Sunday 13 November 2011

Mother

This is brilliant. 
This is what my mum wrote in response to Two Maple Grove.
The place she grew up in Wales. 
I love what she remembers about it all.  
One in a billion-gazillion. LOVE YOU MUMMY! 
(take a deep breath)
 
maple grove is very good - but 6 pence downstairs, 9 pence upstairs I think it was - that gave you scope for a bag of shrimps and blackjacks and some sherbet. Maple Grove was also opposite the allotments and where Miss Mansell kept her large cart horses and she gave riding lessons to Liz and I. and David Mercer's dad - now swanky with Wimbledon - had the only TV in the street. and Mr Koffman lived next door, and there was a swing in the garden and a very steep back lane which all the kids sped down on tea trays with string as handles and always fell off or hit the wall at the bottom. There was a coalshed in the back garden and a lavatory and a very strange lodger called Miss Hastie who haunted the upstairs - she rented a room and was about 90 and a Christian Scientist. When the coalmen came I hid under the bed. Every Christmas we got a pillowcase with oranges, games and jigsaws and something knitted by Ding. An annual pair of knitted bedsocks came from an ancient aunt and were relegated to the chest of drawers (now in back room but then was on the landing). In the garden were lots of gooseberry bushes and lots of roses in the front. Judith Benjamin was my friend and the Benjamins lived in the big house on the corner and she was given pocket money for sweets each week. Her dad was a solicitor with an office on Sketty Road, Swansea and another office in Llanelli so he often took us both for a ride when he went to Llanelli stopping at Kidwelly Castle and other such places.... and they always made sandwiches with radishes - and I've never liked radishes really. Geoffrey Benjamin went to Cambridge and I looked after his terrapins when nobody was around. Susan Benjamin was the elder sister. Every Friday Judith and I joined the family for the Jewish blessing with matzo bread. This is all when I was small. At Christmas we wore party frocks - and mine was always a hand me down from Elizabeth which I didn't mind as I didn't like party frocks anyway. 2 Maple Grove looked a bit pokey when we drove there but it probably looked bigger when I was smaller. Love mam

(she decides, after all, to continue)

I can also let you have my views on Lon Illtyd and Glanmor, the Gypsy Boy and the Macabre cafe near the Odeon cinema, buses and caravans in Oxwich. Watty the dog from Tonypandy who lived with Auntie Esther and Uncle Jack - she taught piano to the Houston brothers and Auntie Ginnie had a second hand bookshop in Tonypandy which was full of old books and comics everywhere - very dark and with a musty small but you could climb on a table and read the comic books. She had a leg in a calipher, was very smiley, but never married. Liz and I were sent there in the summer. Esther and Jack left Tonypandy and went on to run a b&b in Great Yarmouth around the corner from the Singing Postman - I was sent there to help with the b&b in the summer.

(she ends there. perfection.)


Saturday 12 November 2011

Two Maple Grove

Sheltered in suburban wombs
Thirties red and pebble-dashed
One-television smirk.
Industry, politic hum
Distancing the docile docks
That once sailed for Dunkirk.

Walk to school, walk back for lunch
Milk Bar weekends, cinema
9 pence upstairs, 12 pence down.
Photographs of speckled friends
Bobbed hair, dark and gypsy brown
Blackberry lips home-grown.

She sat in windows, glorious, bold.
Blushing wagers won or lost
Prisoners and hearts.
Coffin-tabled café meetings,
Tillers caps - escutcheons
On good boys drinking fast.


© kate marlais 2011
 
Edward Steichen, Loretta Young (Vanity Fair, c.1932)

Tuesday 8 November 2011

The Hanging Air

The hanging air that smokes the house –
Out of the flowered, compacted 
Broadcast flare inflates 
And gasses 
Through the hush.
Cool a-foot, and piercing heat
Inhales a heavy blow –
Letters sent and milky –
Swallowed –
Are sickly, vain.
Sleep now tucks away its shivers,
Folds to liquid dawn,
Nursed by bare arms browning –
Eased –
Loving and alive.
 
Ding-dong bells that name the birds
Drunk as sun upon this hill;
Washing goes around
Again –
The sea purrs.
Wisdom bent by fairy rings,
The buzzing town is cleft;
A cow and moon, the bridge –
Remember –
Blissful, there.
 

© kate marlais 2011
 
 

Man Ray, Lee Miller Solarised (c.1930)

Monday 7 November 2011

Lines

The world is shapes, angles -
Existing in satisfied order
Where I would suit
And, still, procure. 
Waiting room. 
Platform. 
 
Lines. 
Carriage. 
Living waves that roll off 
Bleeding, passing land - 
Vibrations from this 
Shovelled bass 
Are now, moving, all. 
Middle ground defines the city wall.



© kate marlais 2011


 

23-10-11

"It's your last chance" 
The final squeeze - 
Giving birth to what 
You do not want 
But need.

 

© kate marlais 2011


 
 
Martin MunkacsiNude with Parasol (Harper’s Bazaar, July 1935)

Let's prioritise...

Slacker. Sloth. Passive. Laggard. Negligent. Absconder.

Yes, these are all words that you can use to describe me. I have left you, bloggites, for too long, too too tooooo long. How could I? I feel wretched about it. Can we talk?

Let's try now to move on, shall we? I've recently been to a series of group sessions in which I re-evaluate my life priorities (I haven't) and after much opening up and letting go (none) I have landed on the happy conclusion that I need more blog in my life once more. Therefore, for the next ten minutes, you blog, are TOP, tippity-top, of my list! YES!

Quite frankly, we need to work on our relationship. It's not you, it's me. I know I am flaky and have a tendency to let my eyes wander and my mind wonder. I realise now that I've been giving too much attention to stupid, stupid Twitter and her friends and have left you forlorn, alone. I don't even know what I saw in her. After all, who can truly express their thoughts, let alone establish a frankly hilarious witticism fully in 140 meagre characters?! C'est ridicule.

And that is why I've come back to you, my dove. I've missed you. Why, I blabber on, and you just let me! You listen. You really do. You are... God, you're good. You're just so...you.

I'll explain my absence to you in bullet points. It's been a busy few months. When did we speak last? It was May, wasn't it? And I told you all about Kenny and his fish. That was fun.
 
Ergo, here goes; from whence we last spake (in present tense, as if a diary entry so to establish a more intimate relationship with you, the reader):
 
Move to Hoxton. Feel so cool it's frightening. Take up urban-zen activities like yoga, goji berry juice & quoits.
 
Travel a bit... Wales. Nice. Liverpool.

Do some plays. Playing Fairy Godmother in Cinderella at Liverpool Playhouse. Get to fly. Get extra pay. Casually named 'accidental death money'.
 
In Between all of the above I have also been doing any one of the following:

a) Selling my soul to the Underground Society of Closet Corporate Temporary Staff (low IQ & Look Magazine obligatory)

b) Spending and earning money in the ratio of 2:1
c) Writing - plays & poetry; and on those days where one has been bound by 'Writer's Block' (hereby known, in my personal definition, as 'online shopping') I have religiously stuck my hands in ink and smeared it all over my face, donned my finest shredded linen shirt and marched intensely to the local coffee shop where I will sit and look all Writer-y in the hope of a publishing deal infiltrating my soul via osmosis, and perhaps a few shrewd glances from fellow Hoxton sages/ latte-love admirers. Rarely doth anything occur, but By Jove, I love a good latte!
 
*Cue Coldplay/Zero 7/Sigur Ros background music for sudden but effective mood-sobriety. Soft focus close-up on bunch of grapes/ field of horses/ other such natural wonder*
 
Hey, let's get serious. I've been writing a collection of poems. Keep your eyes, ears and egos a-breast of my blog, I'll post the darn things at random. I'm trying to bring poetry back, make it hip, give it some 'spect. A hard, thankless task. Proceed with caution, but if anyone can make pretentiousness en vogue again, it's me. 
At least, that's what I keep telling my furrowed brow. ENJOY!