Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Bad poetry?

August 13, 2010

Just William — his favourite spot in front of the fire.

When it comes to writing, you never know what others will choose as their favourite pieces. You could go by those who ‘know’ what is good, especially when it comes to poetry. Rhyme is out — or is it?
I wrote a little ditty in celebration of the life of a cat that I had never met. It only took a few minutes. I sent it to a friend who had just buried his beloved cat. But a copy remained in my files.
When I, along with Bob Taylor, published Northern Lights, I needed a poem to balance a section. Something simple and light-hearted. I used the cat poem and called him William.
William was a cat that had belonged to one of my sons many years ago. He was one of many, born in a barn at the local farm. I can’t say that I was pleased to have yet another pet to supervise. Of course, I was the one who had to look after him, feed him and take him to the vet when necessary. He became part of the family, but a cat that was always aloof and his own person. That is, until he became old and really poorly. I hated to see him suffer and when I took him to the vet I hoped termination would be recommended, so I could have him put to sleep without a guilty conscience, The vet said his kidneys had hardened and put him on a drip. I asked if William was suffering. She said with his health problem he would be dozy and not feel pain much. So I collected him to live on for a few more weeks.
I had to feed the cat with a syringe because his gums were rotting. The cat was not too pleased and I got the benefit of his anger. (Such scratches!) But I persevered.
For the first time in his life, when he was smelly with pus and losing teeth and hair, William wanted to come on my knee. Every time I sat down, William would jump up and sort of purr. He did not live much longer and I found him dead in his bed. My hubby buried him in the garden.
So this little ditty is really about two cats.
The funniest thing about the poem, is that it was picked out by a reader as being her most favourite piece in the whole book. It reminded her of her dead cat. The lady was incredibly thankful and full of praise.

William

William was my darling —
A friendly little cat.
Each time that I came through the door
He was waiting on the mat.
How he loved a cuddle,
Me too I must confess,
For when upset and moody
He softened my distress.
I buried him in the garden,
Just where he loved to sit
And stretch out in the sunshine,
Or take a little kip.
I’m really going to miss him,
He eased my woes and fears.
My little friend has given me
The best of his fourteen years.

Writing For joy
Gladys Hobson — Author
Diary Of A Country Lady
Magpies Nest Publishing.

Beautiful women?

January 26, 2009

What Is Beauty?

Since learning about the work of Mercy Ships, especially the surgery they carry out to help victims of facial deformities (often life-threatening or seriously stigmatising) I find it even more difficult to accept the media and society’s view of what, or who, is beautiful. It is distressing that unnecessary and extravagant surgery is carried out in the West, indeed even encouraged, to make people more beautiful, according to the standards of society’s celebrity status, while millions starve or are denied the most basic of medical care.

Who decides what makes a woman beautiful? Why should anyone be made to feel ugly or unacceptable? Society has a lot to answer for. Media celebrities are no more than false gods unless their ‘beauty’ is of an inner nature. If the body is truly the Temple of God, then it must be beautiful in His sight, for it houses the fruit of the Spirit… love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness and temperance. This quotation from Galatians, is surely THE definition of what makes any person beautiful.

 

Nature’s Sculpture – poem by Gladys Hobson:

Like a twisted log tossed on the beach

Each groove and knot forming nature’s sculpture.

If mind is open it can reach

A story true

Of life and death —

Crafted in lines bold and free

In hollows and grooves and swirls and knots:

A distorted body —

A soul tormented?

 

Or is the story nature tells

Far from what my eyes do see?

For beauty lies within the heart

And sings a different melody,

Those crafted grooves

That make me shudder

Were earned by life’s experience.

Each tells a story of its own

Yet builds into a perfect whole.

 

Again I look into the mirror

Unafraid of what I see;

For nature’s sculpture so defined

Is beauty of a different kind.

I am who I am —

Yes, this is me.

Robert Sewell, singer, writer and poet.

August 7, 2008

Robert Sewell: have you heard of this remarkable man?

 

Robert Sewell singing to live audience

Robert Sewell singing to live audience

According to Barbara Stonewall, freelance reporter based in West Yorkshire, Robert Sewell is a typical Yorkshire male, at least how they like to portray themselves as being — mean, brusque and masterful. Or is that just a rumour? I ask myself.

Ms Stonewall raves about Sewell’s singing ability and seems to think his macho characteristics and Yorkshire intonation are part of his mystique. Certainly, I myself find his singing pleasant to the ear, but I’m not sure I would go overboard as to the macho image. I suspect that underneath that tough exterior there beats a tender heart. But this is mere speculation.

I have not read Violence and Violets. I suspect it is a longer version of his moving story concerning events of the early 1980’s. It was a time of heartache and violence in mining communities of which Sewell was a part. I may be mistaken but I think the short story was called Gala Day. On the other hand, that might have been the picture under the title. But if the exact title escapes me, I will never forget the loyalty, violence, bravery and poignancy the storytelling portrayed. I look forward to reading the full story in Sewell’s prize-winning book. The title, Violence and Violets is particularly apt: Violence speaks for itself, and violets symbolise watchfulness, faithfulness, I’ll always be true.

Sewell’s poetry, like the man, is a bit of an enigma. I have read his book of poems and they reflect his personality: brusqueness mingled with tenderness, openness with impenetrable depth, hopes and fears, joy and pain. I like them, even the openly chauvinistic ones, which I suspect, are written tongue in cheek.

Barbara Stonewall appears to be quite captivated by the man. She even claims he saved her dog from drowning in the village pond. But I have it on good authority that Sewell merely wished to retrieve his fee that was in an envelope the dog had run off with. Or did Sewell get that story around to keep up his mean-streak image?

If you have not heard Sewell sing, go to my site on http://www.myspace.com/gladyswrites Look on the white imeem panel under the photo carousel and click on number 3 — Love Letters Robert Sewell

Then click on Thrilling Encounter and hear about Barbara Stonewall’s interview with the man himself.