I love about writing poetry is that nothing is wrong, anything goes, and the words can be interpreted to say what you want them to say. This may be a poem about walking through a blizzard - or it may be about something else entirely.

Walking through a blizzard

your feet take time to acclimatise.

You move slowly

and with each step you sink deeper.

You turn to check your progress

but you can’t quite be sure

which way to go,

which way you came.

For the moment it’s beautiful

but you know that underneath it all

the world is grey and very soon

the pain and numbness will hit.

A Day of Spontaneity

A quiet day in Peterborough, that was what I had planned for Daughter and myself. We would have a bite to eat in John Lewis, wander up to the Cathedral and then sip coffee in an as-yet-unidentified cafe. Even though Peterborough is equidistance between us, this was the first time we had arranged to meet there. It was what we both needed on one of Daughter's rare work breaks - a nice quiet day.

I was about to leave the house when she rang. The Peterborough train has been cancelled. Let's meet in London and have lunch at Ottolenghi's... and so began a manic but marvellous meet-up.

Ottolenghi's is in Islington, a typical Israeli relaxed kind of place with long white tables and lots of chatter. We each had a plate piled high with rich and varied salads. As our food was placed before us, I couldn't help thinking that salads never looked like this when I was young.

We sat for hours putting the world to rights and then we wandered off to Angel Islington and the boutique shops. I fell in love with a handbag and, as this was a day of spontaneity, I bought it. We wandered on past a nail bar... well not exactly past. We went into the nail bar and minutes later we were sitting side-by-side having our hands massaged and our nails painted. I went for glittery pink. Daughter chose blue.

In the next street we found one of those cafés where people sit with laptops or lounge on settees and we put yet more of the world to rights over an afternoon cuppa by which time it was no longer afternoon. It was six o'clock and time to return to St Pancras Railway Station.

Just time for a final hug and a wave and the day was over. What a treat, and all the more enjoyable for being so spontaneous.

On Being a Pet Owner

It has been a difficult few weeks for a number of reasons. One of them is cat related. Our little old cat, Charlie, had to be taken for her last visit to the vets on Monday. She had been a poorly cat for some time so this was not a sudden thing but that doesn't mean it hurts any less. Now her sister, Mabel, keeps sitting in the hall crying and wandering round sniffing the carpet. How do you tell a cat that her lifelong companion has gone?

And so I'm trying to write, trying to take my mind off the pains and vagaries of life but, at the moment, I can only think of cat related things to write about and so...

I have had cats all my life. There was a tabby cat called Timothy, a fluffy one called Paddy Paws and my first cat when I got married, a ginger tom called Tinker, aptly named. He would leap from behind and attach himself to unsuspecting visitors' backs.

Plink and Plonk, (I know, I know, they were named by my ex-husband!) were two little brother cats who supported me through a difficult divorce. They moved house with me when I had to downsize twice over and then, when I met Mr A, they had to tolerate the addition of Ben the dog into their lives. I was concerned for their safety as Ben fancied himself as a bit of a cat chaser. We kept them in separate parts of the house for a few days but we knew we had to introduce them. (I have mentioned this once before here on my blog but I think it bears a second telling.) One evening Mr A put Ben on the lead and brought him into the back room where the cats were. Ben pulled and strained on his lead whining, "Let me get at them, let me get at them." I told Mr A to unfasten the lead and I got ready to rescue the cats, but as soon as Ben realised he was no longer safely on the lead he hid behind Mr A's legs and shook. For weeks the cats sat on the dining table taking unprovoked swipes at Ben's muzzle.

Plink and Plonk never truly warmed to Ben but after their demise our little tortoiseshell darling cat, Rosie, fell in love with him, so much so that when Ben died, Rosie pined and we got another rescue dog, the manic and very adorable Josh. Losing Josh hurt so badly I thought I'd never have a pet again. It was Mum who suggested that my home wasn't a home without pets. She was right... of course. Mums are always right. Charlie and Mabel, two sister cats, came from the RSPCA where nothing was known about them except that an elderly lady had owned them. They were traumatised and timid when they arrived but I like to think they've had (and in Mabel's case is continuing to have) a good life here with us which is the most important thing.

And now I shall go back to giving Mabel extra fuss and attention because she deserves it.

Rest in Peace my sweet little Charlie.

My Poetry

I've had a few requests from blogger friends to post up some of my poetry but once a poem has appeared on a blog it is considered to have been published and, as such, most poetry magazines would refuse to accept it. I am working towards producing a poetry collection and so it is important for me to have my work published by poetry magazines in order to get my name out there. Therefore I can't post up a selection of my poems at the moment. What I can do is to post the links to three poems that have been published so far this year...

Youth

I wrote Youth in response to a piece of artwork called Messiah by Ernst Neuschul. I am fascinated by this kind of writing. It's called ekphrastic writing and our tutor on the MA Course introduced me to it. He took us to New Walk Museum and told us to find a painting and see what writing it inspired. Youth was the first piece I wrote. I went on to write a number of other pieces but this one was accepted by the Ekphrastic Review last December and so you can read it here:

http://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/youth-by-rosalind-adam

Klezmer Men

Having been inspired by art, I moved on to music. I love listening to Klezmer music, popular in 19th century Ashkenazi communities of Eastern Europe. Klezmer bands would roam from stetl to stetl often playing for very little money and a bed for the night. The music fell out of fashion after the Second World War but during the 1980s its popularity reemerged. Klezmer music makes me want to dance and so I wrote two poems about men playing and dancing to the music. They were both published in last month's Jewish Literary Review. You can read them here:

http://jewishliteraryjournal.com/poetry/klezmer-men-rosalind-adam/

Life After Masters

Last week I graduated. De Montfort Hall looked amazing. We all looked amazing. The University of Leicester did us proud.

I had been dreading Graduation Day - all that fuss, all that pomp and tradition. What if the gown didn't fit? What if I tripped as I walked across the stage? But then I woke up at 5 am and I was no longer anxious. I was looking forward to it. I was going to enjoy every minute, not least seeing Daughter who was travelling up by train for the day.

Now it's all over. I have my certificate for my MA. I have my Waddington Award for best dissertation and my G. S. Fraser award for poetry. But there is a void. I want a deadline for an assignment. I want the preparation for a seminar. I want the coffee and chat in the Student Union cafe. It will take a while before I stop missing all those things.

Its not as if I've been doing nothing since I finished the MA. I've sent out some poetry - three poems accepted so far this year and there are more out there being considered. What I should be doing is transforming my stage play from a dissertation to a submittable script. I worked really hard on that play, was thrilled to get an award for it, so why can't I just get on with editing and submitting? It's based on a true event from 1935 London. I became very attached to the characters, both the real ones and my fictional protagonist. Maybe I'm afraid that it will be rejected. Maybe I need a bit more time to ruminate. Maybe I should stop writing this blog post and just get on with it...

Ferret Love

For over 40 years I cooked Christmas dinner for the family. Now it's someone else's turn. 

This is the second year that we spent Christmas with Daughter. It has become our new tradition. Daughter found a lovely pub-cum-restaurant where we lounged near a huge log fire and unashamedly allowed others to wait upon us.

Since I last mentioned Daughter on this blog, she has fallen in love with ferrets. She is a weekend volunteer at her local RSPCA and this was how she first met - and lost her heart to - these long furry animals. I didn't realise how tame and loving ferrets could be. It would seem that I am now their grandma and so, as is the way with all good grandmas, I am in love with them... almost.

Between you, me and the blog post, I have to admit that I do prefer cats. My two girls, Mabel and Charlie, are getting on in years now and are both on different doses of medication. This would make going away impossible if it wasn't for my amazing friend/neighbour who even crept round early on Christmas morning to give them food, meds and love before her family woke up.

Of course, there were other holiday events; trips to visit family, family staying over on New Years Eve, a visit with the grandkids to the local pantomime, Peter Pan - oh yes we did - but somehow I keep thinking of those ferrets, of their hammocks to sleep in, their toys to play with and tubes to run through. They've certainly landed on their paws at my Daughter's place and they're not cheap to run. They eat fresh meat every day, need constant care and attention and I'm guessing that all those ferret toys cost a pretty penny and some, but then I think about the amount of love that they have to offer - and that is priceless.

A Tough Cookie of a Rose

I have a lovely rose bush that my lovely sister gave me several years ago but the bush, like so many of us, has had a tough year:

February - I was laid low with the dreaded flu while the Beast from the East raged outside. My rose bush was blackened by frost.

March - The snow thawed. My MA work became more intense while my rose bush fought a different battle. An aggressive neighbour, a Virburnum Davidii with no respect for the space of others, was overwhelming her. The shrub had to go.

April - Secateurs were employed along with spades, forks, some digging, some pulling and several unladylike words (Ok, so Mr A did most of the heavy work... ok, ok, he did all of the heavy work!). The bully shrub was gone leaving my rose bush hanging pale and emaciated. (I didn't tell Sister about this so, 'Sorry, Sis x'.) 

Steaming summer - My rose was charred by the relentless sun. She longed for a good downpour of rain, as did we all.

Autumn - The garden is turning to shades of gold and brown while my rose has finally produced her 2018 blooms. Here she is early this morning after a cold, wet and windy night... and you can still see the gap where the offending shrub once stood.

My rose bush is truly a tough cookie, but then I guess we all have to be these days to survive.