Serendipity – another great post from the pen of the mighty Helen Carey.
Posted: May 1, 2017 Filed under: Uncategorized Leave a commentSource: Serendipity
I will be reading poems from Marcism Today, and the Marcistagenda blog, at the Llandeilo Literature Festival, as part of the Poetry Events. Love to see you there! Click on the link below (poetry events) for full details. Whoop whoop!
Posted: April 26, 2017 Filed under: Uncategorized 1 CommentSource: Poetry Events
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STREET
Posted: April 10, 2017 Filed under: Uncategorized 2 Comments
Big news today! My new novel, THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STREET, comes out.
Published by Headline Books in the UK, Europe and Commonwealth, and by TSAP in the USA and some other territories, THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STREET is my fifth Lavender Road novel, and like its predecessors it can be read as a stand alone, or as part of the series.
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STREET is mainly set in London in 1944, and as well as the inevitable problems of war, one of the themes this time is about someone (Louise Rutherford) trying to become a better person. That is never an easy thing to do, especially perhaps in wartime, and when Louise finds that she has to join the ATS, the Women’s section of the British Army, things become even more difficult for her.
I love writing…
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New from Helen Carey : THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STREET
Posted: April 10, 2017 Filed under: Uncategorized Leave a commentSource: THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STREET
My angels were singing
Posted: March 1, 2017 Filed under: Photo, Poem | Tags: Pembrokeshire, St Davids Day, Wales 3 Comments
(the view from Carningli. Newport Bay Pembrokeshire. photo by MM)
My angels were singing : a poem for St David’s Day
This poem was conceived over a a few spring like days, during February 2008 – out walking the dogs, watching the birds, and thinking of those who have died, who do – I believe – watch over us.
Nearly 10 years on, I am still fortunate indeed to live and love in a most beautiful part of Wales, and, in my opinion, one of the loveliest places in the world. This is, I reckon, my ‘go to’ poem!
I stood near the house
where Grace once lived,
My angels were singing.
I watched as birds
and daffodils dived.
My angels were singing.
It’s spring and the sun
bursts fat and alive.
And my angels were singing.
Old crow, silhouetted against Carningli rock,
purple shadowed on blackened burnt bracken,
gorse and heather reeling :
the after shock.
But my angels were singing, still.
As seagulls wheeled across the bay,
catching sea breezes,
tumbling at will.
The Irish Sea lies beneath
becalmed and silvered blue,
and my angels were singing.
Wales’ favourite saint remembered
the new season breaks forth, springing,
flowers dancing, church bells – ringing.
His angels – singing.
Seasons, people, live and die,
here and now is for the living.
But remember those you love or loved –
do try.
And let your angels be singing.
Let your angels be singing.
Dydd Gŵyl Dewi hapus
Being shortlisted
Posted: February 28, 2017 Filed under: Uncategorized 3 CommentsI am late posting about this, as the news was announced last week, but I wanted to let you know that my latest novel LONDON CALLING has been shortlisted for this year’s RoNA Awards. The RoNA …
Source: Being shortlisted
The Dog Star
Posted: February 7, 2017 Filed under: Photo, Poem, Uncategorized | Tags: Battersea cats and dogs home, dogs, Lurcher 10 Comments
For
Phoebe, the dog star.
(i) The joy of running.
A bolt from the blue,
A golden arrow streaking , skirting Newport bay
Effortlessly matching sand sail and surf.
A pimple, possibly canine, on the farthest horizon
was enough to take you away,
bullet running, wide pawed dancing.
Find the fiercest dog you could – and make it chase you!
You and Maisie rising and falling like dolphins
in the meadow sweet, long grass of summer.
In Wiltshire woods the intoxicating frustration of putting up deer,
glad running into the copses,
thundering through bramble and bracken,
off, into the dim distance.
Leaving us with the panicky emptiness of the long wait.
half an hour, maybe more,
then you would appear, purple tongue, seemingly a mile long,
hawking for breath, flat out on the green downs.
(ii) A wolf god.
Eyes, soul pooled,
kohl lined.
Anput, Egyptian dog princess,
Pharaoh dog, friend to Anubis.
Easy humoured,
curious,
strong willed and sublime.
Inscrutable, imperious,
Ready beauty,
indisputable.
(iii) The ghost dog.
Nothing here of your decline,
just the final, dreadful, sting.
Hot teared night, tumbling on your velvet snout.
Earth drenched, she sleeps, soft blanketed.
A grave peppered with violas and first daffodils.
Now, a ghost dog walking with us.
Through Pengelly woods, wintered, mulched and mudded.
Teifi Lakes spiced with snow.
The estuary, silvered, flat calm and kind.
The pine forest near Lampeter, muffled.
Is that you?
A shivering movement amidst the trees.
A backwards glance, somehow you fill the space.
A muted howl of greeting, a murmur on the breeze?
(iv) Someday.
We too will be scattered skywards,
dark skies and moonbeams,
flung afar.
And, out there,
somewhere,
awaits our Sirius,
burning bright.
Phoebe,
ever
our dog star.
Phoebe was a lurcher, saluki, greyhound cross. A Battersea Cats and Dogs rescue hound. A huge character, acknowledged as a beauty by pretty much everyone she met. She was really quite regal, did not offer her affection lightly, and had a wicked sense of humour and mischief. A dog, yes, but so very much more. She lifted and lightened our lives for some 15 years or so, and we miss her terribly.
This poem is the best I can do. 7/2/17.
Post Script.
It has been said, “time heals all wounds.” I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.
Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy.
Phoebe and Maisie, Pengelly Woods, Pembrokeshire.
