northumberland

The Book Bag: Lode by Gillian Allnutt

Welcome back to The Book Bag. I hope you’ve had a poetic week.

This week has been a week. For starters, I’ve hurt my back and it’s limiting what I can do. But this week I shared an article on recently appearing on the BBC, sent out a couple of submissions, done some prep for next month’s Write Here, Right Now, we had some close friends visit us from Lincoln. We also harvested and ate some of the turnips from the garden.

On top of that, I’ve been reading;

Lode

  • Poet: Gillian Allnutt
  • Press: Bloodaxe Books


I was tipped off to Lode by Bloodaxe Books (as its NE based) and had pencilled in to read in July. However, I got myself a copy early, moved some dates around due to postage and decided to rad it this week and share my thoughts with you all. Also there’s a playlist below (just my recommendations).  

Lode is divided into three sections. Postwar, Covid and Earth-hoard. We start in 2016 then time travel across generations throughout the book going back to late 40’s Britain all the way to modern day.

There are deeply personal pieces in this book. The poems dedicated and in memoriam of Gillian Allnutt’s father are full of emotional resonance. ‘Flame-thrower’ is an exceptionally crafted piece that gave me pause.

I’m familiar with most of the northern villages and towns mentioned throughout Lode. Therefore, when seeing names of places, I know in some of the poems, I could feel myself there enjoying sight, smell and sound memory concentrated even more so by Gillian Allnutt’s writing. ‘Dunstanburgh’, a conversation poem in the collection is home to a ruined castle and is a favourite walk of ours from Craster. In ‘My Father, Mislaid’, a moving piece, Gillian takes us to Chillingham, a place I’m very fond of.


There are threads of spirituality peppered throughout the collection. The poem ‘The Way She Remembered It’ is preceded by a quote from Song of Songs. In ‘Trist’ God is referred to again. In ‘At 71’ the poet reflects on Covid, mortality and loneliness. It’s a balanced poem of humour and sadness.

Nature plays a key role in the book both in terms of the landscape and fauna. ‘Dark Night of The Soul’ is an incredible piece that is both introspective and rich with natural imagery. As is the piece ‘Of The Trees In The Wood By The Old Pit Line’. I enjoyed ‘Golden Saxifrage’ as it combines wild nature, domestic lawnmowing and an online literature festival (saxifrage is one of my favourite plants especially the arctic variety for its resilience).

Wit is a constant through the collection. The poem ‘Azuma Meditation’ is a clever piece. Also ‘Audience’ will draw a smile where Gillian Allnutt is meeting Queen Elizabeth II when collecting her Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry in 2016.

Form-wise, we are treated to various forms and devices. There are micropoems including ‘Footnote’, I’ve mentioned ‘Dunstanburgh’ which is a poem in conversation script form. Some pieces including ‘Audience’ have an internal rhyme structure. There are couplet arranged pieces including ‘Pink Jenkins’ and ‘On Having To Leave York University Without The Clock’. I must also mention the notes section of the book. This gives extra emphasis to the pieces and context.


Favourite Poem:
There’s a few that I must name. Crabapple Moon, The Walk (allowed) and The Song of Arachnid. I could add a few others including Beechwood, Do The Birds Worry? and Roughage.

To read more about Gillian Allnutt click here.

To buy a copy of Lode direct from Bloodaxe Books, click here.

This Week’s Playlist:

Kathryn Tickell – Back to the Rede
Mark Knopfler – Kingdom of Gold
Exile – In Between Tides
Lindisfarne – Kings Cross Blues
Sting and The Police – Brand New Day
Bearpark & Esh Colliery Band – Songs of the Tyne
The Unthanks – Magpie
Sam Fender featuring Easington Colliery Band – Remember my Name
The Jam – London Calling

This is a book with broad appeal. It has heartfelt, emotive poetry, wit, excellent imagery and various forms. The book navigates shifts in time deftly and like a lode, this book is a journey. Now, I need to get my hands on more of Gillian Allnutt’s work to read.

One More Thing…

You can read my piece on appearing on the BBC here. If you’re a poet or writer looking to get your work out there, it may be worth a read.

And Another…

Black Bough Poetry has another Crafting Your Year In Poetry workshop coming up on 13th July, a great way to help get serious about your writing. Details here.

And Another…

It’s not long until the Frazzled Lit Short Story Competition Closes. Details here.

And Another…

Broken Spine Arts has a range of events coming up including open mics and workshops. Details can be found here.

And Finally…

The Beautiful Little Fools Anthology, published by Broken Spine Arts will be out Early July. This is a book in response to the Jazz Age. It’s hotter than a Gatsby party. More details soon.

Next Week’s Read

  • Title: Down River with Li Po
  • Poet: Karen Pierce Gonzalez

Take it easy and stay poetic, I’ll catch you next week.

Paul

The Book Bag: Concealed Pockets – Sonnet Restaurant

I’m going to be opening the Concealed Pockets of The Book Bag every now and then. First up, my thoughts on Sonnet Restaurant.

A couple of weeks ago, my wife and I visited Sonnet Restaurant, a 14-seater restaurant that serves a 14-course tasting menu across a few hours in Alnwick, Northumberland  where all diners eat at the same time. Food x Poetry = a dream for me. This was a belated promotion / early anniversary celebration.

I could go on and on about the food however, I will simply state it was excellent, (Michelin and Conde Naste both agree) and we’ll be visiting again for a smaller lunch soon.

The experience was incredible, from the service which was friendly and attentive without being over the top and the wine flight paired perfectly with the courses.

This is a perfect place to eat when visiting Northumberland and I highly recommend if you’re looking to celebrate a special occasion. The space is intimate and bright and ends itself perfectly to relaxed fine dining.

A great finishing touch was the song ‘Sonnet’ by The Verve playing at the end of the meal. Another great detail was the course guide that was rolled into a scroll.

As sonnets go, the restaurant is comparable to Shakespeare’s 18th Sonnet. A marvel.

Hope you enjoyed this 14-line ( as it appears on laptop) response.

Stay tuned for more bits and pieces as I open more of The Book Bag’s Concealed Pockets.

Poem: The Barghest

The Barghest is a figure from Northumbrian folklore. A monstrous black dog with large teeth and claws; believed to be an omen of death. This poem was in response to a prompt on the Top Tweet Tuesday platform on X.

The Bhargest

Sable-sad fur shifting in the gloam, 
you could be invisible but for your coronal eyes
blazing hotter than a hellhound’s, 
and those gouging silver-sickle claws glinting in moondusk, 
your blunt falchion-teeth rattling 
like promethean chains on the windspell. 

It’s hard not to choke 
on the wafting scent of your cavern-heft jowls, 
putrefaction palpable as a spit-roasted suckling pig. 
Sometimes you deafen the darkness with knowing - 
thunder-roars of finality. 

Old lives and older tales tell me to be wary of you. 
Beware of your paws for they will strike me down. 
But I’m no hostage to the opinions of others. 

To me,  you’re simply misunderstood. 
You’re no omen of death. 
Like all dogs, you’re a protector. 
A protector of life. You give us a chance to change, 
to settle balances before it’s too late. 

I’ve been called many names, none my own. 
We are kindred.
Not all that’s written and said, is true.

Taihaku Joypiloting at Alnwick Garden

We launch, feet pushing from worn grass. 
Our thick sleeper-swing, dampscented by 
April showers hitting heavy rope, 
cradles us under the boutique of Taihaku blossom.

A tender spring whisperbreeze rustles,
swirling silken kisses around the orchard. 
Calm wonderstruck coos echo from fellow joypilots.

Knees propel us further into the vortex, 
paperlight white-pink petals dress us, 
accidentally feed us. 

Bitter tastes are fleeting chasing contentment storms.

We slow,
our legs heavy in a serotonin lake,
flooded with vanilla-cherry pheromones.

A blissful embrace.

Celebrating Being Published!!!

Today I’m celebrating  being published!!!

I recently submitted a poem to ‘Flight of the Dragonfly’, an amazing quarterly journal, and got accepted!

The poem is about a rite of passage for me and my brother growing up in rural Northumberland and I am very proud of it.

When my work is published, especially something so personal, is always a great feeling.

To read ‘The Lambs’, please click the link below;

https://flightofthedragonfly.com/paul-adam-short/

I really hope you all enjoy it.

Take It Easy

Paul

Morning Fishing Trips

A September Saturday in 1995
the four a.m. sea air is salt-sour
silicate sand shimmers
under the after-midnight-blue canopy
the waning moon a spotlight
on discarded worm skins

I dig since I’m the youngest –
because even morning fishing trips have hierarchies –
success arrives after ten minutes
of shovel and scoop
we loot the fresh bait
they can wriggle all they want
we own them now

we march in early morning muteness
preserving our energy
until we can cast off
and pour ourselves a flask-coffee
topped with a nip of whisky

destination reached we pick our spots
wisely or not
our rods are set
with hands stained with dying worm-dye

waiting for the first ripple
or bend of pole
the craic is quiet
about the things men like to talk about
as dawn passes over us

an hour passes by
then three of five rods
begin to quiver
the ancient part of our hunter-brains
spike our natural instincts

we let our rods sway
luring in the line tenderly
then reel rapidly
drawing in a decent-sized pollock
the crack of the baton
gives me the first of a few fish
caught before the nearby B&B’s
serve their breakfasts.

After some further success
we head back to the van
our shoal are all fair sizes
my pollock glimmering longest in the bucket
but hierarchies exist
and I may get landed with a small plaice
but where there are hierarchies
there are rites of passage
and it’s the first fish i’ve caught
so I get to keep it

I also get to gut all the catch
my fumbling numb fingers
dyed crimson by dead fish
find their rhythm
and I’m proud to be
on the first
rung of the hunter’s hierarchy.

I used to go fishing in Northumberland regularly, this poem is about when i first started out, I was 12. One of our neighbours took me with his friends, it was always a great experience.

I hope you like it.

Take it easy

Paul

The Shows

We called the travelling funfair
“The Shows”
the same way our parents did
when they arrived in The Wick
late summer excitement
that smelled of hot sugared doughnuts, flowing diesel and damp trampled grass
the air was always a kaleidoscope
of flickering lightbulbs and brightly painted plywood
shrill screams of exhiliration could be heard over a mile away
layered over a techno soundtrack
thumping with the pulses of waltzer-spun teens
and kids riding the ghost train anticipating the supersoaker squirt on exit
sometimes I liked to play the bandits
tuppence to ten-pence a go
so nothing to lose really
the games were good to –
one night I hooked six banana-yellow ducks
and walked home with six goldfish
struggling to hold the punch balloon and pink-pillow candy floss in my other hand
it was a great time to be alive
amongst crowded smiles and double denim
spending my paper round and pocket money like fun was going out of fashion
and just the other day
I saw an internet flyer
“The Shows” are back this year
travelling up and down the coast
and although I’ll not see them
I can taste the air –

the flavour of excitement.

Thanks for taking the time to read my poem and feel free to check out some of my other writing.

Take It Easy,

Paul

Wetland Character Building


I almost drowned once
down near the mill
swimming the current of the Coquet
three quarters of the way across
my legs lost power
against the undertow
I’m lucky Peck kept his eyes on me
as the river reeds
wrapped around ankles
my head bobbing up and down
like a braeburn on bonfire night
and the rest of the boys
jumped back in
like working-class Hasselhoffs
and pulled me to the side
they were much stronger swimmers than me

a quick rest and pat on the back
spitting up some of the river
then swigging back
some calming Carling
the realisation – dawned on me –
I had to swim back
facing a new fear head on
because backstroke was no good
I’m lucky I’ve got such great mates
we swam back together
like geese fly
    – in formation –
reaching the riverbank’s safety
and although my swimming didn’t improve that day
my character did.

Thanks for taking the time to read my poem, an autobiographical piece of my younger days.

Hope you liked it and if you did, feel free to leave a comment.

Take It Easy

Paul x

Dedication

I felt it was an insult that
each new street
was named after
a different species of tree
they chopped down
a lasting dedication to
rapid decimation
of the ancient woodland and hedgerow
their deaths were dealt so swiftly
that the hawthorn berries
didn’t even get time to bleed.

Now when I walk past
Oak Avenue, Ash Drive & Beech Terrace
each brimming with life
I think of the bricks, mortar and glass
I believe the woodland remains
just in a different guise
and the dedication isn’t an insult
but a celebration of what came before
that the trees that once thrived there
are a solid foundation for new roots to form.

Thanks for taking the time to read this poem, feel free to leave a comment if you wish.

An Early Date

A cornflower sky
littered haphazardly
with spluttering wispy pearls
housing an effortless sun
watched over us
as we dangled and dropped
twigs of beech, ash and elm
into the dawdling waters below
our knees planted
porous
on the sandstone bridge
absorbing some of its history
our eyes followed
the branches ferrying
along the river
stroking and slapping
against limestone and basalt
we were quiet and thoughtful
wondering where they’d end up
wondering where we’d end up
and although sometimes
silence can be deafening
on that day
the silent moments we shared
only spoke of our serenity
with each other.

Like the river
we’ll continue our meander.