Report on Heartlines Poetry and Music event for International Women’s Day 2022

To mark International Women’s Day, 8th March 2022,  the Heartlines Creative Writing Group put on a subtle programme of poetry, prose and research celebrating women in history and modern times. A score of writers shared the lines they had penned that ranged from amusing to radical, exasperated to angry, observational to whimsical – and always served with wit and perspicacity.

Co-ordinated by Liz McPherson, who has worked with the group for a number of years, the title of Break the Bias allowed some piercing rhetoric, waspish observations and moving poetry to explore feminism in 2022. Additionally an all-female a capella group, Harissa, offered some spicy bon mots of their own. And Maria Sandle‘s songs inspired us with both upbeat and thought-provoking lyrics. What a way to celebrate!

Tongue-in-cheek paean of praise to a long-standing hubby, or a golfer’s revenge on a patronising male player. A Viking warrior waiting for Odin’s call proved by science to be, awkwardly, a female clearly lauded and respected with a ceremonial burial.

Some sharp observations on the colour of skin in the treatment of murder victims, and migrants, interspersed the lighter moments considering what werewomen do at the full moon or the fate of the glass ceiling and the male dinosaur. And all humans living today trace their ancestry to a single woman, Mitochondrial Eve, living in Africa some 200,000 years ago. Matriarchy rules OK.

Tributes to a long-ago friend who finally ‘came out’, and the Afghan girl football team who have found a new life here but left old families behind; the choices they had been promised were taken from them and their young friends. The plight of so many migrants fleeing from oppression was highlighted by the news coming from the borders of Ukraine, overwhelmed by frightened children and their mothers determined to give them a better life. (A bucket collection raised £116 for supporting them.)

Some background information on the women in music who were unsung. Sorry, an obvious joke for a very insightful piece. Accompanied by the equally unacknowledged brave women of a special wartime regiment of pilots disbanded as soon as they had proved their worth. Free-thinking sufragettes Mary Gawthorp and Leonora Cohen lived locally and were significant in raising both consciousness and publicity for the cause. I mused what would be the modern equivalent of taking a crowbar to the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London?

Finally, in praise indeed of old women. We may be grey but we are not who you think we are! Girls Just Want to Have Fun was the finale by Harissa. We do. We did.

Tea and home-baked cakes supplied by the sponsors of this event, Headingley LitFest, was a delightful way to end the morning.

Sally Bavage 

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International Women’s Day at Heart – Tuesday 8th March

Click on this link to view/download/print a pdf version.

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Poetry and Jazz at Heart (January 2022)

An evening of Poetry and Jazz at Heart with Heartlines Creative Writing Group and Jean Watson Quartet – Jean Watson voice, George MacDonald piano, Fergus Quill double bass and Josh Smout drums. Recorded by Rosie Parsons.

00.00 Intro from Myrna Moore
01.53 Jean Watson
02.58 Barbara Lawton
04.27 Malcolm Henshall
07.43 Myrna Moore
09.20 Jean Watson
13.38 Howard Benn
15.35 Bill Fitzsimons
16.40 Jean Watson
21.40 Howard Benn
23.16 Barbara Lawton
25.23 Jackie Parsons
27.13 Jean Watson
35.45 Jean Watson
43.00 Myrna Moore
44.41 Dru Long
45.50 Bill Fitzsimons
47.58 Jean Watson
52.19 Barbara Lawton
53.48 Howard Benn
55.53 Jean Watson
1.00.28 Myrna Moore
1.03.29 Malcolm Henshall
1.07.04 Howard Benn
1.08.47 Jean Watson

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THE CLOUTIE TREE

THE CLOUTIE TREE Madron Well Cornwall

She wakes, May day.
Checks her phone,
sees summer comes at last.
Leaves sleeping houses
Take the inland road,
through greening landscapes
strewn with granite quoit and capstone shadows –
black against the salmon clouds and brightening skies.
Bent backed trees, stripped naked by sea winds,
are poised in flight, unable to escape.
Hawthorn, blackthorn, buckthorn, whitethorn.

She hurries to the hallowed place.
That women’s place.
Looks left and right
then pushes through the buds of may
into that faery world still moist and dark
beneath the hawthorn’s shade.
She trips along the puddled path,
to reach the holy spring –
a murky pool half hidden in the grass.
Alone, she shudders.
Skeleton’s laugh
as winds rip through gnarled boughs.

She stoops, brushes violets, enchanter’s nightshade,
dabs her cheeks with morning dew.
Then ties her torn pink strip of T shirt
among the thorns and festooned twigs.
A selfie by the cloutie tree – her TikTok testament.
The spirits of this sacred grove appeased,
she leaves them to their stillness,
undisturbed by animal or bird.

Cate Anderson

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Foreign Country?

If only some of the past was a foreign country.
Remember that teacher
that ridiculed you 60 years ago?
The scars as familiar
as the London streets
you walked back then.
No map needed
to traverse the route
that took you through
your mother’s death.
That woman you loved
but who left you
with the oh so familiar language of heartache and pain,
in your mother tongue.
The failure, as you saw it,
of school feels like
only yesterday.
No qualifications needed
for that job you took
of no hope,
of boredom,
a cul-de-sac of ambition.
And yet the good times, too
not foreign but parochial, local,
down the road,
in the neighbourhood,
of this land.
Remembered as if it is round the corner
In the motorway of your memories,
not across some long-forgotten ocean.

Malcolm Henshall

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Choice

‘There’s small choice in rotten apples’, he quoted,
as he sank his teeth into the Pink Lady.
The sign had declared, ‘Choice Apples’.
But why, he thought, as his tongue found the worm hidden within,
had he chosen this one.
No money,
No opportunities,
No future.
No choice,
but to live his life
chewing on the scraps and worms
he came across
in the fruit basket of his existence.
Oh yes,
he has the choice
to eat or to keep warm,
to sleep in the park
or in that doorway on the Arndale centre.
Happiness is a choice, the comfortable say
but it’s hard to make that choice
when you are hungry, tired and cold.
Caught between a rock and a hard place,
between the devil and the deep blue sea,
on the horns of a dilemma.
Call me Hobson, he thought.
Choices are the hinges of destiny,
but his door is locked
from the outside.

Malcolm Henshall

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FURY

Can you help me?
Certainly sir
I need something to be furious about
Well as you can see on the shelves
there’s plenty to choose from, sir.
Yes, you always have a good selection at
‘Fury-R-Us’.
Let me see,
Brexit,
Covid,
Johnson,
Hancock,
Fascism.
Spoilt for choice.
The weather
Pollution
Traffic
Litter.
A fulsomeness of furies
Tyson?
Oh, I get it
Your little joke
And that one comes ‘boxed. Very clever.
Will the bus ever come?
Piers Morgan
Road Works
Other drivers.
We do have a buy two get one free offer, sir
No, I must choose just one
or else Fury will take over.
My life would be Fury itself
I would be Fury personified.
I know it will be expensive but
I’ll take Brexit for now.
That should keep me going for a few years.

Malcolm Henshall

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SPELLBOUND

It begins, as always, with the wings of a bat.
The rest I tailor for you.

A phial of shine from Sun.
A drop of fresh dew,
Taken from white petal
Of daisy or rose,
So mornings are new.

For sleep, the charm
Of a lover yet met.
Scent of honey, lily balm.
Moon silver I’ll sift
And you will lift
Beyond body and harm.

Take the light from a tree
And the darkness from its trunk;
From this gentle strength
All colours will come.
Drink to the spirit of a fallen leaf
And see an end to grief.
This is no hokum;
Your heart, no longer broken.
The world seemed set in its ways.
Now is the world held open.

Howard Benn

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CHEMICAL ENHANCEMENT

I’m passionless, devoid of all desire,
an empty vessel in the cause of love.
My libido has sunk into the mire
of despond – I need a forceful shove
or, at the very least, a helping hand.
Oh, who can aid me in this hour of need?
If anyone can, to you I plead.
Viagra? Ah, I knew you’d understand!
Chemical enhancement is such a boon –
much like a second honeymoon –
and stimulates the flagging horse
to clear the fence and stay the course.
Hats off, I say, to medical science,
to it I’ll give my full compliance.

Bill Fitzsimons

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BEHOLD THY SON

“Such is life.” Reputed to be the final words of the Australian outlaw,
Ned Kelly, before he was hanged at Melbourne in 1880.

A life, a death.
What’s one more life
(or death) in this
hard world?

Man is born of woman—
in this case
Mrs. Kelly
and her son Ned.

A wild colonial boy,
horse thief, bushranger
and mythical figure;

another man
in an iron mask;
a man whose passions
led inexorably
to the gallows.

Man who is born
of woman hath
but a short time
to live—

Mrs. Kelly, behold thy son.

Such is life.

Bill Fitzsimons

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