SHRINKING SHINGLES

It seems that the devil's claw is really losing its grip. In the past week, although still quite tired at times, I haven't felt its porcupine needles tapping me on the shoulder blade or a hedgehog blow to my heart. I think I'm nearly back to normal, whatever that may be in my case. I certainly feel more energised and motivated. Thanks to all my friends, family and well wishers, who've shown their support and care during this past three months. It's meant a lot. Diolch yn fawr.

FROM THE MOORS TO MAMETZ

 

 

Gwen brushed a strand of straggling hair away from her face. She was perspiring. Her long skirts were muddy and wet, clinging to her legs.  She’d been out on the bog for what seemed like hours. Her back ached. She could do with a cup of tea, but Mrs Read was a hard task mistress.

        ’ Get your backs into it girls,’ she’d shouted. ‘Our lads are doing their best in France. We don’t want to let them down, do we?’

       ‘It’s not as if I’m getting paid,’ she thought, and looked over at the forty women, pulling out clumps of soggy sphagnum moss from the bog. There were some elderly men, some who’d fought in the Boer War, now too old to fight, but willing volunteers in gathering moss for the war effort.

       It was mid summer, there was a weak drizzle and the light was fading. Gwen looked up at the Victorian towers of Princetown Prison rising out of the moor, and shuddered. ‘This place gives me the creeps,’ she said to herself. Then her thoughts turned as they often did to John, her fiancé. He’d been one of the first from the 8th Devonshire Regiment to be sent out to the battlefields. ‘I wonder what he’s doing at this moment? It can’t be any worse than this.’ ‘Silly girl!’ she heard him reply, and saw his smiling green eyes, just like in the photo he’d sent her of himself in uniform. ’I miss you, Gwen,’ they said. ‘I miss you, oh so much, John, ‘she muttered, and plunged her hand back into the slimy peat and pulled out a clump of gold sphagnum moss.  ‘I will write tonight, my love. Promise.’

        It was almost dusk by the time the volunteers had reached the prison officers’ lawn tennis court.  The drizzle had stopped and the air was steamy.

      ‘Empty your bags, and we’’ll rake the moss so it can dry,’ Mrs Read said.’ Well Done, girls. Good work. Your sweethearts would be proud of you.’

      It had been the Germans who had first thought of using sphagnum moss for wound dressings, although it had been used since ancient times. The Vikings are said to have used it for nappies and sanitary protection. Its antiseptic properties and ability to absorb fluids up to 20 times its weight made it a viable alternative to using cotton dressings, which were expensive and difficult to come by. It was estimated that 50 million sphagnum wound dressings would be needed during World War 1.

    ‘I need you to work inside today, Gwen,’ Mrs Read said the following morning, as she handed over a white uniform. ‘Heard anything from that fiancée of yours lately?’ she asked. Gwen’s anxious face gave Mrs Read her answer.

     ‘Tears aren’t going to help the war effort,’ she chided. Then more warmly, the older woman put her arm around Gwen’s shoulder. ‘We’re all in the same boat, dear. I haven’t heard from George or Harry for a while. We just have to believe-and pray- that God will look after them. Come on, work helps. And imagine, God forbid, if John was hurt or wounded, it could be one of your dressings that saves his life.’

     ‘Thanks, Mrs Read,’ Gwen said, as she twiddled her tiny diamond engagement ring around her finger, thinking ‘Bloody useless war.’

The moss had been moved into the house by some of the men, and was heated by the hot air from a furnace. The sphagnum was no longer green or gold. It was the colour of hay. It reminded Gwen of happier times, haymaking, when she and John had first met. She joined a group of women who had already started picking over the moss, removing twigs and bits of debris from its soft masses. It gave them a chance to gossip, share news of the war, and of loved ones.  Later it would be passed through a purifying solution by a worker wearing rubber gloves, squeezed through a mangle, and dried again. Dartmoor was the biggest centre in England for the collection and processing of sphagnum for wound dressings. The Prince of Wales himself would later visit and applaud their efforts. But now, was the part in the process that brought the reality of war home to Gwen, the making of the dressings themselves. Each dressing consisted of two ounces of moss, packed into a small flat muslin bag.  The bag would be folded and stitched.  Holding these little packages, she tried not to think of their consequent use. Later once perfected, dressings were made into packets of a dozen each, wrapped in papers for overseas, packed in bales of a hundred and covered in waterproof sheeting, ready for despatch.

       Gwen was forcing dried sphagnum into a muslin bag, her letter to John in the pocket of her white uniform, ready to post, when the news came through on the volunteers’ grapevine.  July 1st 1916. 163 men from 8^th and 9^th Devonshire Regiment killed, and many more injured in the battle for Mametz.  John’s name among the casualties.

MR. TURNER

On general release from yesterday, I was really looking forward to this much awaited new Mike Leigh film about the life of the artist, JMW Turner-Billy to his family-well known for his marine landscapes and his watery sunsets. Timothy Spall's depiction of the character is full of depth, humour, bad temper, love, loss, sex,, meanness and pathos, but at times he does overdo the grunting.
        The narrative starts with Billy already a well established painter at the Royal Academy, doing commissions for the gentry and the aristocracy. He takes two years over a painting for the Queen, who doesn't like its wishy-washy effects. In later work his colleagues at the Academy think his defused sunsets are down to his failing eyesight.  His relationship with his father, who he calls 'Daddy', is very moving and we learn that Billy was abandoned by his mother, who he describes as a 'lunatic'. His relationships with his wife and grown up daughters are mystifying. He denies their existence. He has sex with his niece and assistant, who clearly adores him. But why does the actress play the character like Baldrick from BlackAdder?
        I love Mike Leigh's work and the actors he uses is like a repertoire company of old friends. They are all very adaptable and quirky. His strength is in his characters;their feelings and relationships. But in this film, like some of his others, his weakness lies in the overall  lack of tension, and some of the narrative feels repetitive and in need of editing.
        I would have liked to have known more about Turner's earlier life, his struggles and the influences on him. I think more may have been made of his relationship with Constable. Who was the painter Hayden who he has an on-going barney with? I'd never heard of him. The best bit that gave me insight into how Turner was able to put truthful emotion, experience and passion of the elements into his sea/skyscapes, was seeing him strapped to the birds nest of a sailing ship in a Force ten gale in winter.
      I would definitely recommend the film that no doubt will win Timothy Spall many accolades. Apparently it took seven years to make, and during that time Spall learnt to draw and paint for the part.  Mr Turner is in cinemas now.

IN TIME O' STRIFE & THE COMMON MAN

The National Theatre of Scotland's production at the Sherman on Saturday night brought a standing ovation. The story is set in Fife, during the miners' strike of 1926, making links to the 30th anniversary of the miners strike of 1984/5. Joe Corrie, the writer was a miner himself. He wrote plays 'to raise money for the soup kitchens whilst they were locked out of the pits until they accepted lower wages for longer hours. The flyer states,
        ' Driven by live, gutsy, folk punk songs and intense, full-blooded choreography, this uncompromising production is a stark reminder that class conflict between those at the bottom of the social heap and those in power is perennial.'
         The production is certainly powerful, the music and dancing thrilling and  give real emphasis to the story. My only quibble is that the script would benefit from editing, and the actors find it difficult to achieve different levels of contrast. More moments of reflection and silence would add to the tension. Accents are sometimes difficult to understand when lines are sped through. But overall, a very interesting and moving performance.
       As a member involved in the Pontardawe community production, FALL OUT '84', (see earlier blogs), the theme of the struggle of the common man and woman  is one that always resonates. Here is a poem, written by Joe Corrie, that is recited by the performers,' In Time O' Strife.'


I AM THE COMMON MAN
I AM THE BRUTE AND THE SLAVE
I AM THE FOOL, THE DESPISED
FROM THE CRADLE TO THE GRAVE

I AM THE HEWER OF COAL
I AM THE TILLER OF SOIL
I AM THE SERF OF THE SEAS
BORN TO BEAR AND TO TOIL

I AM THE BUILDER OF HALLS
I AM THE DWELLER OF SLUMS
I AM THE FILTH AND THE SCOURGE
WHEN WINTER'S DEPRESSION COMES

I AM THE FIGHTER OF WARS
I AM THE KILLER OF MEN
NOT FOR A DAY OR AN AGE
BUT AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN




JTD, October 29 2014.

WEDDING POEM IN CELEBRATION OF THE MARRIAGE OF ANGHARAD & CHARLIE 4 OCTOBER 2014

 

 

TRIATHLON

 

 

I’ve been looking for you

 

Leaping up coal-mountain’cline

descending through bell-woods

in mottled sunshine, sniffing

pursuing your smell, sprinting

over rocks of stone-lime

minted in parsnip, campion and time

 

I’ve been looking for you

 

Jumping in pools of jade moss, crossing

waters of jasmine and alabaster

monitor lizards rapping tails

in tropical lush, rushing

through clouds of wild bees

in serpentine dreams

 

I’ve been looking for you

 

Spurting forth on two wheels, pedalling

spinning in gales of Force Ten

through continents, cities,

roads with U bend, aching

eyes down, head-strong

until the ocean’s in view

 

I’ve been looking for you

 

Plunging into the deep, gurgling

like gannets diving for fish, drawing

breath from the slipstream, making

a wish, arriving

at the place where all soul mates meet

and know they’ve been found, murmuring

 

I’ve been looking for you.

 

 

 Janet Teal Daniel



IN THE BLOOD

IN THE BLOOD

 

The candle flickered in the silver-plated candlestick in the Giant Tipi filled with family and friends celebrating my daughter’s wedding. As we waited for her and her father to arrive, I looked into the flame and had a sudden flashback to my husband’s Modryb Anne and the story of the candlesticks and the Polecat.

       It was the late 1940s, and Modryb Anne lived on a farm in rural Wales. On Saturdays my in-laws would visit for tea. While the adults gossiped, their young son sat transfixed in front of a glass box,staring at a stuffed polecat devouring a blooded blackbird. Modryb Anne promised Rhys that ‘after she had gone’ she’d leave it to him. When she became ill, his parents visited more frequently and cared for her. No other relatives visited.  She died in her cottage, surrounded by her beautiful Welsh oak furniture. At the reading of the will, indeed Modryb Anne had kept to her word, and left Rhys her beloved polecat. To his parents who’d spent so much time caring for her in her dying months, she left two candlesticks. To the family who never visited she left the oak dresser and the other valuable items of her small estate.

       Fast forward thirty years. Rhys and I met in the Barry Summer School and a few months later were married in a registry office in Pontypridd with just four guests. We had both been travelling and had little savings. Soon into our marriage we were scratching around for items we might sell to help pay the bills. The polecat and the blackbird sat in their fixed tableau in the corner of our cottage. ‘It’s going to have to go,’ Rhys said.  And off it went to London  under his arm, doing the rounds of the Portobello Road market. But Londoners weren’t interested in stuffed animals from rural Wales, and Rhys came back, with mixed feelings.

     ‘You don’t have to sell it,’ I said. I’m sure we can find something else.’ But he was adamant. Off he went to Cardiff, to do the rounds of the antique shops. After a morning of rejections, he found himself in a shop in Pontcanna.

       ‘It’s the blood. People don’t like blood on their taxidermy,’ the owner told him.’

       ‘But it’s nature. It’s real,’ replied Rhys. ‘

       ‘It may be real to you, but the average punter likes their stuffed animals, bloodless. Owls. Owls are popular.’

        ‘I don’t have an owl.’

         ‘Sorry, mate. Then I can’t help you.’

As Rhys got to the door of the shop he bumped into another customer.

         ‘Oh no. You’ve beaten me to it. I’ve been looking everywhere for a polecat.’

         ‘I haven’t bought it, I’m selling it.’

         ‘You can’t do that.’ The owner said. ‘I want a cut.’

         ‘Stuff you!’ said Rhys, handing the glass box over to the buyer in exchange for cash.

 There was a roar in the Tipi and I came back to the present as Rhys entered, not with a polecat, but with our beautiful daughter on his arm. The candle in the silver-plated candlestick holder gave me a giant wink.

 

Janet Daniel

October 6 2014.

CABINET OF CURIOSITY

Creative Writing in the Museum, a weekly university class, started again last week. We are looking at collections in the museum from the perspective of  works of art. Homework was to describe our own cabinet of curiosity. I'm not really a collector of things, so I took a different stance.

Open the door to a dancing girl

in a polka-dot dress in Notting Hill,

on a blood-sloshed street, where race riots swell.

A sticky rock, with ‘Londoner’ written through

despite forty years with a different crew

of Welsh adoptees. Around the rock

a hospital bangle with a baby’s grip,

a first shoe, a mousy lock.

A puff of clove-scented smoke crackling holes

in a father’s tweedy gaze.

A vial of Spetses sea  sparkling

in an ouzo haze , its azure light warding off

the evil eye. A snatch of Atlantic sky sweeping

cross a caravan floor, musty, cramped,

perfect holidays for a family of four.

A painting of roots, a husband’s smile,

a wedding  ring, a home-made birthday card,

A space

made ready for the final objet d’art-

a mother’s  urn, green and red,  a ceramic hip-

long past it’s wear-by date.

Janet Daniel

September 26 2014

SHINGLES SAGA: WEEK 6 REVISED

A twist of tears, like a blue bag in a crisp packet.

Breast, sea-salt sore, rubbing

at its shore line.

No baby’s lips to draw down

the swell but milkless tit.

Shoulder, pummelled, hot needled like sun burn,

sitting clogged, heavy on the ocean floor.  

A thousand nerve endings swimming,

jangling loose like a jelly fish sting

from a raw and sodden heart,

shivering in grief.

Not terminal

SHINGLES SAGA- WEEK 6

A twist of tears, like a blue bag in a crisp packet.

a breast, sea-salt sore, rubbing.

a back, hot needled.

a thousand nerve endings jangling,

dangling loose in a raw and sodden heart,

shivering in grief.

Not terminal, 

PRIDE: The FILM

'Pride shows how disparate groups of gay and lesbian people were inspired by Ashton, a gay man from Portrush in County Antrim, who was an active member of the Young Communist League, a fact overlooked in the film, apparently so as not to alienate American audiences.
With a soundtrack that features the Smiths and Billy Bragg, the uplifting film is in the mould of Billy Elliot, Brassed Off and The Full Monty. But it is only when the credits roll that viewers learn the fate of Ashton, to whom the Communards' Jimmy Somerville paid tribute in his song, For a Friend. "I´ll never let you down, a battle I have found," Somerville sings. "And all the dreams we had, I will carry

'Money raised for the miners was seen as a declaration against Thatcherism but it was also a corrective to the power base of the president of the National Union of Miners, Arthur Scargill, who had determined that any funds raised in the US and London in support of strikers should go to his favoured pits in Yorkshire and Kent, leaving south Wales to fend for itself. Finding groups sympathetic to their plight was therefore crucial to the mining communities not favoured by Scargill.

"We sought to broaden the struggle beyond the picket lines to what we called an anti-Thatcher broad democratic alliance," recalled Hywel Francis, MP for Aberavon, and a former member of the Communist party, who helped forge links between the gay community and Welsh miners.
By January 1985 there were 11 LGSM groups around the country. Ashton died just two years later but he lived long enough to see his dream that gay rights should become part of the political agenda realised. The 1985 Labour party conference saw a motion to support equal rights for gay men and lesbians go down to the wire. It was carried only due to the block votes of the National Union of Mineworkers and its allies.'
Quoted from James Doward's review in the Guardian of 21 September 2014.

What Doward does not report in this article is the prejudice first met by the London lesbians and gays support group from the striking South Wales miners, and which was prevalent at the time in Valleys communities. At first the miners committees refused to accept their help. They did not want the association. It is not entirely clear in the film how support gathered momentum.' The Lesbian and Gays Support the Miners' challenged the prejudice, and showed themselves to be a mixed band, with the charismatic, communist Ashton at the forefront making the links between the oppression felt by both groups.

I absolutely loved the film, found it empowering, moving, funny, and uplifting. My daughter (aged 3/4 at the time of the strike) thought it 'Unoriginal clichéd rubbish.'  She'd seen Billy Elliot some years ago, and thought  the theme had been done. Perhaps it's because my husband and I lived through and supported the strike in small ways, and I had been involved in 'FALL OUT 84' (see earlier blog entry) this summer, that the film spoke to me, with some great performances; specially from Imelda Staunton and Bill Nighy.

Why not see for yourself what you think? It's currently on general release.