And now for something completely different:
Enjoy, I do, Jill
Showing posts with label Poetry in Motion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry in Motion. Show all posts
Monday, 31 October 2011
Monday, 22 August 2011
Bookshop Tour ...
When the ironing is finished, when all my children have left home, when my novel is complete, when my study is tidy, when all the paper-work is up-to-date, when I have been on a diet, and saved for enough fuel, I'd like to go on tour. To be more precise, I'd like to go on a UK Bookshop Tour ... calling at all the Special and Specialist Bookshops including The Poetry Bookshop, Hay-on-Wye ...
Maybe I could cycle around them all ?... No, not around them, I'd never get anywhere of course, obviously, from one to the next ... raise money for charity along the way ... call in at writing workshops, author readings, borrow library books from one library and return them to another ...
Maybe, when ...
 |
| The Poetry Bookshop Hay-on-Wye |
Maybe I could cycle around them all ?... No, not around them, I'd never get anywhere of course, obviously, from one to the next ... raise money for charity along the way ... call in at writing workshops, author readings, borrow library books from one library and return them to another ...
Maybe, when ...
Friday, 19 August 2011
Bringing Poetry Pamphlets ... to you ...
Women: Love & Frivolity
Everyday happens to all of us. Gillian Hesketh’s collection; Women ~ Love & Frivolity, is a splash of truth-seeking contemporary poetry assigning spirit to everyday existence.
Urban Realities ...
Everyday happens to all of us. Gillian Hesketh’s collection of contemporary poetry investigates challenging situations and emotions inspired by the rhythm of life.
Gillian
 |
| Women: Love & Frivolity ~ or ~ Urban Realities |
A delightful alternative to the card / gift problem ...
Women: Love & Frivolity and Urban Realites are beautifully hand-crafted
collections of contemporary poetry to send to someone
when a card isn’t enough
and a present is too complicated.
Choose :~
Women: Love & Frivolity
Everyday happens to all of us. Gillian Hesketh’s collection; Women ~ Love & Frivolity, is a splash of truth-seeking contemporary poetry assigning spirit to everyday existence.
Urban Realities ...
Everyday happens to all of us. Gillian Hesketh’s collection of contemporary poetry investigates challenging situations and emotions inspired by the rhythm of life.
Each package includes Poetry pamphlet and Book-mark £2.99
For orders: email gmhesketh@yahoo.co.uk
[p&p please add 40p per order]
Stop Press ... ** !!
Poetry Pamphlets hand-made to your design ~ See Your Poems in Print ~ Enjoy, Share,
Gift to Family and Friends or sell at Craft Fairs ~ Email for details, choices and prices.
Orders completed within 2 weeks.
Gillian
Thursday, 11 August 2011
Women: Love & Frivolity ... hot on the press ...
Things are getting hotter ...
Women: Love & Frivolity is getting warmer ... the laptop is over-heating ... the ink is evaporating ... the cover, racing through the printing system ...
We're just waiting for the ribbon ... yes ribbon ...
Watch this space ... I will be ...
Gillian
Urban Realities: Contemporary Poetry ...
Triple Glazing
No sound of bike bells ringing,
engines racing, buses droning
or wagons thundering,
over the A six three something
No sound of children laughing,
crying, arguing, not even birdsong
can be heard
through the triple glazing.
Gillian
No sound of bike bells ringing,
engines racing, buses droning
or wagons thundering,
over the A six three something
No sound of children laughing,
crying, arguing, not even birdsong
can be heard
through the triple glazing.
Gillian
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
Social Stereotypes ... Just for fun ...
Not sure where this came from ... was just messing about, having a bit of a talk to myself; finish this, edit that - and five hundred words later ...
Social Stereotypes: The Mature Student
Pleased with her recent assignment and bibliography intact, Joanne relinquished it almost a week early, accepting the slip of flimsy pink paper which would confirm its whereabouts for the following six weeks. Postcolonial readings of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness managed to uncover more than a sufficient understanding of European nineteenth Century colonialism that Joanne had never, ever considered thinking about. A mature student, Joanne’s many commitments bargaining for her time, the hours and hours required for reading around subjects took the place of her friendships, an occasional night in the pub, even the ironing. Evaluating her efforts constantly, expecting to achieve only decent results, she promised she wouldn’t be dissatisfied with them.
Wanting to be as inconspicuous as visually possible, she adjusted her attire, choosing denims, flat pumps and chose from an assortment of plain tops from the high street. Her outerwear would have to be tamed too, nothing too ostentatious. Joanne blended with her colleagues, although she drew the line at riding a bike to the Uni campus. No, the people carrier would have to do. Besides, driving her three children to school before lectures was just part of her day.
Joanne was looking forward to her next module; Myth & Legend. An introduction to relentless debates on male oppression, dating back to … the beginning, she supposed. She began to over-indulge in the subject matter. She wondered, fingers poised at the keys, what exactly was myth? Images of an unwanted truths reverberated through time? Yes, that would be a start. Greek myth; poor Philomele, having been raped by her brother-in-law, the mighty King Tereus, physically silenced by having her tongue cut out. Joanne took some time to get her head around this one. Was she about to become a feminist? But the woman survived. Told the tale through dance. How innovative. Joanne hit the keys and as usual, didn’t stop till after midnight.
And what did she hope to achieve from all of this? Joanne had to admit, she was sick and tired of family, friends, acquaintances and people she’d just met in the pub on a Friday night, asking her the same question. She considered telling them she was going to be a teacher, just so everyone would leave her alone. But she didn’t. And the questions continued. What made you want to do a degree? At your age? What did you say you were studying? ‘English Literature’, she would say, watching their eyes roll to the back of their heads. ‘Linguistics’, she would add with rising intonation, hoping to gain a little interest. ‘Oh I see, French? German?’ This was the point where Joanne would wonder whether she was in the wrong pub with the wrong people. Then, maybe she was the one who was in the wrong place. ‘It’s the study of the nature, structure and variation of language’, she would reply, to a place where the lights were on but no-one was in.
Joanne seems to have found herself at last. She not only achieved a more than adequate honours degree in literature (not forgetting the linguistics) but an improved capacity to understand other human beings. She is looking forward to empowering other women. Opening one of her many charity luncheons, ‘Women need to become more certain of their identities and begin to take charge of their own destinies’, she began. ‘As the famous French philosopher, Helene Cixous states, Woman must write about women and bring women to writing from which they have been driven away … woman must put herself into the text – as into the world and into history.’
Right, now back to my real job!
Gillian
Social Stereotypes: The Mature Student
Pleased with her recent assignment and bibliography intact, Joanne relinquished it almost a week early, accepting the slip of flimsy pink paper which would confirm its whereabouts for the following six weeks. Postcolonial readings of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness managed to uncover more than a sufficient understanding of European nineteenth Century colonialism that Joanne had never, ever considered thinking about. A mature student, Joanne’s many commitments bargaining for her time, the hours and hours required for reading around subjects took the place of her friendships, an occasional night in the pub, even the ironing. Evaluating her efforts constantly, expecting to achieve only decent results, she promised she wouldn’t be dissatisfied with them.
Wanting to be as inconspicuous as visually possible, she adjusted her attire, choosing denims, flat pumps and chose from an assortment of plain tops from the high street. Her outerwear would have to be tamed too, nothing too ostentatious. Joanne blended with her colleagues, although she drew the line at riding a bike to the Uni campus. No, the people carrier would have to do. Besides, driving her three children to school before lectures was just part of her day.
Joanne was looking forward to her next module; Myth & Legend. An introduction to relentless debates on male oppression, dating back to … the beginning, she supposed. She began to over-indulge in the subject matter. She wondered, fingers poised at the keys, what exactly was myth? Images of an unwanted truths reverberated through time? Yes, that would be a start. Greek myth; poor Philomele, having been raped by her brother-in-law, the mighty King Tereus, physically silenced by having her tongue cut out. Joanne took some time to get her head around this one. Was she about to become a feminist? But the woman survived. Told the tale through dance. How innovative. Joanne hit the keys and as usual, didn’t stop till after midnight.
And what did she hope to achieve from all of this? Joanne had to admit, she was sick and tired of family, friends, acquaintances and people she’d just met in the pub on a Friday night, asking her the same question. She considered telling them she was going to be a teacher, just so everyone would leave her alone. But she didn’t. And the questions continued. What made you want to do a degree? At your age? What did you say you were studying? ‘English Literature’, she would say, watching their eyes roll to the back of their heads. ‘Linguistics’, she would add with rising intonation, hoping to gain a little interest. ‘Oh I see, French? German?’ This was the point where Joanne would wonder whether she was in the wrong pub with the wrong people. Then, maybe she was the one who was in the wrong place. ‘It’s the study of the nature, structure and variation of language’, she would reply, to a place where the lights were on but no-one was in.
Joanne seems to have found herself at last. She not only achieved a more than adequate honours degree in literature (not forgetting the linguistics) but an improved capacity to understand other human beings. She is looking forward to empowering other women. Opening one of her many charity luncheons, ‘Women need to become more certain of their identities and begin to take charge of their own destinies’, she began. ‘As the famous French philosopher, Helene Cixous states, Woman must write about women and bring women to writing from which they have been driven away … woman must put herself into the text – as into the world and into history.’
Right, now back to my real job!
Gillian
Thursday, 28 July 2011
Can you hear anything ?
Triple Glazing
No sound of cycle bells ringing,
engines racing, buses droning
or wagons thundering,
over the A six three something,
No sound of children laughing,
crying, arguing, not even birdsong
can be heard
through the triple glazing.
Jill
No sound of cycle bells ringing,
engines racing, buses droning
or wagons thundering,
over the A six three something,
No sound of children laughing,
crying, arguing, not even birdsong
can be heard
through the triple glazing.
Jill
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
More Pamphlet Proto-types ...
I began with an idea, like most people do. A poetry pamphlet. I realise the 'poetry pamphlet' is not my idea, but my idea was for me to publish one or have one published. Is there a difference? Possibly around £200. So my idea, [not a actually an idea, more of a-this-is-how-they-usually-look] to print a poetry pamphlet, began as a standard issue Poetry Pamphlet:
Card cover with title, author and logo; 4 x A4 pieces of white slightly thicker copy paper [possibly the logo or similar printed on one or two pages], with Times Roman point 12 font in black.
Then I visited my friend who's an expert on hand-crafted celebration cards - or sticking and cutting as I often call it. Here are yet some more proto-types:
Possibly the reason why my blog posts are getting temporarily shorter.
Thanks for reading, Gillian
Card cover with title, author and logo; 4 x A4 pieces of white slightly thicker copy paper [possibly the logo or similar printed on one or two pages], with Times Roman point 12 font in black.
Then I visited my friend who's an expert on hand-crafted celebration cards - or sticking and cutting as I often call it. Here are yet some more proto-types:
Possibly the reason why my blog posts are getting temporarily shorter.
Thanks for reading, Gillian
Saturday, 18 June 2011
Coming Along ...
But to get on with the poetry pamphlet, I've spent some part of the week, [most part], choosing, sketching, story-boarding, waffling, pricing the pamphlet's cover, bookmark, packaging and marketing [not forgetting editing and structing the content of course].
Here is proto-type 2nd stage. And yes, I am aware that the bookmark as yet is actually computer copy paper ... in yellow. I know there are white pieces of paper [ccp again] stuck on the front cover with Pritt Stick [didn't even buy a price-breaking unknown brand] and the recycled silver Christmas card string is to be replaced with something on trend: satin, wired, raffia ... the choices are endless.
Now for more decision making ... Yellowy-lime butterflies printed on white card with yellowy-lime inside card = ££££££'s ... or Ivory card with black printed butterflies; Ivory interior = reasonable rates. Hmmm ??
You are very welcome to help me choose. Comment in the box or email me: gmhesketh@googlemail.com
Don't hold yourself back. Your ideas are totally appreciated.
Jill
Thursday, 16 June 2011
Pamphlet Prep ...
So excited at the prospect of using my new treat ... almost as excited as last month's treat ... A DeWalt tool holder ... just for me [and of course, I'm eternally grateful for the men in my home, allowing me to be the designated household repair person !] Maybe I should get out more ... invest in handbags or spa treatments ... hmmm ... dreamy days ...
Anyway, back to the writing desk, I may be somewhat premature with my 'Ryaman's A4 Creative Craft Paper Trimmer' as I've not finished editing the chosen poems for the pamphlet yet. Do I believe in editing poems? Sometimes. I often consider poems are never, ever truly finished; they're always changing, fluid? Then, other times, I just have a feeling that a poem is complete and should never be messed with again. Too much editing can cause a poem to feel conrived. And we definitely wouldn't want that. If this happens, I often put it away to mature. Personally, I'd rather write a shorter poem in which the mood or essence feels good staight away. I'm also of the opinion that people, often short of time, don't have the patience to read really long pieces. Hence, my pamphlet, which is going to be a short collection of contemporary pieces bound in an attractive, tactile cover ... with bookmark gift.
So forgive me, but I must get off, covers to design, butterflies to sketch, stencils to cut ... Oh and maybe I'll have a go with the 'Ryman', check out its boasts of creasing, perforating, straight cutting, deckle edging, zig-zag cut and wavy cut. Have to admit, can't wait to try the 'deckle edge.' As for the future of the pamphlet, I'll need a trip the the stationers again ... for a long-armed stapler.
Thursday, 9 June 2011
Routemasters & Mushrooms
And here's one I made earlier ... Another of my poems has appeared in Routemasters & Mushrooms...
'Living Room' by Gillian Hesketh, published by Earlyworks Press ...
'Earlyworks Press is off to a good start ... an intriguiging title, some excellent and varied poems from such well-known names as Roger Elkin.'
Carole Baldock, Editor of Orbis.
'Not a single bland, run-of-the-mill poem in the mix.'
D J Tyrer, Atlantean Publishing.
£5.50 UK ISBN 0-9553429-0-2
Poetry Rivals ... Slam Finalist ...
Strange, I've just realised that I'm quick to criticise myself, especially with regard to procrastination and never think to display what I've been up during the procrastinations periods ~ which I'm beginning to believe aren't really procrastination periods because I'm always creating one project or another. Anyway, here is one of my offerings:
Poetry Rivals Slam Finalists ... Page 69:
Lonely as a Platform Bench, by Gillian Hesketh
Forward Press
ISBN: 978-1-84418-541-2
Thursday, 24 March 2011
Things are Hotting Up ...
A Letter Arrives : ~`Congratulations ! You have been chosen as one of the 50 finalists in the Over 18's category of Poetry Rivals 2010! We received over 8,000 entries ...
The letter continues ...
`We are pleased to invite you to the Poetry Rivals 2010 Slam Final ...
to p e r f o r m y o u r p o e m i n f r o n t o f t h e j u d g e s ... `
My vision blurs. My stomach whizzes around like a washing machine on spin. My nerve ends feel like someone is pushing millions of the tiniest pins into my skin. I put the letter on one side, hoping it will go away, slip itself sleekly into the bin when I'm not looking.
I spent most of the following morning wishing my husband would mistakenly scoop up the letter, directions and confirmation form with his papers, perhaps lose them. I passed on subliminal messages to the kids, hoping they would unknowlingly use the back of the map for scrap paper or paper planes.
A week later, the letter continued to glare at me from my writing desk [as opposed to my work desk where I try to earn some money to allow me to spend much of the week practising writing ~ ha !].
The next day, I received a phone call. Would I be performing at the Poetry Slam? How many excuses could I think of not to? Actually, none. Not even a pathetic see-through one. I would be completely available on Saturday 2nd April 2011.
But Peterborough is a long way [although I could get there with a long drive or 3 trains part-funded by expenses offered]. Yet the finalist does receive a publishing contract with Bonacia Ltd. And there are 50 finalists in the `Over 18's category.`
Yes, I understand this is just an opportunity for showcase stuff ~ and yes, achieving status as `one of the fifty`, I still have to purchase my own copy of Slam Finalists for ``only £7.99`` But everytime I enter a poem into this type of publication, it gets accepted and noticeable as the amount of bookshelf space is absorbed. So, are there really 8,000 submissions? Or just 50? And why, if there are 8,000 for the same competition, do I keep on criticising my work, thinking it's not worthy of acclaim?
Meanwhile ... I'm just about to fill in the reply form. Shall I go? Or should I get on with editing my children's novel for the nice lady from a publishing company in Canada who is interested in reading the edited mss?
Jill
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
Surprise for me ... Found my poems on Natterjack
Hey, just found 2 of my poems on Natterjack ...
Check them out [you know you want to] ...
http://natterjackpoetry.yolasite.com/gillian-hesketh.php
Jill
Check them out [you know you want to] ...
http://natterjackpoetry.yolasite.com/gillian-hesketh.php
Jill
Friday, 10 September 2010
A few poems ... Send Yours and I'll add them to the Blog ...
Just thought I'd pop a few poems up to keep us all going ...
Chasing Rainbows is a reminiscance [tho not mine].
Summer Holiday ~ I feel a little bad about this ~ but sadly, at the moment, it's true.
Slay that Dragon ~ about the workplace of course.
You're welcome to add one of your poems to the comment box or email me at gmhesketh@googlemail.com and I will copy and paste etc.
Summer Holiday
Sand pies and donkey rides,
toffee apples, ice-cream cones,
penny slots to the tower top.
Side shows, pier strolls,
arcade larks in pleasure parks,
landaus and tram tours.
Oyster bars, funny postcards
and the best fish and chip suppers.
A summer holiday.
Discos, boogie nights
strobe lights and neon
pubs, clubs, karaoke singing
alcohol chasers and fun.
Kiosks and canvassers,
kebab bars and burgers,
curry and chips, end E’s
and the night’s just begun.
A summer holiday.
Stags amass in lap dance saloons,
bare-midriffed girl-gangs
flock promenades, festooned
in logos and kiss me quick hats.
Grid spewing teens
collapse by roadside
market stalls, then muggers,
frays, fracas, a police siren
and drugs scuffle on street corners,
A summer holiday.
Slay that Dragon
So many dragons, leaping flames
filling your cheeks with scarlet,
tongue tips lashing like a rope
on a film too cruel to watch,
charring your memory forever.
Slay that dragon, cut out its tongue,
stop its outburst its constant song
maligning your mind, messing
with your attention span, fouling up
your incentive plan.
And when the dragon is slayed,
from the depths of humanity, another
breathes the hair on your neck
becks, calls, makes you hot under
the collar forget the dollar
the pound the yen, slay that dragon
who calls and calls again.
The dragon is dead in the middle of the night
nothing will resume its fire, its bite,
you dream of a dragon-free day,
impolite out of sight dragons,
breathing down someone else’s neck.
Slay that Dragon epitomises the pressures of modern life, expectations, deadlines and goals to meet. In the workplace, there is always someone to answer to, someone breathing down your neck, putting the heat on, making demands.
Chasing Rainbows
We used to hide beneath cotton covers,
torches glinting, uneven breathing, reading,
screen ourselves like twigs stuffing hedgerows,
watching blue-tits feeding,
chase rabbits down bob-tailed burrows
kneeling beside, feeling,
squelch and scurry along tractor’d furrows
scattering earth’s seedlings
and beneath glass frames, grumpy Joe’s marrows
hauled out by our scheming,
our cargo, brimming over his barrow
dispatched somehow, wheeling,
crunching gravel, dust drops borrow
our last breath, laughing
down emerald-eyed hills and buttercup meadows
me on your crossbar, reeling,
trickling streams, fine fingered sunlit hollows
coming, going, leaving
fresh breezes, pecking at my cheeks like sparrows
making feather bedding;
guzzling golden lemonade, we’d wallow
in liquorice hoardings,
endless escapades, chasing rainbows,
you leading, me preening;
Now I see it in a shadow,
trekking homeward to our willow;
Mum, beaming white flour, kneading,
those times I feel like stealing
as I see our scarecrow leaning.
Grimacing.
Gillian
Chasing Rainbows is a reminiscance [tho not mine].
Summer Holiday ~ I feel a little bad about this ~ but sadly, at the moment, it's true.
Slay that Dragon ~ about the workplace of course.
You're welcome to add one of your poems to the comment box or email me at gmhesketh@googlemail.com and I will copy and paste etc.
Summer Holiday
Sand pies and donkey rides,
toffee apples, ice-cream cones,
penny slots to the tower top.
Side shows, pier strolls,
arcade larks in pleasure parks,
landaus and tram tours.
Oyster bars, funny postcards
and the best fish and chip suppers.
A summer holiday.
Discos, boogie nights
strobe lights and neon
pubs, clubs, karaoke singing
alcohol chasers and fun.
Kiosks and canvassers,
kebab bars and burgers,
curry and chips, end E’s
and the night’s just begun.
A summer holiday.
Stags amass in lap dance saloons,
bare-midriffed girl-gangs
flock promenades, festooned
in logos and kiss me quick hats.
Grid spewing teens
collapse by roadside
market stalls, then muggers,
frays, fracas, a police siren
and drugs scuffle on street corners,
A summer holiday.
Slay that Dragon
So many dragons, leaping flames
filling your cheeks with scarlet,
tongue tips lashing like a rope
on a film too cruel to watch,
charring your memory forever.
Slay that dragon, cut out its tongue,
stop its outburst its constant song
maligning your mind, messing
with your attention span, fouling up
your incentive plan.
And when the dragon is slayed,
from the depths of humanity, another
breathes the hair on your neck
becks, calls, makes you hot under
the collar forget the dollar
the pound the yen, slay that dragon
who calls and calls again.
The dragon is dead in the middle of the night
nothing will resume its fire, its bite,
you dream of a dragon-free day,
impolite out of sight dragons,
breathing down someone else’s neck.
Slay that Dragon epitomises the pressures of modern life, expectations, deadlines and goals to meet. In the workplace, there is always someone to answer to, someone breathing down your neck, putting the heat on, making demands.
Chasing Rainbows
We used to hide beneath cotton covers,
torches glinting, uneven breathing, reading,
screen ourselves like twigs stuffing hedgerows,
watching blue-tits feeding,
chase rabbits down bob-tailed burrows
kneeling beside, feeling,
squelch and scurry along tractor’d furrows
scattering earth’s seedlings
and beneath glass frames, grumpy Joe’s marrows
hauled out by our scheming,
our cargo, brimming over his barrow
dispatched somehow, wheeling,
crunching gravel, dust drops borrow
our last breath, laughing
down emerald-eyed hills and buttercup meadows
me on your crossbar, reeling,
trickling streams, fine fingered sunlit hollows
coming, going, leaving
fresh breezes, pecking at my cheeks like sparrows
making feather bedding;
guzzling golden lemonade, we’d wallow
in liquorice hoardings,
endless escapades, chasing rainbows,
you leading, me preening;
Now I see it in a shadow,
trekking homeward to our willow;
Mum, beaming white flour, kneading,
those times I feel like stealing
as I see our scarecrow leaning.
Grimacing.
Gillian
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