So, autumn's here with all her wondrous russets, golds and bronzes. Shall we write a poem to celebrate her beauty? Shall we set our latest short story in an arch of canopied branches, dripping with bracelets of honey-coloured leaves?
Having read the papers this morning, what we should actually be doing is erecting signs underneath trees, warning passers-by that acorns, conkers etc may fall on them!! Health and safety gone mad! They'll be stopping us from growing roses next, due to their dangerous thorns!
Please stop this madness and enjoy the changing seasons.
I think it's a corn-y idea!
Thursday, 14 October 2010
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
A Whoosh of Memory
I joined Nottingham Writers' Studio last week, a new writing group. Unfortunately I wasn't free to attend their workshop, but I met up with several members at a poetry reading event at Waterstones. After cakes, hot chocolate and some beautiful poetry (not necessarily in that order), I walked to The Lace Market with two other writers.
I love the beautiful ornate buildings in The Lace Market. The writers' studio is in one of these such buildings. What I wasn't expecting though, was the rush of memories that invaded me as we walked up the spiral staircase to the second floor. The bitter-sweet pungent smell of old wood reminded me of being a young girl, making my way up a dark, cool, spiral staircase to ballet class each Saturday morning. As I walked the spiral staircase to the writers' studio, the evocative smells took me back to the days of pink leotards, pony tails and scuffed ballet shoes. Like a fading perfume, the patinaed wood whooshed me back through the years. A heady, almost acidic fragrance.
It's wonderful how aromas can conjure up a particular place, time or person. When writing a scene in my novel, I love to introduce the sense of smell. Whether it be mown grass, a roasting chicken or wood smoke, it adds another layer to the picture I'm trying to paint with words.
As well as aging wood, the perfume of the flowering redcurrant bush always transports me back to my childhood garden. Smelling the heady fat pink blossoms each summer, I can almost feel the sunshine on my bare legs as a ten year old.
Hope you like my poem about my favourite flowering blossom.
Pink With Pleasure
Underneath the silver birch
They'd hang, pink with pleasure,
Blossoms blushing
Full and frothing.
Beneath the birch's lolling boughs
I'd read, or sing or dream.
Looking through the dappled light
To pale bare skies
Where contrails paint across the blue.
As a child, so many days
Spent beneath the verdant boughs
Embracing their beauty.
And today
When many years have passed,
I smell their fragrance
And remember
And smile.
Angela Barton
I love the beautiful ornate buildings in The Lace Market. The writers' studio is in one of these such buildings. What I wasn't expecting though, was the rush of memories that invaded me as we walked up the spiral staircase to the second floor. The bitter-sweet pungent smell of old wood reminded me of being a young girl, making my way up a dark, cool, spiral staircase to ballet class each Saturday morning. As I walked the spiral staircase to the writers' studio, the evocative smells took me back to the days of pink leotards, pony tails and scuffed ballet shoes. Like a fading perfume, the patinaed wood whooshed me back through the years. A heady, almost acidic fragrance.
It's wonderful how aromas can conjure up a particular place, time or person. When writing a scene in my novel, I love to introduce the sense of smell. Whether it be mown grass, a roasting chicken or wood smoke, it adds another layer to the picture I'm trying to paint with words.
As well as aging wood, the perfume of the flowering redcurrant bush always transports me back to my childhood garden. Smelling the heady fat pink blossoms each summer, I can almost feel the sunshine on my bare legs as a ten year old.
Hope you like my poem about my favourite flowering blossom.
Pink With Pleasure
Underneath the silver birch
They'd hang, pink with pleasure,
Blossoms blushing
Full and frothing.
Beneath the birch's lolling boughs
I'd read, or sing or dream.
Looking through the dappled light
To pale bare skies
Where contrails paint across the blue.
As a child, so many days
Spent beneath the verdant boughs
Embracing their beauty.
And today
When many years have passed,
I smell their fragrance
And remember
And smile.
Angela Barton
Saturday, 2 October 2010
The Art Of Procrastination.
Occasionally it's difficult to keep motivated when it comes to writing. I can't always think creatively when work is piling up, the dog's sick or the accountant is chasing me for a meeting. I've regularly been entering competitions for my writing group (which I'm delighted to say I've come 1st, 2nd and 3rd in recent months) but procrastination has been order of the day when it comes to my second novel, Sugar and Spite.
I know I must pin myself to the chair and write, irrespective of the day to day irritations which halt my creative flow! The thing is, if I do tell myself to ignore the dishwasher and washing machine and sit down to drag a few hard-thought words out, then before I know it, I've written 500 - 1,000 words. The very action of forcing myself to sit down in a wordless mist, enables the fog to clear and the words to flow.
So, it is with this in mind that I'm decorating the room my eldest son has recently vacated. My first chick has flown the nest. (Two more to go!!) If I have my own writing room, surrounded by my reference books, pens, pads etc, I won't be looking guiltily at the washing machine or dish-washer. Nor can I see the pathetic pleading eyes of my two spaniels, trying to guilt me into taking them on a walk!
Just writing about it, makes me want to get on with Sugar and Spite! : )
I know I must pin myself to the chair and write, irrespective of the day to day irritations which halt my creative flow! The thing is, if I do tell myself to ignore the dishwasher and washing machine and sit down to drag a few hard-thought words out, then before I know it, I've written 500 - 1,000 words. The very action of forcing myself to sit down in a wordless mist, enables the fog to clear and the words to flow.
So, it is with this in mind that I'm decorating the room my eldest son has recently vacated. My first chick has flown the nest. (Two more to go!!) If I have my own writing room, surrounded by my reference books, pens, pads etc, I won't be looking guiltily at the washing machine or dish-washer. Nor can I see the pathetic pleading eyes of my two spaniels, trying to guilt me into taking them on a walk!
Just writing about it, makes me want to get on with Sugar and Spite! : )
White Canvass
White Canvass
The bare blue sky stretches and beams
Upon an upturned face.
A child's tongue, tasting the tingle
Of snowflakes.
Diamante blanket cocoons in winter white.
A stunning silence
Hiding beneath its chilly softness.
The child squeals with glee
Folowing a constellation of tiny footprints.
Robin or sparrow?
Now flown,
Darting and flapping to the ice-frilled branches,
Viewing silent drifts and snow-laced fences.
Winter's clarity hides all flaws.
Broken gates, peeling paint, a rusty hinge
Vanished beneath a weight of white.
A clear canvass for footsteps to paint,
Or to crack mirrored puddles
Beneath their tread.
Angela Barton
The bare blue sky stretches and beams
Upon an upturned face.
A child's tongue, tasting the tingle
Of snowflakes.
Diamante blanket cocoons in winter white.
A stunning silence
Hiding beneath its chilly softness.
The child squeals with glee
Folowing a constellation of tiny footprints.
Robin or sparrow?
Now flown,
Darting and flapping to the ice-frilled branches,
Viewing silent drifts and snow-laced fences.
Winter's clarity hides all flaws.
Broken gates, peeling paint, a rusty hinge
Vanished beneath a weight of white.
A clear canvass for footsteps to paint,
Or to crack mirrored puddles
Beneath their tread.
Angela Barton
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Inspiration for the Soul
I was invited to a fund-raising evening in the tiny village of Orston last Saturday. It's only two miles from where I live, but I clambered into the mini bus along with a handful of lovely neighbours. The evening was to raise money for research into the treatment and prevention of ALD. (http://www.oliversarmy.org/)
Martha and the Vandellas flew over from Detroit especially to perform on a temporary stage in the back garden of the parents who've lost a son to ALD. The couple picked up the trio from the airport. Can you imagine?
"See you later. Just popping out to pick up Martha and the Vandellas!"
They even stayed overnight at the house where the event was taking place.
What an amazing night. We ate pie and peas whilst sitting 8ft away from Martha and her sisters singing the original Jimmy Mack, Dancing in the Street and Heatwave. She was witty, modestly self-deprecating, as fit as a fiddle and still has an amazing voice at 70! She had us dancing on the lawn and singing along. She sang a tribute song of Michael Jackson's and I only wish I had as much energy!
As well as being an incredible night full of soulful melodies, as a writer, I had my eyes peeled for new characters, overheard conversations and even the latest bit of juicy gossip. I found it in spades!! I had to draw the line at taking my ever present notebook out of my handbag, but I gathered information which I scribbled in my notebook the next day.
I saw an eminent doctor having a crafty cigarette, a famous singer from the 60's squeezed into some eye-wateringly tight jeans to accompany his tinted hair, a tipsy judge and some blatant flirting whilst spouses back's were turned. All in all, some fabulous characters to work into a chapter of my next novel, Sugar and Spite.
The evening itself had a mauve haze to it as dusk fell. The heady fragrance from the flowers and ladies' perfumes added a spice to the colourful characters and laughter-filled huddles. I made new friends as well as caught up with old ones. The weather was as mild as a Mediterranean memory as we topped up our glasses and sang along to Mowtown and Soul legends.
A writer's dream!
Martha and the Vandellas flew over from Detroit especially to perform on a temporary stage in the back garden of the parents who've lost a son to ALD. The couple picked up the trio from the airport. Can you imagine?
"See you later. Just popping out to pick up Martha and the Vandellas!"
They even stayed overnight at the house where the event was taking place.
What an amazing night. We ate pie and peas whilst sitting 8ft away from Martha and her sisters singing the original Jimmy Mack, Dancing in the Street and Heatwave. She was witty, modestly self-deprecating, as fit as a fiddle and still has an amazing voice at 70! She had us dancing on the lawn and singing along. She sang a tribute song of Michael Jackson's and I only wish I had as much energy!
As well as being an incredible night full of soulful melodies, as a writer, I had my eyes peeled for new characters, overheard conversations and even the latest bit of juicy gossip. I found it in spades!! I had to draw the line at taking my ever present notebook out of my handbag, but I gathered information which I scribbled in my notebook the next day.
I saw an eminent doctor having a crafty cigarette, a famous singer from the 60's squeezed into some eye-wateringly tight jeans to accompany his tinted hair, a tipsy judge and some blatant flirting whilst spouses back's were turned. All in all, some fabulous characters to work into a chapter of my next novel, Sugar and Spite.
The evening itself had a mauve haze to it as dusk fell. The heady fragrance from the flowers and ladies' perfumes added a spice to the colourful characters and laughter-filled huddles. I made new friends as well as caught up with old ones. The weather was as mild as a Mediterranean memory as we topped up our glasses and sang along to Mowtown and Soul legends.
A writer's dream!
Thursday, 1 July 2010
Trapped Butterfly
I was delighted to win first and second places in a recent poetry competition. The theme for the poems was, turn back the clock. Here is one of my poems.
Trapped Butterfly
Trembling behind gauze, like a trapped butterfly
Listening to the scrunch of rubber on gravel.
He's home.
A door slams as headlights fade.
How can a lover become a stranger,
As swiftly as a once polished plum
Becomes covered in a delicate froth of fungi?
Turn back the clock to those heady fruitful days
When love blossomed.
Shared dreams divided by time
And split like parched wood.
Unnourished.
His footfall, once a welcoming tread,
Now splinter my calm with regret
As he strides on the polished parquet.
Turn back the clock to a time when our words tumbled
Like a rushing brook in a spring thaw.
Before the wordless air ambushed me,
Squeezing my breath at his glance.
A look which once glowed with love,
Now glowers.
Loving praise decayed into mute criticism.
A curl of his lip.
Turn back the clock to a time when the sun shone
On entwined fingers, and a passionate embrace.
His kiss, once lingering and heartfelt is but a memory,
Bleached pale by time's incessant race.
"Goodnights" unspoken.
An extinguished bulb
Signals the end of his day.
Trapped Butterfly
Trembling behind gauze, like a trapped butterfly
Listening to the scrunch of rubber on gravel.
He's home.
A door slams as headlights fade.
How can a lover become a stranger,
As swiftly as a once polished plum
Becomes covered in a delicate froth of fungi?
Turn back the clock to those heady fruitful days
When love blossomed.
Shared dreams divided by time
And split like parched wood.
Unnourished.
His footfall, once a welcoming tread,
Now splinter my calm with regret
As he strides on the polished parquet.
Turn back the clock to a time when our words tumbled
Like a rushing brook in a spring thaw.
Before the wordless air ambushed me,
Squeezing my breath at his glance.
A look which once glowed with love,
Now glowers.
Loving praise decayed into mute criticism.
A curl of his lip.
Turn back the clock to a time when the sun shone
On entwined fingers, and a passionate embrace.
His kiss, once lingering and heartfelt is but a memory,
Bleached pale by time's incessant race.
"Goodnights" unspoken.
An extinguished bulb
Signals the end of his day.
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
An Accident Waiting To Happen.
Last Saturday, a party of us went to a lovely restaurant to celebrate my sister-in-law's birthday. As it was a lovely evening, we decided to order drinks outside in the late sunshine. The men settled on garden chairs and loungers, whilst three of the girls, including me, sat on a padded circular lounge area.
We ordered our drinks and caught up on family news, when suddenly the three on us on the padded seat, dropped a few inches. Seconds later, before we had time to grasp what was happening, all three of us fell backwards into a deep hole. We fell about six foot, landing on our backs on pipework. As I looked up at the sky through the opening of the hole, several faces peered down at us. I thought at first we'd fallen into a well!
We were all hauled out, luckily with only cuts, bruises and pulled muscles. I shudder to think what might have happened. Falling six foot onto your back isn't something the health and safety inspectors would condone!
It appears that the hole was a drained jacuzzi with a shelf removed, making it deeper than it would have been if water had been in it. My sister-in-law and friend were soaked as they'd been holding drinks at the time. Not a very promising start to a birthday celebration. One member of staff muttered that they would get a notice made to stop others from sitting on it!! A bit like shutting the gate after the horse has bolted I think! And why was there padding on the top, inviting diners to sit down? Why was our drinks order taken whilst we were sitting on it, without a word of warning as to what we were sitting on?
A visit to the doctor on the Monday morning, thankfully only revealed a twisted knee, pulled muscle in my back and a beautiful display of purple and black bruising up my calf and thigh. I suppose looking on the bright side, it's some new material for future chapters of my new novel! Inspiration can be found from the bottom of a smelly jacuzzi!
We ordered our drinks and caught up on family news, when suddenly the three on us on the padded seat, dropped a few inches. Seconds later, before we had time to grasp what was happening, all three of us fell backwards into a deep hole. We fell about six foot, landing on our backs on pipework. As I looked up at the sky through the opening of the hole, several faces peered down at us. I thought at first we'd fallen into a well!
We were all hauled out, luckily with only cuts, bruises and pulled muscles. I shudder to think what might have happened. Falling six foot onto your back isn't something the health and safety inspectors would condone!
It appears that the hole was a drained jacuzzi with a shelf removed, making it deeper than it would have been if water had been in it. My sister-in-law and friend were soaked as they'd been holding drinks at the time. Not a very promising start to a birthday celebration. One member of staff muttered that they would get a notice made to stop others from sitting on it!! A bit like shutting the gate after the horse has bolted I think! And why was there padding on the top, inviting diners to sit down? Why was our drinks order taken whilst we were sitting on it, without a word of warning as to what we were sitting on?
A visit to the doctor on the Monday morning, thankfully only revealed a twisted knee, pulled muscle in my back and a beautiful display of purple and black bruising up my calf and thigh. I suppose looking on the bright side, it's some new material for future chapters of my new novel! Inspiration can be found from the bottom of a smelly jacuzzi!
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