Poetry Nights...

Formby Poetry and Prose Collective is run as an offshoot of Formby Writers.

It has settled in at a lovely friendly venue on the Last Wednesday of each Month.

In fact it is 2 years old on Wednesday 26th August!

Co-founder Stephen Beattie and fellow Fringe Poet, Phil McNulty will each perform for 20 minutes.

Then there is a lively 'Open Mic' session with honest feedback!

It starts at 7pm and is merely £2 which includes refreshments.

Come along to the Bier House, St Peters Churchyard, Green lane, Formby L37 7DL

and either relax and listen or air your own or favourite rhyme of yore.

We hear the new EDDA Centre inside Ainsdale Library will also have monthly poetry nights,
they have esteemed local performer, Brian Wake on Thursday 6th August at 7pm.

Write Blend the new book and coffee shop with space
is also starting a monthly Poetry Night
with an initial special evening featuring Liverpool Poet and Writer, Ian Bradley Marshall

This will be on Saturday 5th September in the Coffee Room with doors at 7pm
for his performance at 7.45pm

I'd assume it's grab a cuppa or coffee from the café or indulge in a vino and support the raffle in aid of 'Young Minds' which is supported by Owner, Sally-Anne.

PROCRASTINATION

I'm going to write a villanelle today.
It isn't easy - it will take some time.
Tomorrow would be better anyway -

because today I'll have to clear the way
and tidy up the desk and clean the grime.
I'm not going to write a villanelle today.

I've got to water plants, I've bills to pay -
so much to do there isn't time to rhyme.
Tomorrow would be better anyway.

I'm not being realistic when I say
as there's so much to do in the meantime,
'I'm going to write a villanelle today'.

Today I've so much work - I cannot play.
To waste my time like that would be a crime -
tomorrow would be better anyway.

And wasn't it a silly thing to say
with optomistic fantasy sublime,
'I'm going to write a villanelle today'?
Tomorrow would be better anyway.

Social Engineering (my short story- some distressing adult content)

Social Engineering

by Thomas Cookson

She became agitated as the rickety train slowed to its station. Through the window she numbly saw passing grasslands, red bricked education buildings and glassy allotments with the occasional scarecrow.

The tracks’ rhythmic sound became more pronounced, chopping through the floor.

She’d soon be there. Somewhere she’d avoided for years.

She clutched the railing to hold herself steady.

The platform came into view, as she remembered it. Globed lamps between each station sign.

The train came to a halt. The doors hissed open and she stepped onto the platform. The refreshing suburban air hit her.

Her heart was pounding. She clutched the button of her black blazer, trying to summon her professional confidence. She had to appear calm and reassuring.

She walked along the gravelly platform. Her high heels digging into the grounds, putting all her anger into each footstep, as though trying to puncture the tarmac.

She came clanging up the ramp of stairs, passing the arched ticket area, emerging into the main road. To her right was a no-go area, leading to stretching wastelands before the coastal promenade.

She remembered what happened there.

Not wanting to look down that entrapping path, she turned away, to the left avenue of linked houses.

She prayed no-one she recognised would be here. No old familiar faces who might ask how she’d been or where she’d moved.

No-one was around. She didn’t want to be seen. She passed the first right turning which led to a rather opulent looking cream house with curved entrance and black gating.

She continued ahead, to the second turning. It was almost like a labyrinth, she remembered. Many ways to turn, but somehow always enclosing. Nowhere to find refuge. Except perhaps for home.

The next turning came and she took it. Now she was approaching the bottleneck of her old neighbourhood, towered by trees, barbed wired walls, and a tall red church on the left. She could see the streets ahead.

She didn’t smile. But pleasanter memories filled her mind. Visits by the lemonade van with its many flavour bottles. You chose two a week, and returned the bottles after. Her favourite was cream soda, with raspberry ripple ice cream.

It had seemed such a happy childhood here.

She passed the church, and then the vicarage. The bottleneck opened onto attached houses and side streets. The bottleneck was behind her now. Only one way back. The tall walls with their barbed wire continued to stretch ahead. It was all attached red brick houses, and a trio of side streets.

Beyond that was another housing estate that didn’t quite fit. The buildings were newer and detached, and almost blockaded at the sides by stone fencings. She remembered when it was once a rugby pitch. Then it was built over. She remembered watching the construction diggers and their routine movements.  She remembered her fascination with the animations of those towering digging machines and trucks, like giant dinky toys.

She hated that estate.

She passed the first street, trying to avoid looking at her family’s old house. She wasn’t here for that. She was here for Linda.

She passed the second street. It was the third street she wanted. Perilously close to the estate. Number 14.

She turned onto the third street. She yearned to be sheltered indoors from the sight. She withdrew her badge and came to the seventh house.

She knocked and waited. The arch glass windows and their netted curtains were shuffled, as an older woman peered cautiously out, bearing eyes that seemed saggy through stress and lost sleep.

Katy gave a reassuring smile and held up her badge.

The lock turned and the door opened. The older woman peered out.

 “Mrs. Morgan? Hi I’m Katy Weldon, we spoke over the phone. May I come in please?”

“Yes of course”, the woman urged. “Do come in.”

She was led into a dining room with blue china.

“Linda’s in her bedroom. I’ll try to persuade her down.”

Katy smiled, and waited alone, considering the old plates, and their illustrations of old farms and streams. She felt almost calm here.

She heard a quiet murmuring upstairs, urgings for her to come down, and repetitious negative adolescent protests.

A part of her wished the girl would be left alone. Another part wanted to shake some sense into the girl herself and shout at her how much she’d regret it later in life if she didn’t.

The wooden footsteps trailed slowly back down the stairs. Mrs. Morgan came back in unhappily “I’m sorry, she won’t come down.”

 “Well we can’t force her.”

She sat down and sighed “She spends days in that room. Hardly comes out now. She doesn’t want to see anyone. She has nightmares. Sometimes wakes up screaming.”

Katy shook her head sadly “They’re common symptoms.”

“I don’t know what to do. I feel I can’t touch her, I can’t hold her. I can’t comfort her.”

“What your daughter’s been through has left her deeply withdrawn. The world suddenly seems very different and frightening to her. Her every instinct is to be protected and defended. So relating to her will be initially difficult. You’re familiar to her. She can trust you, but she’s been through a drastic, shattering upheaval, affecting her relationship with you and others.”

“She doesn’t see friends anymore. It was so close to home she doesn’t trust anyone.”

“Perhaps she should speak to a rape crisis centre.”

A gasp escaped Mrs. Morgan’s mouth. She clutched a hand over her lips at the very word. Her eyes fixed onto a vague distant horror “How could this happen here?”

“Have you lived here long?”

“Twenty years now.”

Katy looked down sadly and swallowed, closing her eyes, she confessed “I lived two streets down. We moved out years ago. Never looked back since.”

She sighed “I don’t understand this world anymore.”

She clarified “It was three boys who attacked her wasn’t it? All from the estate?”

The mother nodded her head, tremoring bitterly.

Katy sighed “That doesn’t shock me I’m afraid. I know what those estate kids are like. It was always a trouble spot.”

“Yes.“

“They originally built the estate for middle class families. But construction took too long. Those middle class families moved elsewhere, property values sunk and the problem families moved in instead. And often failed suburbanisation breeds delinquency and criminality. You move troubled families to a new area and there’s much disorder.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well there’s a lot of bureaucracy concerning housing schemes, and so this instills a lot of angry moods in the parents in the household. And I think this rubs off badly on the kids too. Otherwise they’re neglected whilst the parents are working long hours, and so they often grow up in an environment where there’s a violent atmosphere to almost all social interaction. And this area’s quite deprived, it always was. And there’s wastegrounds and isolated spots over the other side of the train-tracks which unfortunately allows for pack rapes to happen, and for the kids to be more vicious and out of control, almost feral even. And so they end up growing up as quite emotionally abnormal. I dread to think what becomes of them later in life.”

“You’re making excuses for them.”

“No I’m not. I’m really not. I’m sorry I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just… I’ve wanted to make sense of what happened here too. I grew up here. But well you’ll hear all the worst excuses in the courtroom for what happened. It’ll be horrible and humiliating. For you and your daughter. The verbiage of the attackers’ defence lawyers and friends will make you feel helpless and alone in this, as they’ll try getting everyone on their side, but I’ll fight as best I can for the voice of reason, to get them on your side, and your daughter’s. On the side of right. It’s just a matter of speaking their language.”

“I think she’s giving up.”

“That’s why she needs support. The best support. I can offer mine, all the way, and I can put her in touch with other support groups.”

“Thank you.”

“Things will get better. Gradually, bit by bit. As long as we make a case, then your daughter will get justice. It’ll be hard and painful, but it just might be worth it. But only if she’ll go to the police and press charges.” she closed her eyes then “Mrs. Morgan, I know it’s hard. I know it sometimes feels like you’re not sure what to do as a parent. Wondering if you’re letting her down. There are often victims of victims. But I’ll be with you both one hundred percent.”

They continued to talk for another hour, about the case, over a triage of cups of tea each. Often Mrs. Morgan would break down into tears in her handkerchief, as the long, unending ordeal overwhelmed her, and as the talking released her of her burden.

For the most part Katy just listened. When she spoke, she spoke quietly and delicately, hoping that maybe her gentle vocal manner would be overheard by the girl and would draw her down. Like the light in the dark. The promise of calm and safety in a world where everything felt cruel, malignant and brutalised. She knew deep down the girl wanted and needed to be comforted and supported.

Maybe she didn’t want to see her because she thought she was just a jobsworth. Only on her side because the job demanded it. She wouldn’t know why she took the job in the first place. To make a better difference for women like her. The one good to come from that evil she’d been holding onto.

It came to six o’clock. The bottlenecking church chimed its hour followed by the six bongs. The backyard window was showing the beginnings of an early evening. Darkening sky and inky clouds, and the harsh glare of amber street lamps.

Katy decided “I’m afraid I have to cut this short. I’m over work hours now. I have to get back.”

 “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

Katy shook her head “Don’t apologise, please… I know it’s difficult, but if she will speak to me, I will help her as best I can. It won’t happen overnight I know. But if she proves more willing, then call me immediately. Don’t hesitate.”

Mrs. Morgan led forward to the hallway and stairwell. “Thank you again for coming.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed.

The girl was stood waiting at the stairs. Her dark hair thick and tatty with neglect. Her polkadot pyjamas smelled of accumulative body odour. Her face was surly and sad. Her wide eyes marked by tear lines. She breathed heavily through her nose, as if ready to weep again.

Nervously she fought the words out “You came to see me?”

Katy awkwardly swallowed and declared “Yes. But don’t worry. I can come round again.”

Helplessly she asked, “What should I do?”

Katy shook her head sadly “This is painful I know. But the choice must be yours. It will be an ordeal. It won’t end easily. If you choose not to go to the police, if you don’t name the boys who did this, then it won’t end at all.”

Linda shook her head, almost panicking at the thought.

Katy pressed on “Now I know. And often people don’t want to. Sometimes people who are violently attacked think they’ve recovered already and just hop back. Only later realising how much it gradually affected them. Now in a sexual assault, the trauma is more immediate and intense, and sometimes there’s fear that doing anything might make you feel worse.” Blinking back tears as she looked at the fragile girl, she finally said it, with surprising ease “I thought… when I was near your age. I thought I could pretend it didn’t happen. I didn’t go to the police. And I can tell you now I’ve regretted that ever since. I’d hate for you to make the same mistake I did.”

They shared a look for a moment. One that said Katy was speaking the sincere truth. Nothing feigned. They were kindred, bruised souls, haunted by the same horror.

Perhaps she’d said more than enough. She’d once struggled to force the words out like vomit. She’d once have rather let it chip away at her slowly, than face the onslaught. Before her mind was ready.

The older woman awkwardly let her out, giving her a surprised, pitying look of understanding. She didn’t smile back. She left.

She entered onto the street pavement again, and came to round the edge of the street.

As she looked ahead at the way back she passed the immediate house on the left, with its almost bacon-like contrast of red and amber.  Beside the tailgated entry she saw something she hadn’t noticed on the way here. She shuddered at the sight of the obscene graffiti grafted onto the wall reading ‘Linda Morgan is a slag’.

How low could these people get?

She was suddenly in a hurry to leave, as she strided down the long path back to the church.

Why had she come here alone? She’d never told anyone. She didn’t want anyone to know. No-one she worked with. She didn’t want them to come with her, incase she broke down or showed signs of being upset and they asked her why. She couldn’t bear that. She knew her fellow workers were gregarious, observant and blunt.

It came with the job.

She passed the church, and traversed the bottleneck, returning to the left street path back to the station.

She always remembered that estate as the worst thing to ever happen here.

She closed her eyes, but she could still remember their cruel faces, looking down on her as she was thrown to the ground.

They’d gathered around her like glaring wolves, their faces were so animalistic and feral. They delighted in her pain. She had been unable to escape.

She hung her eyes sadly a moment, in bitter reminiscence. She didn’t want to remember her old life. Who she used to be. What was it she had often said to her clients?

Happy events uplift you, but tragic events transform you.

As she got to the station, she looked ahead at the road leading to the park and wastelands. She saw a scarlet sunset of malevolent thick veiny clouds stretching off into the horizon like an unforgiving curse upon the expanse of land.

She could still remember their cruel, feral faces, looking down on her. The wide expanses of the wasteland entrapping her like their pinning grips and bodily weight upon her. She remembered the filthy invasion of flesh. Their gloating eyes. Bringing surging hot tears to her own eyes. Looking at the night sky, praying it would be over soon. Waiting for it to end.

She remembered how she got home. Silent in the taxi but feeling like screaming, rocking numbly with each bump and boulder. Staring out numbly through the window at the darkness of night. Feeling its elusive evil and malice.

How could people go on with life?

She remembered nights after the event. Shattered nerves. Feeling internally diseased. Her mind a firestorm. She wrapped herself in sheets and blankets, like the softest armour, shivering to her core

, drifting off into flickering volatile nightmares that often made her wake up screaming.

Those were her worst slumps of depression and isolation. When people, by their confidence and ease of gregariousness, made her feel worse, made her feel less. Made her feel broken.

Blood was coursing through her like lava as the memories taunted her. She closed her eyes and took careful breaths and the sour sensation began to fade a little.

This was still an evil place. It always would be to her. It would always sour her. But now she had no choice but to return, and return again. For the sake of doing good here.

It had to be worth it. Perhaps nothing in her whole life was as important.

She turned away to the station, craving the train that’d take her away from here. She dreaded the thought of the comfort of her four walls and warm blanket being tainted and soured by the memories here, or spending days in a bedbound slump. She couldn’t let that happen.

She’d let evil win here once before. But not again.

She needed to be strong for two, against many.

How long is a piece of string?

It was a blind date and I met this young man. He was long and narrow. I liked his hands - his fingers were long and slender with knot-like knuckles. But he didn't play the piano (I asked him).

He must have been six foot five: he looked like a long piece of string with knots in.

His face was long and narrow, but the main thing I noticed was that his eyes were too close together. I never trust people with eyes too close together. His eyes were so close together that they almost looked crossed. I didn't believe he could see properly to each side of him because of his long thin nose which protruded between them like a knobbly blade.

His eyebrows were each barely an inch long - there was no room for more in his long, narrow face. They scurried around like two little black caterpillars on his knobbly forehead.

He didn't say much, was very polite and respectful, but I didn't trust him because of his close-together eyes.

Sixty years later, my husband still looks like a long piece of knotted string.

SEA - a poem

Furiously foaming at the mouth of a cave,
Fighting ferociously, fearsome and frightening;
Relentlessly beating, battering beaches,
Sucking up sand and spitting it back.
Fighting itself in its fury
Wave meeting wave with a crash -
Angrily attacking the sea coming back.

Rushing with rage at the rocks –
Biting big chunks and grinding the pieces
Punching and pounding, pummelling and probing
Every crevice of the coast, every cliff, every rock.
Throwing things through holes and abandoning them –
Bottles and bits of brick and plastic
Barrels of toxic and hazardous waste –
Spitefully sending these things to the places
Supposed to be secret, secluded, serene,
Spitting infected sputum onto the beach
Where dead fish and bird’s bodies stink the shore
And tar sticks to feet.

But the sea never ceases – it also cleans:
Washes and purifies the land
Scouring the coast,
Washing away sewage and waste water
Diluting, draining, drifting and drowning,
Eating, consuming. Breaking up, breaking down,
Blowing away, everything going away, going away
With the sea’s inexorable rhythmic pulse.

What's this one about?

Dog and Bone

****************************

Woof, woof, woof, woof

I used to have juicy bone

Wag, wag, wag, wag

I loved my big juicy bone

Bark, Bark, Bark, Bark

I hid it well, I sit alone

Woof, woof, woof, woof

Now I surely know it's gone

Howl, howl, howl, howl

I still miss my juicy bone

John P Tanner 06/2013

17 Days

*******

The woman was Reshma Begum

Seamstress on the second floor

When it all came down it had only just begun

Woman had enough for more

She lay in rain water trying not to drown   

For 17 Days woman banged, screamed out

Had something inside to live breathed though a pipe

After 16 Days they must have had their doubts

All the bodies round were geting ripe

Alone with thoughts and she can hear the scouts

For giving up she's not the type

One must have faith, she did and so do they

LIFE will always find a Way

John Tanner 15 May 2013