Climbing, catastrophe, and a poem

I've been writing about the climb I did on Thursday - a poem seemed an appropriate vehicle for what I'd been thinking about on the top, and you can read it here. But the extraordinary thing for me on the summit ridge of Ben Donich was that I was alone. Ok, it was only for 30 minutes or so, but in 58 years of climbing in Scotland I've never been alone and it was an exciting experience. A forgotten crag not far below the summit had meant that Mr B declined to accompany me - it's a rock scramble that you have to descend before the last easy climb - and as I knew I'd done it before, I decided to go for it.

That solitary moment or so as I took photos and looked at the blue hills around me gave me time to reflect on the time when I won't be able to do this any more. I'm happy to say, however, that the catastrophe of a sprained ankle waited until I was down the hill - I fell off the back garden path when we arrived home. Should'a kept the boots on ...

Lenten poem

There's a new poem over at frankenstina, actually written last week for the Lent Blog, Beauty from Chaos, where you will find many good things for this season.

The poem began in my head as I sat in church, looking at our wee congregation and thinking about the journey we all face through life.

A poem for a baby

There's a new poem over at frankenstina - and a picture of my lovely grandson. This is the poem I wrote while, all unknown to me, he was about to come into the world, so I feel rather special about it.

Alan, on the other hand, is completely special.

We are a grandmother, again

All of 15 months ago I wrote that I was quoting the Blessed Margaret for the first and last time, but here we go again. We are, for the second time, a grandmother. Neil and Mary's baby boy, Alan John McIntosh, was born about 24 hours ago in London, and he's a big boy, in the fine tradition of his father's generation of McIntosh babies.

Right now, I'm at the stage of feeling as if I'd given birth myself (no: that's hyperbole - but allow me a bit of overstatement, won't you). After Neil's call at nearly midnight (I was catching up on blog stats at the time) we wet Alan's head with a fine malt and headed, burbling, bedwards. At 3am I was up checking Flickr for the first photo (yes - it was there) and at 7am I was making bread after 4 hours of exhaustingly dream-filled sleep. This business of new life arriving really digs into the psyche, especially when the new life is 25% your own genes.

And the amazing thing for me is that yesterday, with no knowledge of the ongoing labour (some people keep their cards very close to their chests!) I wrote a poem called Mary's baby. Ok, there are seasonal impulses at play here - but I think it's quite a coincidence. At the moment, the poem is maturing and there are no photos for public consumption - but watch this space.

And Alan has his own Twitter account already!

Unlocking the brain

It's interesting what influences can unlock the creative bit of the brain. Having written nothing new for several weeks - and not having the slightest desire to - I found a poem forming as I drove home from Lay Training today. We'd been identifying themes for the church year and discussing with regard to Christmas the themes of birth and the reactions to that experience. Then I read an interview with Seamus Heaney, which reinforced much of my own experience of writing, and this acted as the trigger to go and do something about it. So almost 31 years after the event I found myself writing about the last time I experienced childbirth.

You can see the poem here.

New poem on Llananno

There's a new poem on frankenstina - the first of three resulting from my recent trip to Herefordshire. One of the lovely features of these visits is the interest I and my hosts share in poetry, spirituality, old churches and books, so that when we're not tramping the Welsh border hills together (and talking non-stop) we find ourselves sharing intense silence in a lost church - or I find myself sitting in their exquisite garden with a pile of poetry and fiction. And it is this gentle urging to read new poetry which gets me going again - a clear pointer if ever there was one to the need for input.

Llananno is the church I referred to in an earlier post, where R.S. Thomas liked to sit in the same silence as inspired my poem, the central image of which was written in a moment as I sat there.

A poem and a church

Llananno church
Originally uploaded by goforchris.

A highlight of last week's wandering round tiny deserted Welsh churches was a visit to the church of St Anno, Llananno church. We almost drove past it, despite our hosts' knowing it was there - the road runs above the little river valley it sits in, and the sign was facing the wrong way and half obscured in a hedge. The special thing for me was the association with the poet R.S.Thomas, who wrote a poem about this church - a hand-written copy is displayed on the wall just inside the door.
"I often call there" he begins,

"in a gesture
of independence of the speeding
traffic I am a part
of".

I don't know how many people seek out the church precisely for this connection, but it was apparent that there were no regular services held there. The door was open, the grass around it had been cut, but there was little sign of life other than some slightly drooping flowers on the altar - "brownish now", to go back to Larkin. But behind the altar, through the plain glass of the large East window, a huge tree in full leaf seemed to suggest a great life force embracing this quiet place, so that the whole place seemed full of it.

There Thomas felt he came

"face to face,
with no intermediary
between me and God"

and recalled the delicate light which entered his soul.

The whole poem can be found in Thomas' Collected Poems (p3.304), or you can read it here. I realise now how much of the poetry I love was shaped by such places - and how enhanced my understanding has been by my visit to this one. Why didn't I think of a school trip...?

Reflections

Sunset reflections
Originally uploaded by goforchris.

Looking back on yesterday's carol service, two very different reflections - one mine, the other from a total stranger. Mine first, though. And this was how strange it was to hear a poem of mine read by someone else - for yesterday was only the second time this has happened to me. Suddenly something intensely personal takes on its own life - grows up, if you like - and heads off into the world in the manner of your child going off to school holding someone else's hand. Furthermore, because another person reads with different phrasing, the words take on a different resonance, so that yesterday I heard something new, even though I knew it was coming. The first time this happened, some years ago, I didn't know that the person leading the meditation was going to use a piece of mine, and I found myself thinking "this is very familiar - I wonder who wrote it"...

The second feedback of the day came in a chance meeting in the street, when a woman whose husband had attended the service reported to Mr B that he had enjoyed the singing immensely - but that it was of course a younger choir than was usual in Dunoon, with young voices. And I thought of our group, reading glasses and all, average age pushing 60 - and smiled.

Writing again

I've been writing again - a new poem which you can find over at frankenstina. The subject matter had been swirling gently in my head for a few days - since driving round the Holy Loch on one of these days when you're always looking out for the next downpour, heralded usually by the sudden disappearance of some landmark which had been perfectly visible two minutes previously. A smidgin of blue sky reminded me that above the clouds it's always a sunny day - a revelation that still amazes me every time I take off in a plane. The poem finally appeared at half past midnight last night, so sleep proved elusive.

I'm having bothers, however, in formatting my poems for satisfactory layout on the screen. The short half-line at the beginning of the second section of this poem should appear below where it would have been had it stayed on the line above, where rhythmically speaking it belongs. If anyone can supply an idiot's guide to the correct html to achieve this, I'd be grateful. (I've tried centering, but this sticks it miles away in mid-screen.)

However, I am decidedly pleased by the fact that this poem came to me in the form in which it appears. After being hung up with a regular metre for some months now, it was with a grateful bow to the memory of RST that I felt free once more to go with the words and my inner ear. It's early days yet to see if I think it's a success, but I enjoyed the process.

Yule Tide maunderings

Well well. Seems we poor bloggers have been banned by Argyll and Bute because we use Blogger. Apparently the reason given is "sex". I have a sneaking feeling that perhaps iGear can't spell - it could be the "...gger" bit that gets the cyber-masters hot under the collar, or wherever else they feel the heat. Never mind. Presumably someone out there will continue to look in from time to time.

I do hope so, because I've just published a new poem over at frankenstina. It arose from that chilly visit to Edinburgh last week, and is dedicated to my pals Marilyn and Fraser. (Forgot to put that in the title - shall rectify some day!)

In the meantime, if you haven't received a card from The Blethers please blame my computer problems - my address list is in a label page file and the system flipped just before I printed them off. On this Yule Day (apparently it's today) I wish all non-Christians a Happy Yule , and the rest of you a happy and blessed Christmas.