The tricky business of finding a (print) publisher

No craft is learned quickly.

Old wisdom declares that it’s an insipid thing that falls into place too easily. All the same, I still hope (growing greyer by the week) to find a publisher one day for my poems. Meanwhile, I just keep writing. To the select band of followers of this blog: thank you for your encouragement, wheresoever you may be!

Even So

Like a wren without its mate

Singing against the darkness of a late spring dawn

And trusting that another bird may hear,

may yet reply;

 

Or like a wife on the harbour wall alone,

Yearning for a shadow on the summer sea,

Who waits in weary hope for the fisherman’s return:

For the curved white bow of his sail,

the heave and haul of silver darlings;

 

Or like a thirsty, burnt-out farmer

Squinting at the ruthless sky to spy

A speck or fleecy strand of cloud

Promising longed-for rain—autumn’s relief

Over wilted wheat & drooping barley,

over shrivelled yields & pod-cracked fields;

 

Or like that old beloved chestnut mare

They kept for kindness’ sake,

Believing she was barren,

Who wickers for joy at the winter hay-net,

Nudging twin colts as they nuzzle her:

The first soft-eyed foals on stilted legs

she ever bore.

 

So, even so, I set these poems before you.

 

And while only the frailest faith survives:

that a pair will be born to a barren mare,

that drying grain will know sweet rain,

that love will burn on a seafarer’s return,

that—like the music of all the love-lorn

in the greenwood’s darkest springtime morn—

these poems may take wings and fly,

I shall continue writing by and by.

Words and image © Lizzie Ballagher

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Of Time and Tide: Reculver first of a series of new blogs

It’s that time of year to look back—and ahead. The ancient ruins at Reculver (where the 2,000 year old Roman fortification walls are still visible) always make me reflect: both on change and on constancy.

I           Reculver (Regulbium)                   43 AD

 

Bound for Londinium on proud horses,

Ruling, inscribing harsh lines from Rome

Across the Alps, the land, the sea,

The emperor’s men brought in their inky tide:

Decrees scrolling, unrolling in waves of change.

 

Captives hauled the flints they mined with antlers

(Hacked out, split in twain, cracked out)

To build the straight, square garrison a mile from water

So their conquerors could watch the Wantsum, guard the sea

And scare poor British wretches into slavery.

 

They raised up ramparts, parapets,

With remorseless order: a flinty masonry

Of angles, sharp corners,

Cold geometry—

And calculated mastery.

© Lizzie Ballagher

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November: a time to reflect, a time to remember

Seven Candles

Light me a candle for sorrow:

For the one on a journey with no returning

And pennies on his eyes for the burying.

 

Light me a candle for tomorrow:

For the tug of longing & the loss of hope,

For the winds of war & the stuttering of prayer.

 

Light me a candle for blissful memories

In the darkest hours of night:

For sunlit colours & the laughter of friends.

 

Light me a candle for thankfulness:

For the holy moments of marrying,

For childbirth & the first faltering prayers of children.

 

Light me a candle for blessedness:

For bread & wine on a sacred table—

To stand & burn in beauty & in tenderness.

 

Light me a candle for gladness:

For a welcome at windows late in the evening,

For the hush & stillness of soft sleep.

 

Light me a candle for peace:

For the swansdown drift of dreams;

For the gift of Christ at Christmas,

And for His rising on Easter’s radiant morning.

Yes, light me a candle for the breath of day’s dawning.

 

The hiss of a flame, the flare of a spark

Will raise us soon against the dark.

 

© Lizzie Ballagher – words and image

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Remembering November 11th, 1918

Even to those born in the middle of the 20th century like me, and especially because so many of our parents and grandparents lost their lives in one or both World Wars, the years 1914-1918 do not seem far away at all. I made this same post last year and make no apologies for repeating it.

Here’s my remembrance for November 11th.

TAPESTRY: A Poem of Remembrance
You daughters of Normandy
And you who wield the needle through the lancing,
Branching threads of Ypres and Arras cloth—
Weep.

No wool or flax from the low low fields
Of Flanders can match the knotted intricacy,
The lacework, tracework
Of sword and spear and pitching pike,
The criss-cross-stitch savagery,
Brown broidery futility
Of Harold among the trees,
Of Hastings blood poured out on Bayeux tapestry.

You women of Picardy
And you who shove the shuttle through the branching,
Lancing looms of Lancashire cloth—
Mourn.

No homespun or hessian from the rolling mills
Of Blackburn can match the intricate knottedness,
The tracework, lacework
Of trench and gun and bloody bayonet,
The Christ-crucifying savagery,
Red poppy insanity
Of Tommy among the trees,
Of wasting blood poured out on Somme and Passchendaele.
© Lizzie Ballagher

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Doorway of Dreams

Joyous family weddings four years in a row now have caused me to reflect about weddings – hence this poem (due to appear in a Poetry Space publication in 2017). All the romance, the flowers, the colour, the smiles, the music: all are just a prelude to the new world on the far side of the door into the wedding ceremony.

Doorway of Dreams

In one over-heated room,

Everything’s been thought of:

Even perfectly matched socks in rows

(For once no holes in toes)

That his brothers and his friends will wear.

All, all are redolent of roses.

 

The trembling fingers of the groom

Reach for the blushing roses’ sweetness:

The wrapped, enfolded buttonhole.

Deeply breathing, he steadies himself.

 

While in another room, and up another stair

Where a fan shifts warm air

And voile curtains lift and stir,

A mother weaves bright buttercups—

Ranunculus asiasticus

Through her daughter’s glossy hair.

 

The bride is trembling, blushing, too.

She knows she’s found her perfect match.

So, reaching for a rose,

Deeply breathing, she readies herself.

 

Around both upper rooms music breaks

In waves, foams, creams

In the whorled shells

Of their hushed and listening ears.

The love-song they have chosen swells,

Calls them to the doorway of their dreams.

© words and image Lizzie Ballagher

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Nine Days – Day Nine

This evening sees the end of this nine-day blog. Writing the poem has been a good way of looking back with love and affection and looking ahead with hope and humour. If you’ve enjoyed following these nine days, please share the link or send me a comment.

My Mother’s Book of Hours: Novena

IX

But keep the beech-wood box itself for memory—

For our two grandmothers’ sakes, even for poetry’s sake—

And maybe take

One small bright thimble

For faith & hope & love (all three).

Go on—

It fits your finger—see?

 

© Lizzie Ballagher

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Nine Days – Day Eight

Only a very short post today, but with a couple of big questions in it. Shall we go to the local tip? Shall we hire a skip (for the North American reader, a dumpster)? A time for keeping and a time for throwing away! The old sewing box contains almost everything but the proverbial kitchen sink…

 

My Mother’s Book of Hours: Novena

VIII

Look, love! Is it time to haul the whole lot to the city tip?

Nothing in the box will mend/amend the mess we’ve made!

Long-cherished rubbish here would fill a skip.

© Lizzie Ballagher

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Nine Days – Day Seven

Unravelling muddles isn’t always good, and sometimes the memories are as sharp as the hat-pins of a previous blog. Equally, though, there are corners full of colour and joyful remembrance…

My Mother’s Book of Hours: Novena

VII

This box, I tell you—with all its forlorn jumble-jangle of bright stuff,

Its tangled pick-up-sticks of hooks & needles,

Of buckles & bangles & dancing-skirt spangles,

Of patchwork pieces—is all yours now.

No longer shall I calculate with frayed measuring tape

(It lies, for sure);

Or cut with rusting shears,

Or mend with reels or spools or bobbins

From this box.

No longer shall I read my mother’s Book of Hours—

This needlebook bibled in downy blue felt.

© Lizzie Ballagher

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Nine Days – Day Six

I had forgotten the sachet that I hem-stitched and embroidered for my mother as a child. It was a surprise when it surfaced among the clutter in the sewing box at the end of her life. I suppose she prized it, as I still prize the things my own children made.

My Mother’s Book of Hours: Novena

VI

From chalk & talk in Needlecraft, off-cuts of fabric rustle out:

Triumphantly you hold aloft the soft velvet cord

Of a coat I sewed you for school plays;

And the Irish linen of a sachet for white handkerchiefs—

What on earth is that? you ask.

It is a thing I sewed for Mum, I say, in tiny, pin-prick hem-stitching,

The hankies folded, redolent of peachy face-powder

And other relics of a bygone age,

A bygone stage.

© Lizzie Ballagher

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Nine Days – Day Five

Who would have thought that the clearing out of an old family sewing box would discover so many trinkets, bits of trash, and treasures? Here is the fifth poem of nine for you.

My Mother’s Book of Hours: Novena

V

Granny’s antique cigarette tins (tightly shut

For forty years) still smell—so faintly—of tobacco.

You inhale; you read the lid & scoff,

Will not affect your throat—ha-ha!

Inside: a hook that Allison & I both used

To crochet curly, swirly tea-cosies:

It rests with Granny’s lethal hat-pins.

How often Mum derided those!

Hats? Not for me! So daft. And hat pins?

Murder weapons, more like!

While we (who love to wear huge hats

And wild, exotic fascinators for a laugh)

Would never think of pinning them.

© Lizzie Ballagher

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