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Tuesday, 1 March 2016

Why Is It Cooler To Learn Coding Than Poetry Writing?

Now this might be a very obvious question and, since the Husband makes a living from computer coding, I'm probably on a sticky wicket flying the flag for poetry.

Dylan Thomas - why is it cooler to learn coding than poetry writing - motherdistracted.co.uk
Dylan Thomas - The Great Welsh Poet & Writer
But whilst I understand that we are an economy reliant to a huge degree on technology and scientific advancement,  it's a bit of a shame that we can't muster up a little more enthusiasm for the verbal artistry required to write a good poem.

Particularly on St. David's Day as I sit with the daffodils being blown about in the wind and rain here in Dinas Powys, I find myself thinking of the great Welsh poet and writer, Dylan Thomas (I named my daughter after his wife, Caitlin) and his well loved play for voices "Under Milk Wood".

"To begin at the beginning: It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboatbobbing sea".

His love of language shines through every thing he writes and to me "Under Milk Wood" is closer to a poem even though it is technically a play.  Thomas truly paints pictures with words.

Poetry connects us to our feelings in ways that prose does not.  You could argue that poetry is form of coding which talks straight to our hearts and accesses reservoirs of feeling never quite touched by other forms of fiction.

Poetry is a more challenging form of literature-writing because you have to condense your thoughts and feelings in to images which speak large to your readers.  Not only this, but the construction and rhythm of your poem adds to the meaning.

Poetry is meant to be read out loud.

In the same way that, to me, a true appreciation of a Shakespeare play can only be achieved when the text is performed, or at the very least read aloud.

How can you not love this?

"If you can fill the unforgiving minute 
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, 
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, 
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son".  

(If, by Rudyard Kipling)

or

I wander'd lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

(Daffodils by William Wordsworth)

or

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…. 
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit. 

(The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot)

Before we had the written word, we had songs and sagas. Ancient themes of love, loss, survival - the keystones of the human experience, are all captured in poems across the ages.

I hope that we continue to teach poetry in our schools and to give it as much importance in the curriculum as no doubt coding and all things IT will come to have.

My old secondary school loans all its pupils iPads, whilst I remember English lessons on sunny afternoons watching the motes of chalk dust swirl in the light as we took turns to read poems and stories out loud.

Our challenge, as I see it, is to preserve our literary past whilst embracing the technological future.

Growing youngsters often struggle with their feelings and literature can provide a safe, enjoyable safety valve.

Good poetry is almost a form of hypnosis.  You could argue the same about playing games on an iPad.

But whereas one is often soulless, the other can sometimes connect you to your soul.
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Tuesday, 7 April 2015

A Poem About Having Babies Late In Life


A Poem for Caitlin & Ieuan
(and for those of us who had babies later in life)



You both were my renaissance, 
an explosion of light in my world
made sparkling by the birth of two new stars.

All was dark and grey
Emotions were dull, feelings muted.
Wrapped in cotton wool I spent 
days muffled from excitement or joy

I felt the ticking of the clock
like a drum in my veins
whilst denying its beat.

But then all was colour and noise
and tenderness and fear
They don't tell you about the fear do they?

You sneezed and the fabric of my universe wobbled.
Your temperature rose and I felt my blood freeze
Lost like an explorer in the Amazon 
I hacked my way through endless tomes of parenting alchemy
only to remain lost.

Your births created my renaissance
but showed me a life shorter than your first breath.
I feel the sadness of being half way through,
I wish I could have felt the way you make me feel
then.

But there is only now.  And you.  And time running faster
than the bare feet sprinting through the meadow
borne on currents of laughter
and joy.



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Sunday, 1 March 2015

Colours of Wales - Caitlin's Poem For St. David's Day 2015

Colours of Wales - A Poem

Caitlin Hobbis, aged 7, 
crowned Bard of Dinas Powys Primary School (Infants) 
2015

Caitlin, proudly holding her dragon trophy

The daffodils sway in the breeze.
They grow in a beautiful dainty meadow.
The petals shimmer like the shiny sun.
Dragon breath burns out orange and white sparks.
Dragons live on a fluffy, snowy mountain.
The dragons drive through the sky with their red scaly wings

The crowd cheer as Wales play.
Rugby players sing the National Anthem.
On a beautiful mountain like fluffy clouds
live bouncy, fluffy sheep.
Welsh cakes sizzle in the kitchen.

These are the colours of Wales.  





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Sunday, 24 November 2013

Can We Have Our Christmas Back Please - The Way Dylan Thomas Wrote It?

It is 9 am on a Sunday morning and my inbox is full of Christmas offers for clothes I could never afford, food I'd never dream of eating and presents which would last precisely two minutes before being constructively destroyed by Ieuan in his ongoing quest to find out how things work.

Some companies are even claiming that I need to order now in time for Christmas which rather implies they need Hilary Devey to sort their freight logistics out since it is only the 24th of November. What network are they using? A hoard of one legged, disenfranchised elves (probably admitted to the country by the Home Secretary on the grounds that wearing tinkly bells constitutes some form of repression)? I'm sure the Daily Mail's columnist Littlejohn will put us straight on that one shortly. 

But isn't it strange how the more we buy, the more we eat, the more we drink, the less satisfying Christmas seems to be. 
 
Baby Ieuan in his Christmas hat in 2009
Ieuan's first Christmas in 2009
In fact, we're lucky we can even call it Christmas because left to some councils the festive season would be some ghastly multi denominational TV fest with a microwaveable chicken dinner and a rubbery pudding all washed down with non alcoholic lager and a never ending tin of out of date nuts. Christmas cards of the future are likely to feature council leaders and particularly scenic multi-storey car parks. 

Now, I don't know if they've noticed, but Christmas is a Christian festival. There is after all a whacking great clue in the name, although the bleedin' obvious seems to frequently bypass our councils, viz, if you leave wheelie bin rubbish for two weeks at a stretch during a hot summer it tends to pong and attract vermin.

We've ended up with a sort of, ironically, low fat Christmas except it's got none of the taste and all of the calories. What I think we really miss is nostalgia. The real reason Christmas seemed to start on the 1st of November this year is that we are anticipation junkies. We love the waiting, the hoping, the general bonhomie that even the grumpiest among us seem to manage a modicom of. 

For many, of course, this time of year is a pretty lonely and miserable one, made even more so by the ever increasing rampant materialism, and the reduction in what used to be a sort of spiritual and moral benchmark, that is to say, the community created by church going and the regular practising of faith, only seems to highlight the isolation and alienation many must feel.

It's no coincidence that, at least in our house, the TV programmes we love to watch at Christmas are the old favourites. I particularly like the Christmas episode of Midsomer Murders set in a country house where the brother had been denied a fulfilling career as a magician and his surviving family subsequently peg it in-between Midnight Mass and the Boxing Day Hunt. Don't move to Midsomer. The properties look lovely but I shouldn't bother registering to pay council tax as you won't be around long enough to receive your Christmas card with Midsomer Council's Chief Exec on the front. Or the old episodes of Morecambe & Wise with Andre 'Preview' and Shirley Bassey? Every time the film "Elf" is shown on TV, the Twittersphere fills up with people saying how much they love it. Nostalgia wins hands down over novelty every time.

Would we enjoy Christmas more if we went back to putting up tinsel in December rather than September? If we sent cards rather than e-cards? If we occasionally remembered and celebrated what Christmas is actually about?

I'll leave it to one of Wales' literary greats, Dylan Thomas, to give you an idea of what, to me, nostalgia sounds like in his magical "A Child's Christmas in Wales".

"Get back to the Presents."

"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why."

"Go on the Useless Presents."

"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches, cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who, if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall. And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And then it was breakfast under the balloons."

- A Child's Christmas in Wales - Dylan Thomas 
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Tuesday, 17 September 2013

Autumn - A Poem

My father, John Brooks, is a wonderful poet and I find his poems very relaxing and peaceful.  I thought this one, about Autumn, might bring a moment of calm to anyone who is feeling a bit frazzled this morning!


Woods in Autumn
www.freefoto.com

Autumn

The soft light of early evening
lit the tree whose leaves were
yellow and orange, red and brown;
a kaleidoscope of colour.

A returning crow rattled a branch
which shed a leaf that struck
another as it fell
both dropping with a lazy spin.

And then with the downing sun,
a gentle gust of quiet wind
brought down a shower of leaves,
scooping and hooping them away.

Light faded and a chilly breeze
blew whisps of cloud across
the moon, and in her wake
the line of coming night.


J. B. Oct 06.



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