Three Poems I wrote for The Brown Envelope Book

This anthology was edited by Alan Morrison and Kate Jay-R, and published by Culture Matters in 2021. Poets have continued to call out the cruelty of Tory attacks on society and community, starting with Thatcher and growing worse, especially under the government of the last 14 years. My leftist leanings are no secret. My life was changed by the 1945 education act, which put in place the chances I was given two decades later, and I am also an NHS baby. I was raised by aspirational hard-working parents who valued education although they had themselves been denied it, dad leaving school at 12 and mum at 14, yet they were both very intelligent people.

I wanted to share these three poems because I am keen to see a Labour government and I believe it’s important to remember that the Tories do not help or respect working class people. I have not had chance to share these poems in a reading, so here they are for anyone to read. They are based on my lived experiences.

Signing on in the Seventies

meant joining queues of grey-faced men
shuffling in line, flat as caps, heads down,
then grabbing a smoke outside with others
robbed of work by Thatcher’s dominoes,
pushed into falling one after another, a clatter
of shut-downs, making idleness from busyness.

All they wanted was a job: their value,
reason for living, keeping wife and kids,
scraping the rent on their terraced houses,
a pint in the pub before Sunday dinner.
Nor this shameful under-the-wife’s-feet
uselessness, pound  ing the streets. Nothing doing.

I watched them as I signed on in uni holidays
wanting casual wages to eke out grant.
How could I accept work when they lacked it?
It could have been my own dad, except
industry had already scorched his lungs.
He’d taken over shopping and housework
while mum worked on, needing to be some use.

Angela Topping

Notify Us of any Change in Circumstances

I followed the rules, told them
of my marriage at the next signing on.
No more dole, my husband had to keep me,
when we were poorer than ever:
our first mortgage, only one wage coming in.

I wanted a job, but this was 1976.
Graduate jobs thin on the ground.
Still had to sign on, just no money
for bus fares, seeing parents, food
enough to last the week.

Different rules for married women.
Left me no funds to go job-hunting.
Applied for everything I could.
A job in a knitting shop I’d have loved,
denied because I was ‘over-qualified’.

Angela Topping

Dole

Dolour not dollar
Latin dolere to grieve
Sorrow

Dolen, mediaeval English
give out alms to the poor
Doled out

Earned in stamps
from wages past
not given in kindness

Begrudged
jump through hoops
pay tax on it

Child benefit deducted
no replacement for a wage
poverty

The brown envelope
The Giro
the fortnightly

No extras
Not enough for basics
Giz a job

Angela Topping

Michael Donaghy 1954-2004

Reading the latest issue of The Poetry Review, I came to an item about Michael Donaghy, in which several poets, including the wonderful Moniza Alvi, relate their memories of him. I thought it might be fun to share mine too, though I didn’t know him well, and in fact only met him once, but his charm and grace won me over completely and we briefly corresponded. I was teaching when I found out he had died. It was very sudden and shocking. Recently I shared one of his poems with my poetry society stanza, when we had a St Patrick’s Day meeting to share poems by Irish poets we admired. Donaghy was Irish American, from the Bronx, but moved to London in 1985. As well as a poet, he was a musician.

I met Michael at Manchester Poets, a wonderful group that used to meet in Manchester, and where I met many of the poets I admired intensely, including Douglas Dunn, Vernon Scannell, Norman MacCaig, Wendy Cope, Carol Ann Duffy, and a whole raft of others. The audience at their guest nights was full of published poets, so the readaround was also excellent: John Latham, John Lyons, Steven Waling, Frances Nagle, Alicia Stubbersfield, and many others, me included.

This particular night, Michael was there with Don Patterson. Many of us were pretty cross with Paterson at the time, because the lamented Norman Nicholson’s Collected had recently received an appalling review in Poetry Review, and a lot of poets took exception to its snobbery at Nicholson’s alleged ‘provincialism’. A letter of protest signed by many including Matt Simpson, who encouraged me to sign too, had been sent to the editor, and eventually the review was retracted and Paterson apologised for a hasty review when he was having a bad weekend. There was a question and answer session as part of the reading, and I did warm to Paterson ( I hadn’t read his work up to that point), though I am certain it was Donaghy’s charm and warmth that made me feel that.

Michael himself was incredibly personable, modest, humble, approachable and brilliant. I was impressed by the way he recited his poems rather than read them off the page. Chatting with him later, he said, quite simply, that he had written them so therefore it was easy to learn them, and mostly poets had their book to look at because they lacked confidence in their memory, but if they tried, they could do the same. This is why I read with only one eye on the book and most of my focus on the audience, though I have never mastered his easy grace and confidence – but then he was a musician, and actually treated us to some of his flute playing on the night. Playing tunes he’d committed to muscle memory must have helped him with his reciting.

The poem I shared with my group is ‘The Hunter’s Purse’, which is about a real tune, though Donaghy has fun with it and invents an entire backstory. It is discussed in depth by Don Patterson in a video I found online. Donaghy’s poems are always layered and complex, so always fun to re-read and discover more between the lines. I still have one postcard he wrote to me, wishing me good luck with my poetry, and inviting me to send him some poems to look at. I know of poets who attended his workshops in London, who speak of his generosity and acute critical faculties.

I only met him that once, as I had little free time to go on poetry jaunts, but that one precious time is still treasured, and it has blest my life.

Slow Stitching

I have just come back from a very enjoyable ‘slow stitching’ workshop locally. Before I went I thought this was simply stitching slowly without pressure, but I have a better understanding now. It’s about stitching as meditation, stitching for well being and relaxation. It’s also a great way to use up small scraps, and odds and sods of thread, ribbon, net, buttons and so on.

The piece I produced gave me joy, as did the pleasant company. I let my stitches wander where they felt like. Some of the other pieces produced were far more imaginative than mine. But all were very different, given the same box of scraps to choose from, it was amazing how different personalities shone out. The leader moved around us, making quiet suggestions, as we stitched in companionable chat, learning from each other. My piece is basically a collage of fabric, stitched down to showcase the gorgeous carnation piece in the centre. If anyone knows what this pattern is called and who made it, please let me know in the comments.

Apart from the company, it struck me that slow stitching was similar to how I work as a poet. I am constantly trying to tap into my subconscious mind, get away from the world of ‘ideas’ to the world of instinct and going where the mind wants to wander, not worrying over word choices while at the writing stage. Before the writing comes the pondering and mind-freewheeling. Then comes the tentative scribbling down of phrases, half lines, sometimes if one is very lucky, a couple of lines. Those lines might end up anywhere in a poem, or not at all, but they are all gifts from the subconscious brain.

Slow Stitching might be another way to dodge Hughes’ ‘inner policeman’. It’s worth a try.

The Trouble with Winter

Festival of Lights such as The Winter Solstice, Christmas, Eid and Hannukka are brilliant at getting us through the darker months, leading up to them. But after the decorations come down, January can leave us feeling bleak. The weather often worsens, yet many have to go back to work and school. The first two months of the year can prove a slog. Illnesses like pneumonia and bronchitis can wear people down, and some suffer from SAD (Seasonal affective disorder). The common cold is more likely to strike too.

These two months for me are often difficult. I need more sleep, keeping warm can be a challenge, and going out in the evening feels impossible. A few years ago I ran a feature on Hygge on this blog, and those poems and photos are still on line. We can learn a few tricks from people who live in countries with short days and limited light. They use candles to bring extra light, keep their homes cosy with throw blankets, spend leisure time reading or inviting friends round for shared suppers. While some have criticised these practises for being too ‘middle-class’, they actually cost very little to do. Gathering in front of a TV to watch a film works too, especially with friends or family and some popcorn. Anything which warms up our mood in these more isolating months is worth a try.

Poetry too can be a source of comfort for many. if you don’t have much poetry in the house, then Candlestick Press make some beautiful and very affordable pamphlets with carefully curated poems.
Ones on my shelves currently include Ten Poems of Hope, Ten Poems of Happiness, Ten Poems of Kindness, and Ten Poems about Home. For the best effect, read aloud beside a warm fire, or snuggling a hot water bottle.

I’ve been going through papers again, while tidying my study, and I came across some poems I’d typed up and printed out but forgotten about. This time of year is great for a little decluttering, which can be very energising if done little and often. Tidying my desk earlier this week has made me want to sit there and write, get some editing done, and planning for upcoming workshops.

Signs of spring have started to appear. I have snowdrops in pots on my balcony and some in the garden, where I have not yet ventured this year. A bowl of hyacinths on my study window brings in fragrance, and vases of daffodils and tulips bring hope to other rooms. A few years ago I entered Shepton Mallet Snowdrop Festival competition, and thought I would share that poem with you now. I looked up different varieties of snowdrops, and imagined instruments of the orchestra that seemed to suit the names:

The Great Snowdrop Orchestra

The great snowdrop orchestra
begins its tuning up, in secret
then pushes out strong notes,
sharp and flat at first
but growing to a harmony.

As earth warms, each small group
prepares to play its part.
Soon Gerard Parker taps the music stand,
raises his baton. Each tepal is lifted,
alert, ready to enchant.

Lord Monosticus leads the bass section.
His deep notes underpin the melody
as silver-throated Ophelia soars above,
her grace notes embroidering the air,
improbably high. The open quavers
of Magnet counterpoint, dancing
up and down the scale effortlessly,
the wind’s harp. Full-throated,
Beatrix Stanley bubbles her clarinet.

Viridapice manages percussion
from tangly triangle to deep drum.
There is no music like it, the sonatas
and symphonies of snowdrops
played all over the world.
One day, if scientists continue
their important work in this field,
we may even come to hear it.

Angela Topping

This poem was Highly Commended and appeared in their competition anthology

Summer Slips Away

Despite the unseasonally warm weather recently, due perhaps to global warming, summer 2023 is slipping away never to return. Already that slant of warm afternoon light is showing a season change is coming, and schools are back, and later this month (26th September), the autumn equinox is here, and the second harvest, this time of corn, beans, apples and squashes.

Since my accident two years six months ago, I am growing stronger again and don’t have to pre-plan things quite so much. Mentally, my skills are returning and my brain is no longer having to focus quite so much on healing and regaining confidence. I keep trying things that push me a little out of my comfort zone, and each time I succeed, I feel more confident. The pain is less too, most of the time.

So for me now, September feels like a new start, even though I no longer teach. Some of the groups I belong to are starting up again, and I am excited to meet up with new friends I am making them, while still cherishing old friends.

We are starting to tidy the garden for winter and plant some bulbs. I am still sad that gardening is so very hard for me. I can do a lot sitting in a chair but if I try anything standing, I have to sit down fairly often. But at least I can easily get into my shed, although I can’t fetch anything out of it!

Apart from using my walker or my stick, and needing my grab bars and handrails, I am more or less back to my old self, and can take independent steps when I feel safe, though never outside (trip hazards!). Caution is still required because of Covid, but I am actively looking to lead poetry workshops and give readings now. I much prefer face to face. I am looking forward to reading in Shrewsbury next month, a 10 minute slot at the launch of Festival in a Book Anthology, edited by force-for-good Liz Lefroy, and meeting up with some poetry friends from that area.

There are a few exciting publications in the pipeline that must stay secret for now, but I am feeling happy and optimistic for the future.

Here’s a poem by John Clare to remind you to take note of the little things, simple pleasures of the change of seasons.

Autumn

I love the fitful gust that shakes

  The casement all the day,

And from the mossy elm tree takes

  The faded leaf away,

Twirling it by the window pane

With thousand others down the lane.

I love to see the shaking twig

  Dance till the shut of eve,

The sparrow on the cottage rig

  Whose chirp would make believe

That spring was just now flirting by

In summer’s lap with flowers to lie.

I love to see the cottage smoke

  Curl upwards through the naked trees;

The pigeons nestled round the cote

   On dull November days like these;

The cock upon the dunghill crowing;

The mill sails on the heath agoing.

The feather from the raven’s breast

   Falls on the stubble lea;

The acorns near the old crow’s nest

   Fall pattering down the tree

The grunting pigs that wait for all

Scramble and hurry where they fall.

John Clare, 1793 – 1864

Whitby Workshop Prompts 2023: Goodbye to WFW 2023

This is the last day of Whitby Folk Week. Tonight the heather garland will be shared out after the singing of The Wild Mountain Thyme sung by Will Noble and with all the booked artists leading everyone in the chorus. It is always quite emotional saying goodbye to friends, some for a whole year.

This prompt can can be done when you get home, or if like me you couldn’t attend this year, by using your memories of past years.

Make a list of everything you experienced this year, both good, bad and surprising.

Then either write a definition poem (Whitby Is… see Adrian Henri’s Love Is…. for the form) OR write a letter poem to Whitby Folk Week.

Here is an example by American poet Emily Dickinson:

Dear March – Come in –         
How glad I am –
I hoped for you before –
Put down your Hat –
You must have walked –
How out of Breath you are –   
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest
-Did you leave Nature well –    
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me
-I have so much to tell – 

I got your Letter, and the Birds – 
The Maples never knew that you were coming –
I declare – how Red their Faces grew –            
But March, forgive me –         
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue –            
There was no Purple suitable – You took it all with you – 

  Who knocks? That April –
Lock the Door –
I will not be pursued –
He stayed away a Year to call 
When I am occupied –                    
But trifles look so trivial         
As soon as you have come      

        
That blame is just as dear as Praise         
And Praise as mere as Blame –

Emily Dickinson

Don’t worry about the dashes, that’s just her style.

Make your letter heartfelt or witty as you like. It doesn’t have to rhyme, but if rhymes come, let them.

Whitby Folk Week 2023 Poetry Prompts

As you go about Whitby, or any town, notice the gardens. How do the gardens enchant your senses? What does each garden say about the people who live there? Notice the gardens at different times of day. A flower’s scent can be more pungent at night, as you brush past it on your way home from a concert. Include the small parks, such as Crescent Gardens. I spotted this mermaid in a Whitby garden last year. Isn’t she lovely?

Read these poems and short prose pieces:

A day’s work, a week’s work, as I go up and down
There are many gardens all about the town
A day’s work, a week’s work, as I go up and down
There are many gardens all about the town

One that’s gay with daffodils
One where children play
One that’s white with cherry flower
Another red with may

A kitten and a lilac bush
Bridal white and tall
And later crimson ramblers
Against a granite wall

I have passed your railings
When you never knew
And people who have gardens
I give my thanks to you

Song by Margaret MacLeod

‘…Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
If it’s only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,
You will find yourself a partner In the Glory of the Garden.
Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
That half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees,
So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away!’

Kipling

‘…What until twenty years ago was universally called a snapdragon is now called an antirrhinum, a word no one can spell without consulting a dictionary. Forget-me-nots are coming more and more to be called myosotis. Many other names, Red Hot Poker, Mind Your Own Business, Love Lies Sleeping, London Pride, are disappearing in favour of colourless Greek names out of botany textbooks. I had better not continue too long on this subject, because last time I mentioned flowers in this column an indignant lady wrote in to say that flowers are bourgeois. But I don’t think it a good augury for the future of the English language that ‘marigold’ should be dropped in favour of ‘calendula’, while the pleasant little Cheddar Pink loses its name and becomes merely Dianthus Caesius.’
Orwell

Possible starting points                                                                 

Create your own superstition about a flower, plant or tree
Consider urban gardens and how they provide green spaces within a city
Take a journey along a garden path, examining things minutely
Using plants you can see, create some surreal or suggestive imagery
With your camera, find a miniature landscape, then explore it in words (see photo examples)
Think about things that create gardens: soil, rain, sun, seeds etc. Create your own garden.

Hot Penning

I very often use some hot penning to start off a workshop. It gets the ink flowing, and people’s minds into the zone for writing. These are not usually for sharing unless anyone really wants to, but can often lead to a poem later. First write down the prompt line and go from there. Write in short lines, don’t stop, don’t think too hard, just what comes out, ok to repeat. Keep those pens moving, let your subconscious mind have its way. The subconscious is where poems live.

Here are some lines to get you going:

these words were followed by a very long silence
after we have parted
And the summer takes us journeying/ new sights to see
Those butterfly days
my special place is…
The place a memory
You can see how it was
The sky was green wine
these words were followed by a very long silence
Beyond the Distant Hills

You can pick random phrases from books, use a song line, a line from a poem you like, but you cannot use these phrases in your own poem. They are purely a starting point.

I hope the people writing at Whitby Folk Week 2023 in my absence will use these hot penning ideas whenever they have some time, or if they go to the meet -ups on Tuesday and Wednesday in the Rifle Club office 3.15-4.15. Thanks to Pete for organising those.

Photo credit: Angela Topping

Poetry Prompts for Whitby Folk Week 2023

If you are not at Whitby, this workshop can be used about any place you know well.
Think of a time of day and a vantage point.

Then look at Wordsworth’s sonnet ‘Upon Westminster Bridge’.

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

We are not going to write in sonnet form (unless anyone wants to!) or in a 19^th century idiom, but we are going to use the Wordsworth as an inspiration to write about Whitby/ your chosen place.

• First, think of a vantage point where you can see the town from above. It might be from the Abbey side, or from Westcliff side, it might be from the sea, or from the Conservative club window, from the top of a street, from the Whalebones, anywhere you feel you know the view well.
• Choose a time of day (early morning or twilight can work well, or you might choose a time when something is happening
• Jot down a few buildings you can see from where you are, or any other ‘sights’, like pantiled roofs, gunnels, cafes etc.
• As this is folk week, bring some people into the scene, depending on your time of day.
• We can follow Wordsworth’s structure if we are stuck, or do it in our own way. His structure is: start with a general comment about the place; then use a simile to begin to describe it; then include some of the buildings and how they look; make a personal comment about how it affects you; include the river and the sea; conclude with more general statements about how the scene affects you.

Any examples of poems you write can be put in the comments below, if you wish.

Whitby Folk Week

To my great sorrow, I am unable to go to Whitby Folk Week this year. It is usually one of my highlights, and I hope to be back next year to run my poetry workshops.

In lieu of face to face workshops, I will release some prompts and stimulus material here so people can still write poems during the wonderful festival. I usually find it a very productive week myself too, so hopefully these prompts will be better than nothing, and might also include regulars who can’t make it for 2023 either. I am uploading this prompt now in case people want to use it on their journey.

© Copyright Shaun Kynaston and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

Whitby Poetry Workshops Day 1

The journey to Whitby is a very special one for most of us. If you are lucky enough to reside in Whitby, you can think about journeys home when you have been away, or a walk in Whitby that you like to do.

To get you in the mood, here is an extract from Around the Blooming Heather by Gordon Tyrrall (2019)

The purple heather is in glorious full bloom as far as the eye can see, its delicate presence hanging in the air as I drive across the expanse of the North York Moors – past the huge depression of the Hole of Horcum where Wade the Giant had a tiff with the missus and chucked a handful of turf at her. I’m aware that I’m one among hundreds of other pilgrims making our annual trip to Whitby for the Folk Week. We roll up once more in late summer, having battled through the nose-to-tail traffic on the A64, or on the A169 through Pickering, then emerging on the plateau of the moors, looking down to see the distant hazy blue horizon line of the sea and St. Hilda’s Abbey five miles away. Although we might all be tired and frazzled, it feels like coming home.

Whitby is an old fishing town, a former whaling port – and there are the famous whale jawbones erected on the West Cliff to commemorate it. It feels as if it looks out east, but the coastline is slanted so it faces North and thus there is the East Cliff, with the Abbey, and the West Cliff with the hotels. It only has a small resident population, about 14000, but everything feels very hemmed in – little houses piled on top of one another. It can get very crowded, especially in the old town on the East side, when the summer holidays entice so many visitors to its tiny cobbled streets.

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Notice how Gordon includes anecdotes and interesting facts, and uses the contrast of the heathery moors and the traffic on the journey. It’s fun to mix these in with a poem about a journey, because it helps to build anticipation of your arrival.

Collect together any of these things on your journey:

1. A item you almost forgot
2. how you feel as you leave the house
3. your first snag – maybe a traffic jam, rain, need to take a diversion, stopping for a break etc
4. One item from your stop, such as a note of what you ate, a wrapper, a flower etc
5. One view (this can be in your head or a photo if you’re not driving)
6. Towns you pass through and what they are like / how they make you feel
7. How the scenery changes when you leave ‘civilization’ behind and enter the last stage of your journey to the world of folk music (think ‘last homely house’ in The Hobbit, for example)
8. First sight of the sea
9. First Whitby landmark
10. You have arrived! What happens now? Flurry to park and pick up tickets/programmes? Are you aiming to get to a concert? When can you get your keys? All the excitement of getting there.

If you are with others, share your lists.

Your list should give you the order of your poem. You may not wish to include everything. Edit.
Remember to include the senses, memories of previous Whitby holidays, interesting facts etc.
The actual journey will give you the structure, but don’t be afraid of diversions, breaks, interjections and anecdotes.

Good luck, and you can post any poems you write as a result in the comment section.

Angela Topping