Margaret wrote her first poem at around seven years of age, and has and continued to write sporadically ever since. A self confessed introvert, she uses her writing as a means of expressing the feelings that she seldom speaks about to others. Her poem, “Price o’t Coil” was published by the Caphouse Colliery museum, and a piece that she wrote about her Uncle, who was killed during World War Two, when she was only three years of age, was entered into a cenotaph record book.
She is still writing, and occasionally performing her poetry at the age of 83.
Poems
Great Grandad
He sat by the window Peered out from the door He lay on a chaise longue Observed the floor Something had struck him And dealt him a blow Affected life’s movements, And altered the flow. Willie was stricken That was plain to see His eye held the pain Of a dead man to be Eliza she scolded Bribed and persuaded To bring back her lover Though all hope had faded In a world of his own In a body restrained By the complex mis-workings Of a recalcitrant brain The smile of a child Was that one of his own? Or perhaps a grand daughter? Oh how time has flown Eliza sang gently It wafts on the breeze There’s the click of a stick As he walks through the trees He lived for the moment And now he has gone He left me his stick And Eliza ,her song. <<<
Tramp
Vulnerable, curled in fitful sleep A customer of the night and its cover Payment was acceptance of abuse For day would not tolerate his presence The frosty breath distilled into fear As dawn trailed the edge of its dress over his form and he became visible Available for torment The pit bull sniffed and snarled His owner spat and growled "Filthy stinking parasite, move out Get off my patch before we move in. Take that wimp of a hound with you It’s no match for Rambo, Wouldn’t insult him with such bait Rather you than that apology for a dog." The old man pulled at the blanket In which little Tess was wrapped. The little mongrel whimpered her distress. Master and dog were both hungry, cold, and desperate to relieve themselves. He half stumbled, half ran holding her, his adult umbilical cord, anchoring him, to this life. He could not leave her. She needed him, to ward off such others as would do her harm. He reheard the words filthy, stinking, and looked down, at his ragged, aged clothing. The reek of unwashed flesh rising around him as he moved. The dog unfazed, adored him They stopped off in bushes by the path. It was early. Their tormentor had been satisfied with little. There was no-one around to witness their minimal ablutions. He would make his way to collect his daily allowance. Approach the one who cared a little; who entered the shop where he was barred and bought him breakfast and a little something, for Tess. Earth Angel he called her. Her big heart saw past the stiff dry hair, the wrinkled grimy face and hands and saw the gentle soul not coping with the modern unfeeling world, and crumbling before her eyes. She saw only his despair and the love and loyalty he gave to Tess. How they clung to one another, when the threats, and blows rained down on them, and how he did no harm but was judged by lesser men. He did not know himself to be the tool that some higher power had designed to be the unconscious agent provocateur pulling forth the deeds that separate The sheep and goats called men. <<<
Entry and Exit
Entry Pausing to reflect on the invitation, she stood in the doorway, observing the scene. She was alone as always, reticent. The gaiety within the room drew her like a moth to a flame Desirous of changing her mood, knowing she would have regrets, She entered, and lost her innocence. Exit He stared, detached, all seeing, no more involved. It was as if he observed a stranger. The aged harpy screamed her insults. Face contorted Finger pointing It pained no more that love, dried up, was a husk of what had been He shrugged, then turned and left <<<
Drowning
Ill equipped to meet the weather Started out to greet the sea Captivated with its treasure Hands in pools on bended knee. Softly tide flows, fills the hollows Lapping silently around. She picks up her gentle hands To sift the sand for what is found. Silently the threatening water Rises up to stay her step. Seagulls shrieking drown her cries Her quickening struggles and regrets. No-one witnesses the drama Only waves and wind-washed shore, Where the night is darkly creeping And her struggles are no more. <<<
An Epic Struggle
So... We bought the eyes of those who sympathized and took ownership of womanhood. We made a way, bolted to the physical forgings of men. Ah... you forged strongly, and we were by choice, chained, buying time so our voices rang free, the reality of our determination, bought by life. Trampled to the ground but a spirit revived and finally acknowledged THE VOTE! <<<
Depression Rules OK
With one eye on the inner door The other watches me. My Mind is overseeing its observances of me. A future glance to check my state Is agony appearing? To dress the stage in red and black These colours I am wearing The powered arrow black to tip paints red without it trying It really not a physical thing but even so, I’m dying The spear a word that’s landed true Distorted mind thought it was you No, I allowed the wicked thought And soon by karma I am taught Address the change of attitude Be mindful, so they say. Oh CBT and Counselling Will start to pave the way The way to what?? A souless place? A zombie, peaceful state No highs no lows to feel once more Just balance – calibrate No end in sight, raw jagged pain Black on grey on this sunny day I know it’s there above the cloud But feeling good is not allowed Depression Rules – OKAY!! <<<
A lifetime of expression - and it shows, says the bloke who has only consciously done so intermittently; ergo I'm no judge. I found these works considered and well executed. For a picky bitch who has trouble with morbid themes, I have somehow come to see what they express - perhaps I was lucky running into Plath again and finding she wrote poetry. She has broadened my horizon - a place where we think we have things organised, yet it is riddled with strife and contradiction.
Drowning for example, where an abrupt turn from the prettiness of the shore burdens us with sorrow. And a fear I'm sure that has visited many of us, if only in our parent's warnings. It has all the ache of some old folk song about the lost kind (a race whom I'm sure I'm not alone exploring).
Depression - CBT - I'm nursing an article I think, rather than verse - on how people find it never completely gone. It's how one deals with the devil that matters in the end, but I believe everyone, considering themselves OK or not, should try CBT (and I don't mean motorcycle basic training:). There's a Chinese proverb I've quoted elsewhere: 'It is better to light a candle, than to crash around cursing the dark'.
I also like Tramp - another of life's amazing people whom I would chat to as a kid. Much food for thought...