Omens

I was unable to attend the funeral this week of my writer friend Liz Whittaker, who has died of cancer. I am posting this blog in her memory.

I worked with Liz on the local paper, the Tivy-Side, and on the PENfro Book Festival committee, where she was a founding member. And in recent years we shared many happy hours talking about writing and our own creative pursuits. 

Below is my tribute to Liz, which was included with many others in the local press. And my poem 'Omens', one of several of mine to be inspired by this lovely (and very funny) woman. 'Omens' was written when she was first diagnosed with cancer in 2014 and appears in my collection, The Spaces in Between.

LIZ WHITTAKER

“A passionate advocate of the arts in Wales and further afield, Liz Whittaker was an inspiration to many.  She was a creative and witty person and a talented writer. Through her work with the Cardigan Writers group and with many individuals who sought her advice, she encouraged many people to write and explore their own creativity.

“Her valuable contribution as a founding member of the organising committee of the PENfro Book Festival also helped to promote the work of many of the talented writers we have in this area.

“On a personal level she was a most valued colleague and a true friend. She will be greatly missed by many in the Cardigan area and much farther afield.”

Omens

(for Liz)

Rubies on threads shine energy into the world.

A shower of tiny white dots, magnified a hundred times,

a constellation in a galaxy a million miles away,

or fireworks, rockets bursting against dark clouds.

But they are not out there, those ornaments,

not light years distant or high in the sky,

they are in you, my friend, deep inside, and silent.

Seen only on x-ray, or scanner screen, magnified a hundred times.

They are still wonders, so beautiful but deadly.

They will grow and grow, reproduce in a frenzy, become ugly.

They will murder you and take you away from us,

to your fantastic, explosive new universe –

like a shooting star magnified a million times.

And here's the link to my review of my favourite of Liz's books, 'The Bardic Monk':
http://jackie-news.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/how-would-we-know-ourselves-without-our.html

 

Time of the snow

This is the first poem in my new collection, The Spaces in Between,
published in September 2015, by Pinewood Press. Details of how to buy the book are below.

Time of the snow

She wanted to remember what time it was.

She knew, in years to come,

she would want to know

the exact moment,

so she could recall it all.

All the detail.

She would want to count it.

Minute by minute.

So she looked at the clock

and watched the snow falling outside,

deepening the coldness,

filling the world

layer on layer

minute on minute

hour on hour.

She watched the minutes pile up

while inside, time was still.

She knew the moment he went,

she felt the press of his hand on hers,

she looked at the snow,

she forgot the clock,

time froze

The Spaces in Between, published by Pinewood Press, Swansea, £8, is available from: 

local bookshops in the Cardigan area,

direct from me by mail order: email -- spreadthewords@mybtinternet.com

or on Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spaces-Between-Jackie-Biggs/dp/0955880076/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1442646572&sr=1-1&keywords=the+spaces+in+between+jackie+biggs

Tilting at titles

This poem is a bit of fun, made up of the titles of the poetry collections that I find on my bookshelves, plus one or two novels and short story collections, most of them by friends. See credits below.

Tilting at titles

(a found poem)

After 60 years of loving

it’s just you, me and the birds

working out the meaning of flight

while my family and other superheroes

are playing house

and the kith are strumming a banjo

until the dying notes fade

into the spaces in between.

We tilt and listen

to the thought of fresh rain

while turning the pages of

the scrap book

and we write in the fire diary

and we look

to find the road towards humanity

and to search out the white tower

and, maybe, to come back to Avalon,

or perhaps we’ll just end up at no. 52

on the Broadstairs road and be

in Margate by lunchtime.

With thanks to:

Maggie Harris, Alan Kellerman, Christopher Meredith, Jonathan Edwards, Katherine Stansfield, Jo Bell, Samantha Wynne Rhydderch, Reuben Woolley, Ros Hudis, Martin Locock, Adam Horovitz, Carly Holmes, Dave Urwin, Liz Whittaker, Ann Byrne-Sutton and the 52 project.

The road from Damascus

Many poets, and others, have been moved to write by the refugee crisis that is currently affecting many hundreds of thousands of people. This poem of mine was one among many on the online anthology set up by Marie Lightman – Writers for Calais refugees. Many of the refugees in Calais are aware of this site (and others).

The road from Damascus

He still has the key to his house,

safe in his pocket,

but there is no house now –

and his key will fit no other door

in the world.

He walks away from the dust of his home,

and the wreck of his family

and he walks,

one step at a time,

one festering foot in front of the other,

hope a distant memory,

despair a constant companion,

determination his friend,

he walks,

mile on mile,

one way,

hour after hour,

day on day,

pain on pain,

he has to keep walking,

away from his wife,

from his children,

he has to walk

to give them hope,

ignore the pain,

step on step,

stones and rocks,

hurt on hurt

smarting sores,

throbbing head,

freezing in mountains,

soaking in thunderstorms,

thirsting in desert heat,

dodging gangs, wolves in forests,

across hidden borders,

one one one,

step step step

just one man,

one father,

one husband,

one step

at a time

one way

on and on,

miles to go,

day on day,

if he can find food,

water,

yes, water, please,

shelter,

somewhere to sleep,

if he can sleep,

if he can keep walking.

Every step a small death,

every one a possible future,

on and on,

one, one, one

step, step, step,

pain on pain,

stumbling,

falling, get up again.

Keep walking –

into the tunnel.

On. On. On.

And then, he has to walk again,
all the way
back to where he came.
 

see also: https://writersforcalaisrefugees.wordpress.com/

by Marie Lightman