It had been a day just like any other, as we sped across the city in the corporation- liveried tram on our regular journey home.
Settling down with my e-reader on my lap, head swaying in time to the rhthym of the rails when with a lurch the tram had come to a screeching halt, four miles an hour to dead stop in less than thirty seconds.
Arms gesticulating wildly the driver turned around in his seat and with a voice that expressed the agony of a lost soul exclaimed, “Well, would you look at that, for three months I’ve been driving these trams and today someone paints a white line between the rails, sorry everyone but I can’t cross that, it’s against the rules!”
On behalf of the above;
Tickets are now on sale for Words in the City, our popular weekend festival of poetry and spoken word, taking place in the centre of Leeds from 10 – 13 May.
Highlights include: reggae poet and social activist Linton Kwesi Johnson; a new show from multi-award-winning Luke Wright that takes a step back in time to indie clubs of the 1980s; Mind the Gap’s Alan ‘Cool’ Clay and Testament explore what it’s like to be treated like trash and how you find your way out of the junk; and Kate Fox and Jackie Hagan take a look at Working Class voices in poetry. Plus there will be an intimate event with the University of Leeds’ new Professor of Poetry Simon Armitage.
Festival Director, Rachel Feldberg says: “We are very excited to be able to stage Words in the City, our celebration of poetry and spoken word in Leeds for the first time. Along with a packed weekend of free events for families we have a headline performance from the legendary Linton Kwesi Johnson and lots of opportunities to discover the best new poets and performers on the UK’s vibrant spoken word scene.”
Click here to view the full programme and book tickets.
Each yellow outstretched
finger, reaching for the sun
loved by bees, hated by man
they brighten any canvas
The old woman said
that there is only one way
to remove a wart
bury a toad before dawn
it will be gone by sunset
I am very excited to share with you all the cover art for new PorterGirl novel, Sinister Dexter!
The book will be available on pre-release from 1st May, so expect me to be banging on about how great it is and why everyone should buy it, as is expected behaviour of any author in the run-up to a new release.
I will attempt, as ever, to keep proceedings as lighthearted and entertaining as I can and, where possible, will keep the removal of clothes to a minimum. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do when it comes to selling books.
Since the dawn of man
he has worshipped the Goddess
under many names
Another slice of nautical life, with free fertiliser thrown, well dropped at least , in.
Chris The Story Reading Ape's Blog
My narrowboat, moored up on one of England’s sleepy canals. What better place to dedicate myself to my craft? Peace and tranquillity, a total absence of intrusive cares, woes and worries, eh?
So, there I was, tapping away at my laptop working on the my magnum opus, and suddenly there’s a fully-grown sheep licking the boat’s windows. It’s a distraction and no mistake. One moment I had my two favourite popular scientist types soaked and running for cover across a wild and lonely moorland (right into trouble, where I want them), and the next moment I’m staring down a woolly ruminant’s throat, peering deeper and wondering if sheep have tonsils.
I am not unfamiliar with sheep, m’lud, my sister and I had a couple of pet lambs (orphans) during that part of our childhoods spent on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides. One of them, “Whisky”, died young…
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At four o’clock that morning the stags on the hillside had commenced their belling. The eerie bellowing echoing all around the valley. This morning however Abel was more interested in the loud gasps and cries from behind the skins hanging from the line, forming a curtain which divided the single room in his hovel. Pacing up and down the room he was anxious to know what progress, if any, was taking place with the birth of his second child. Continuously stroking his beard he strained to hear what was happening. At last there was a loud gasp from the assisting nurse followed by the sound of a slap and a loud shriek accompanied the sound of crying. Abel turned then stopped and watched as the nurse raised the skin and silently with sad eyes, looking at the floor, held up a white bundle. Abel knew what this meant and with tears in his eyes grabbed the bundle and turned to the doorway. Outside stood three elders, ready to perform the customary baptism. Taking the rudely wrapped child from Abel’s hands the three started the solemn procession up to the ceremonial site at the head of the Tor. Amidst the granite blocks there was one which formed a natural basin, it’s waters continually replenished by the frequent, heavy Exmoor rains. For long centuries this had been used as the villager’s font where all baptisms had taken place. Abel watched them depart then returning inside, retired to a stool in the corner, where he sat with his head in his hands, the grief he felt for the abomination he had witnessed so great that he had no heart to go in and try to comfort the mother of the newborn. Meanwhile on the hillside the elders arrived at the site and gathering around the stone they held the child up to the rising sun before placing the white mewing parcel into the water. This was to be no ordinary baptism for instead of a brief immersion in the icy waters the child was held under the water till there were seen to be no more bubbles rising. The body was then laid on a bed of grass on the large flat boulder adjacent to the basin stone. The child had been chosen to atone for the tribal perceived sins. The raven and the buzzard would help to consign the child’s spirit to the all-seeing God, where forgiveness may be obtained. Though the only sin this child had committed in it’s brief life was to have been born a girl. A crime worthy of death in the patriarchal society in which she had had the misfortune to enter this life.
(photo courtesy of Pixabay)
Neath the smooth white roofs,
dripping fingers of glass, point
climate messages heeded
in spite of the deniers
22nd. March 1832 and one of the greatest thinkers of the age dies at the age of 82. Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe , whose last words are reputed to be, “More light.” A poet, novelist and philosopher he was probably most famous for his work, “Faust,” written in two parts the second of which being completed in the year of his death and published posthumously.