in those days we went each year
watched them drive through the
village first
oh the excitement
waving
only they did not come last year
of course and i guess they will
not again this year
i would not mix with a crowd now
would you james?
when I was a kid the elephants
came by train and there was a
procession from the station
through town with performers
all waving
i was scared of the lions and other
creatures
not the elephants nor the clowns
james
i loved them both
and still do
1°
overcast
#National Lighthouse Day
Calling by Dean Wilson from his collection “Take Me Up The Lighthouse”
All poems by Dean Wilson from his collection “Take Me Up To The Lighthouse”
West Lighthouse (or High Light) in Tayport, Fife. It was built in 1823 by Robert Stevenson. #FifeCoastalPath
In Red and White
You could helter-skelter down their columns on a rug or tray,
pretend they’re giant sticks of rock in red and white –
slice thought their middles and you’d surely find
the names of places where they stand:
Strumble, Needles, Bardsey, Portland Bill.
In the wind you’d hear the thin bewildered sighs
of long-forgotten keepers drifting round
the eerie robot systems that transmit the beams;
men amazed that no-one has to trim or light the lamps.
-Gill McEvoy
-Tattoo by Penny Wood of Grimsby. Wearer is Gordon Wilson
Penmon lighthouse shot on a 4×5 pinhole by Rob Padley
Spurn Point Lighthouse by Margaret Royall
The Shell poster design of “North Foreland Lighthouse” by Elwin Hawthorne from 1931. It will be in our show @BeecroftGallery & on loan from @SHAC_Curator #ELG
“North Foreland Lighthouse” by Elwin Hawthorne from 1931. It is in the collection @Russell_Cotes #ElwinHawthorne #NorthForelandLighthouse
Lighthouse for sale by Roger Waldron
Adnamurchan by Professor Spencer
Adnamurchan by Professor Spencer
Adnamurchan by Professor Spencer
Adnamurchan by Professor Spencer
‘St John’s Point’ Oil on canvas 100cm x 100cm by Alan Parker
Cyclops in Cythera by Anne Rouse first published in the Edinburgh Review, Issue 135.
Perdrix Liighthouse painting by Dr. Claire Trevien
Collage by Caroline Johnstone
Excerpt from The Errand Boy: North – when Dunkeld first meets Nostrum, is he a friend or foe….
The quiet serenity of the pub was abruptly shattered as the door flew open and half a dozen trawler men rolled in, good natured but loud and thirsty.
“Valerie, your favourite Vikings are back, give us your wenches and your mead so we can raise a pyre to Valhalla.” The leader had a voice of confidence and camaraderie, his blonde greyish hair and beard was punctuated with eyes that looked as if they were formed from the blue waters of Capri.
“Captain Daniel Nostrum, there are no wenches in my pub, you’ll have ale and a meat pie and you will be grateful and you won’t be lighting up in here either or I’ll be sending you to Ragnarok with your backside in a sling.” Nostrum’s crew burst out laughing as they saw their captain was bettered at his own game.
“Valerie, it is true, you are no wench, you are a siren of the sea created to lure poor fishermen in and drag them to the depths of Poseidon with your sweet song.” Nostrum leaned over the bar and offered her a kiss into which Valerie stuffed a freshly cut slice of lemon. He looked shocked and hurt and then chewed and swallowed the lemon before pounding the top of the bar and bursting into laughter. It had the feeling of a scene played out many times over the years, the men gather around excited and eager as the beers began to flow.
Dunkeld observed the ritual from his vantage point. His captive had adopted a disguise of a fisherman but these were genuine, they looked like they had been at sea for weeks; especially the way they were chugging down beer.
Nostrum slid onto the bench opposite Dunkeld, in his massive hands were two whiskies as a way of introduction, he handed one to Dunkeld.
“For Jonesy, slainte,” he said and they both knocked back the single malt. It was neat as Dunkeld new it would be, sweet, caramel tasting, Glenmorangie he guessed. He knew his palate was too tainted to pick out the finer points of the nose but he knew enough to appreciate a dram and would have preferred a drop of water with it but he was not going to tell Nostrum that.
“Did you know him?” Dunkeld asked as he lowered his glass to the table.
“I did, a fine man, good drinker, great storyteller, crap darts player, did you?” Nostrum focused his blue eyes squarely on Dunkeld. This time it was not as friendly as Valerie’s but more insistent with a hint of a threat.”
“No, sorry to say I didn’t, I’m here on behalf of the regiment. I’ll place a flag on his coffin on behalf of the family we shared, even the ones he didn’t know.”
“I thought he’d left that behind years ago?” Nostrum said, casually.
Dunkeld straightened and felt himself visibly bristle: “you don’t leave this family, wherever your life takes you, if you are from us you, are one of us.”
Nostrum smiled and backed down. “Sorry, I like to push and see what develops. No offense intended. He was a good man, his death was,” he paused, “unexpected and tragic for such a capable person. He came out to sea with us once and he looked like he was born to it.” Dunkeld read Nostrum’s face and could see he did not believe in accidents either.
His thoughts were interrupted as Valerie returned to fill the glasses. She looked at Dunkeld and said: “Scottish hospitality” as she poured the whisky. “Where are you from? Your accent is strange, a wee bit off but I can tell a Scot when I hear one.”
Dunkeld smiled and raised his glass, for years he tried to strangle and subdue his accent so he could blend in at Sandhurst and in the desert.
“The family is from Dunkeld originally, it’s where the name comes from but I grew up in Glasgow before being kidnapped by a fine but fickle English woman and when she ran off I joined the army.” It was a truth, sort of, and with that he downed the glass.
“That’s bloody English women for you, no idea when they have a good thing. I’ll leave the bottle, enjoy.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she turned back to the bar and Dunkeld was sure that in her day she would have played hell with the local men.
“You watch her, she breathes fire and eats landlubbers for breakfast.” Nostrum said loud enough for his crew to hear. They erupted into a loud cheer and tried fruitlessly to get a rise from Valerie who was too well schooled in the art of men and drinking to be impressed.
“She’s great, we come in here once a month, create a lot of noise, drink a lot of beer, spend a lot of money and then stagger down the street to sleep it off, she’s not barred us yet so we figure she likes us.”
“Why here?” asked Dunkeld, not entirely sure why he was interested.
Nostrum looked up and around the pub, pondering the question. “We’ve been coming here ever since I became captain, 10 years ago. My father used to come here as a young trawler man and his father before him. This place is over 100 years old. It’s always been a safe harbour between the water and home and” he paused, “they don’t eat bloody shark although haggis is not so good either.” He burst out laughing and poured them both another drink.
“I see you were in the navy, special forces.” Dunkeld said pointing to Nostrum’s tattoo that was partially revealed as he offered another toast to his late friend.
“Not many people would be able to recognise this tattoo.” He said rolling up his sleeve to display it in full, a Viking face behind an upright arrow, framed by a longboat, oars up. “FSK, Forsvarets Spesialkommando.”
“Formed in the 80s to protect Norway’s interests and cloaked in a lot of secrecy and denial. Your unit was formed by men whose parents had been famous in WWII for lightning raids on German boats and fortifications, FSK techniques were developed alongside specialist units such as the SBS and then SAS. I like a bit of military history.”
“SAS, the Saturday and Sundays only squad, I did my national service and graduated up to FSK but the sea kept calling me like it has done to all my family. I couldn’t wait to get back on the water and here I am, sat with you toasting a fallen comrade with my new friend and telling you far too much.” He refilled the glasses again and they both took a large slow drink this time. “Have you met Douglas yet?” Nostrum asked. For a brief second Dunkeld considered lying but realised that would be a mistake.
“I have, we shared the ferry over, doesn’t say much but he gathered I was over for the funeral.”
“Jones was his nephew.” Nostrum leaned in and added this bit of information conspiratorially. Dunkeld was shocked, he had not realised there was a family connection and there was nothing in the paperwork to suggest it.
“I didn’t know that at all” was all he could manage to say.
“Douglas likes to keep things close to his chest. Jonesy’s mother was Douglas’ sister, so different surname but Douglas was a happy man when his nephew came to work on the island. After his wife passed away he changed a bit, like a good part of him had gone. I’m not convinced he believes it was an accident. If he gets his hands on who is responsible then there will be all hell to pay.” Dunkeld’s shock turned to worry about the prisoner – would Douglas deliver him as promised or take him out to some cliff top and drop him off the edge?
Dunkeld brought his attention back to Nostrum: “What makes you think it wasn’t an accident?”
“That lighthouse, that spit of a bit of rock has been drawing people in for decades, do you know the story of the three lighthouse keepers that went missing at the end of the war? Lights at all hours, birds nesting spooked, no one stays there too long.”
“Do you think it’s haunted?” asked Dunkeld.
Nostrum looked at him and held his poker face as long as he could bare it before bursting out into laughter. “Haunted, Christ no but it’s bloody cursed for sure.” A noise burst from one end of the bar as two of the drunken crew started stripping to their waist.
“Captain Nostrum, please sort this out before I fling you all out. I will not have nudity in my bar on a Friday night” bellowed Valerie from behind the bar.
Nostrum nodded goodbye to Dunkeld and rose to sort his men out leaving a confused Dunkeld to mull over the revelation. From the bar voices rose, speaking English one minute and Norwegian the next. Men crowded the two semi-naked brawlers and the regulars just took it in their stride, watching with amusement, moving there pints from time to time to avoid collateral damage.
Dunkeld looked at all the customers, to him there was no sign of anyone who did not look like they did not belong and even though Dunkeld had only been there a few hours he knew this type of place. If your face fitted it embraced you and if it did not you were encouraged to drink up and be on your way.
A glass shattered, there was a roar of encouragement at the bar as the two men grabbed each other to wrestle for honour and then the body of men moved itself as one solid mass out of the saloon doors and into the car park. The doors swung shut and the sound of testosterone blowing off steam could be heard getting louder as bets were placed.
Bios And Links
-Dean Wilson
is a retired postman from Hull. He moved to Withernsea a few years ago and is a volunteer in the lighthouse.
-Cat photo by Elizabeth Moura
-Photos by trixiedreamspank
No longer there
Did you call for me
Did you want me close
My thoughts are too late I suppose
At four in the morning you will come calling
Will I find you on my keyboard sitting
Will I be able to wear you as a hat you silly thing
When can I look forward to your reactions to new and shiny things
Like your expressions when the Christmas tree is lit and decorated
Will I get to see you climb it this year
And will you be there to throw it down each morning
Or come running when you’ve nipped the scent of fish frying
I won’t get to see you sleep with half of your body on the chair
Or in positions that made me laugh having me wondering if you had a care
Will I ever have to worry with which other cat you fought with
Which dog you’ve been chasing
Which part of the chair you’ve been clawing
Puss puss you silly cat
No longer will you be there
Because no longer you are here
No longer
You are gone
-trixiedreamspank
One of the dogs
She hung out with the dogs
She played with the dogs
She roughhoused
She guarded
She chased
Other dogs with the dogs
But she was no dog
I think
She was just a confused cat.
-trixiedreamspank (She says of these two poems “two poems I have written about my cat Princess that sadly was only around for just under a year.“)
A Cat’s Concern (From my “Self-Isolation Sonnets)
Bella is the abandoned cat rescued
By our dear late friend Big John and his spouse
who cleaning his jacket asked why cat food
treats pocketed when it’s not a cat house?
John tells her in preparing their new home
a little cat comes from the undergrowth.
Neighbours say she was left behind alone
when old owner sold house and loath
to see her starve have been feeding her scraps
but sorry they can’t take her in themselves.
He knows some cat lovers who will perhaps
take her in and care for her as themselves.
John and spouse renewed vows dressed as Beauty
and Beast so Bella does her nurse duty.
-Paul Brookes
Mish’sSex & Ketchupis informed by the trauma of living in the Trump Era and especially of being in the quarantine for the past few month. This is not to say that her collection is entirely about this era, only that the poems seem influenced by it and the emotions drawn out by it, even when she is not directly discussing the quarantine, her poetry seems to be a reaction to it. There are of course a number of poems that reminded me a bit of the political writing of Muriel Ruykeyser or Allen Ginsberg. They comment directly on the ex-president and his policies. However, it is equally clear that this time in quarantine has caused Mish to dwell on the traumas of her distant and recent past, and these are drawn out in the collection as well. In this, she is giving a voice to the deeply felt…
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When I read a poem by Steve Ely in The London Review of Books, I was intrigued and sought out more of his work. Ely, who lives in Yorkshire, has produced three books: Oswald’s Book of Hours (2013), Englalaland, (2015) and Incendium Amoris (2017), all from Smokestack. The blurbs for these collections compare the poet’s work to Geoffrey Hill’s Mercian Hymns and Basil Bunting’s Briggflatts. I thought it would be interesting to consider how far these comparisons can be sustained.
The three most obvious characteristics that come to mind are the autobiographical element, the strong sense of place experienced through time and the fact that all three poets are men. The work of Ely and Hill is also informed by a strong commitment to Christianity, whilst Bunting, reared within Quakerism, though less obviously Christian, arguably has a religious vision. For the purposes of this essay, I shall concentrate…
View original post 2,909 more words
Awareness of climate change and the growth of ecocritical theory have placed a new value on poetry which foregrounds the non-human.This may lead to the revaluation of past writings about nature or to the emergence of conscious attempts to acknowledge non-human forms or beings as themselves rather than as appendages or furnishings for the human perspective.Fundamentally, however, we, as humans, continue to impose our own views, needs and ways of understanding on the world around us, although our ways of representing that world may be changing with changes in our knowledge.
One wing of ecocriticism links the ecological battle to other struggles against oppression and for social justice as expressed in feminism, post -colonialism and LGBTQ+ theory. This alignment of the environment with other ‘victim’ categories, has led to an upgrade in the status of the poet, John Clare, who has become a favourite of ecocritics, perhaps at the expense…
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Day Sixteen – What We Should Do For Sealife?
WHAT SHOULD WE DO FOR SEALIFE ?
Learn. Listen. Act.
We know the problems earth is experiencing
as a result of unsustainable living.
It takes collective will and unity,
ego-less leadership committed to evolution,
to affect a whole globe for greater good.
Greedy hearts of stone govern this fossil-fuel holocaust.
Until we stop fucking fracking,
ban slash-and-burn cash crop palm oil farming,
the earth’s deep nurturing soul will still be dying.
The ocean is snided with rubbish ;
we’re eating micro plastic. Why does it happen ?
It’s about what food we eat – and how it’s produced.
The current view : oceans are a fishery resource.
Meat and fish production takes up vast space.
Vegetarianism is a sound health choice and it relieves that strain.
Earth is a living breathing entire organism – Lovelock’s Gaia Theory.
The biggest change will need to occur inside the human brain.
The ocean could be farming nutritious kelp, if we had a taste for it.
There are bio-degradeable alternatives to packaging ;
so it’s about education and behaviour change,
harnessing innovation to solve man-made problems.
Adopting large scale renewables,
would drastically reduce fossil fuel use, with its choking oil spills.
If we electrified the grid, provided home chargers for e-cars,
we would no longer rely on it to drive the wheels our journeys.
Lobby the politician – Make positive change happen.
Health is wealth – The alternative is extinction.
Stop monoculture which exhausts both sea and land.
Stop over-fishing; let populations recover.
Value nature and conservation properly.
Protect our natural heritage with strong wildlife laws and designation.
A shark in a tank is not a wild creature at home – it’s a zoo;
Surviving is not enough. Creatures have rights too.
Take whaling, it’s a blood diamond –
where there’s conflict, there’s profit, but for who ?
Respect your children’s right to breathe clean air;
share and enjoy nature’s wild garden.
Give them chance to live in harmony ;
thrive in this blue-green Eden.
Climate change is our Armageddon.
7.8 billion human sheep inhabit this planet.
Fake news – fear and anger – corrodes unity.
While we remain divided and misinformed,
our chance of survival erodes.
What can humans do ? Cue Greta …
Lobby politicians for change.
Commit to climate action.
Stop land-filling the earth with holes.
Recycle more materials. Use less packaging.
Eat less meat, better still go veggie.
Reduce air miles – buy local and seasonal.
Purchase renewable energy. Drive an electric car.
Force our Government to invest in health and long term well-being
of natural and human environments in tandem.
Reject their bullshit economic argument about job creation;
ignore all the lies and misinformation. Switch the telly off.
This is mother earth’s planet,
not real estate owned by a megacorporation;
some waffly-verbose-manipulating politician.
Be proud of what you do and you –
This is mother earth’s planet, but England is your nation;
Your tiny slice of heaven.
What we buy and don’t buy counts,
What we demand strongly enough,
-John Wolf 8th August 2021.
The Wombwell Rainbow 