Bread Tags - a Poetry and WriteNight Story

A few months back, I attended Colchester WriteNight for their session on performance poetry.

Led by Mark Brayley, this was a truly fascinating session. Mark spoke about how it is possible to convey very powerful emotions through the description of objects. He provided us with a selection of objects, including an hourglass, a clockwork robot, a cocktail shaker and others. He then instructed us to select one and write down any ideas, which came into our heads.

Next, we were asked to construct a poem, using some of those ideas.  

Strangely enough, I found myself obsessing on the subject of bread tags - the square plastic things that we used to close bread packets with, back in the 1980s, before we had to put up with the stupid sticky ones, which always seal themselves shut, and how I could use those to write about a memory that was painful for me.

This is what I came up with.

Bread Tags

by Annie Bell

She picks at the glued up tie on the bread,

stubbornly sticking. Her toast dreams are dead.

The past creeps forwards; memory awakes.

An abandoned solution - such a mistake.

An ancient invention of plastic perfection:

Flat, square, with a hole and the corners lopped off.

Every piece of plastic that ever existed, still exists.

David Attenborough drones from the TV.

Her bread liberated;

Her toast duly plated;

Her hunger soon sated.

The flavour of Marmite and toast soothes her soul.

She thinks about bread tags:

His wonderful bread tags: 

The collection of thousands he kept in a drawer.

Each one representing Marmite toast

From that comfortable host,

Who hosts with toast no more.

Every piece of plastic that ever existed, still exists.

David Attenborough drones from the TV.

But he does not

Will not.

Not ever again,

Except in her memory.

 

The event I was writing about was the death of my Grandad, when I was sixteen. He always used to make us - his large collection of grandchildren - round after round of Marmite toast, until the bread ran out.

After his death, we found that he had a box filled with old bread tags in his kitchen drawer, which he had collected over the decades. I've always wondered what he was collecting them for.

It was wonderful to be able to convey my own sadness in a way that is so much more universal than what I might ordinarily have written. The session really opened my eyes to different ways of expressing emotions and I would like to explore this concept much more.

WriteNight meets on the fourth Monday of every month, 7:30pm - 9:30pm at the Maker Space, Trinity Street, Colchester.

For more information, please follow them on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/writenight/ or Twitter: @ColWriteNight 

© Annie Bell, 2019

Berechurch Mysteries - a 'Jane's Walk'

Why do you call me 'The Lady in White'?

Why do you act like I give you a fright?

Why do you see only this satin dress?

Can you not see that I look like a mess?

*

October 1845. Charlotte White wakes to find that all is not well and life, or death, will never be the same again.

Haunted by a devastating secret and compelled by powers beyond her comprehension, Charlotte must find a way to escape from the ghosts of her past, present and future, together with a torn white dress that holds brutal significance.

Life and death are, indeed, strange masters. 

* 

'Charlotte - The Lady in White' is my novel, based on the true story of Charlotte White, nee Smyth, late of Berechurch Hall, Colchester, Essex: a lady, who is said to haunt the former grounds of Berechurch Hall, to this day.

On Sunday last, as part of the annual 'Jane's Walks', my friend Wayne Baker organised a walk around the Berechurch area of Colchester, taking in various aspects of local history and local issues.

As part of this event, I was asked  to reprise my role as Charlotte. I was able to surprise the crowd off 33 walkers, by making a few appearances along the way. The first was at 'Charlotte's Pool' - a very beautiful location in Friday Woods. The second was at outside the Audley Chapel of St Michael's Church, off Berechurch Hall Road, where Charlotte was buried and her burial monument still remains. 

There, outside the Audley Chapel, I surprised the walkers, by appearing again and performing 'My Past Existence': the poem, which opens my novel.

After this, inside the Audley Chapel, I read an extract from 'Charlotte - The Lady in White', set in the Audley Chapel itself.

The walk appeared to be well received by the walkers, the weather behaved itself and Charlotte's story was shared, once more, with the people of Colchester.

Photo courtesy of Belinda Baker

For more information on Charlotte White and my adventures in researching her life, please read the following past posts from this blog.

Remembering Auntie Hazel - an extract from 'Charlotte - The Lady in White'

Jane's Walk - Monkwick Memories - A Charlotte White Story
Charlottes Pool - History and Legend
More on Charlotte White nee Smyth
My Past Existence - Charlotte White nee Smyth
Charlotte's Pool
Charlotte Exhibition Preparation Part 2
Charlotte Exhibition Preparation Part 1
Charlotte's Pool Colchester

© Annie Bell 2019

Town to Port Festival, Hythe Colchester 25th May 2013

Like many Colcestrians, I have many preconceived ideas about the Hythe area of town.  Despite ongoing attempts, by the council, to regenerate the area, viewing it from my trips past and through the new developments, I always feel that it looks unfinished; an imperfect juxtaposition of rusty, crusty relics of industrial times gone by and generic 'little boxes on the hillside' appartment blocks.  I hadn't been down to the quayside since before the regeneration started. 

On Saturday, I popped along to the Town to Port Festival.  I had been asked by Tess Gardener of SKOPT (Some Kind of Poetry Thing) and Colchester Poetry, to perform a ten minute poetry set as part of her poetry coffee morning, in the spoken word area.  This gave me a reason to make my way back into the place where I grew up as a small child.

As I walked along the Quayside, I felt a mixed bag of emotions.  Amid the strange contrast of decaying old fragments of industrial heritage, torn down to make way for the new but not quite consigned to history yet, I observed the interesting scenery of my childhood in the very process of being replaced by that which is so insipidly generic about all new riverside developments.  Whilst the new builds and modern walkways around the area look pleasant enough, I can't help but mourn the final death knell of Colchester's industrial past.  The old buildings were eyesores, no argument there, but they represented something much more than the crumbling rubble that they were.  An example, which is personal to me would be the Coldock building, with its smashed windows, stained concrete and faded flaking paint was the "naughty boys' home", where, according to my mum and dad, who wanted to encourage us to behave, children who were disobedient were sent to have their toes nibbled by rats, while spiders with legs like your index finger would stare menacing at you.  I never believed the stories but I remember them fondly.  That building is no more.  I can't imagine its replacement will inspire such storytelling. 

While my nostalgia about this little loved part of town might sound negative, I must say that, despite the tinge of sadness I felt, the enthusiasm and sense of fun behind the festival itself was wonderful.  From the live music up by the bridge, along the row of stalls selling truly diverse examples of original work by local artists, to the house boats, with music playing and people just enjoying the sunshine and cultural fare on offer, it was a truly pleasant experience.  

The spoken word area showed off the worsmithing skills of a great number of talented local poets, musicians and storytellers.  

For my own part, I shared five of my poems - 'Grecian Liar', 'My Past Existence', 'Wilfred Owen', 'Kenneth George Bell' and 'A Soldier's Return'.  (Click on the links to see the poems in previous posts) I thoroughly enjoyed the experience.  Tess Gardener did a great job of creating a relaxed and friendly environment, in which we were all able to share our ideas and scribblings.  I didn't get to see everyone perform but every performance I saw was interesting, entertaining and thought provoking.  I took my family along and I know they enjoyed it too.  I'm looking forward to the next meeting of SKOPT and Colchester Poetry, to listen to some more great poetry.  

I love how through organisations such as 15 Queen Street, First Site and Slack Space, the creative people of the Colchester area are finally being brought together and encouraged to collaborate, to add to the rich cultural tapestry of our town. 

As for the Hythe, I remain uncertain about the effect the regeneration of the area will have in the longer term.  What the festival provided was an opportunity to experience the potential the area has to offer.  The extent to which that potential will be fulfilled is in the hands of the Council.  Let's hope they manage to create something, which maintains something of the original spirit of the place.

Colchester Poetry December Sunday Matinee

Today, I attended and performed at the Colchester Poetry Sunday Matinee performance at FirstSite, Colchester.

There were eight performances in total.

Peter Turner performed three beautiful and amusing songs about life, prehistory and Guantanamo Bay of all things. 

Jonathan King delivered two very touching poems of friendship and absence, ending on a wonderful comedy limerick, which made me chuckle.

Martin Reed told a selection of amusing short stories and fables.

The screening of "Never a Cross Word" directed by David Fox was an interesting homage to the silent movies of the 1920s with a bit of slapstick thrown in.
 
Ashleagh Hat's two poems were interesting critiques of the modern world.

Alex Yeandle sang some thought provoking songs, including a wonderfully touching song of unrequited love.

The matinee closed with Tess Gardener performing three of her poems, which were powerful and expressive as always.


For my own part, I read an abridged version of  'The Mysterious Incident of the Glass Eye' - a short story I wrote earlier this year, following a writing exercise at the Colchester WriteNight meeting.  It tells the humorous tale of two police officers investigating a gruesome and mysterious death. 

To read the story on an earlier post, click on the link below.

The Mysterious Incident of the Glass Eye by Annie Bell

The Colchester Poetry Sunday Matinee takes place around the last Sunday of every month, from 2-4pm at FirstSite Colchester or 15 Queen Street.

Check for dates on the Colchester Poetry Facebook group HERE.

Colchester Poetry Open Mic Night - December 2012

On Saturday 15th December, Colchester Poetry hosted the December Open Mic Night at SlackSpace Colchester.

From the outset it looked destined to be filled with Christmas spirit.  There were mince pies and drinkies galore.  Not only that, within ten minutes of it all kicking off, it became clear that the whole affair would be compered by none other than Santa Claus himself. 

There was a fantastic range of poetry, stories and comedy from the assembled wordsmiths and the evening was very entertaining, even if I did feel like I had wandered through my television set into the middle of a Vic and Bob sketch by the end!  

If you like poetry, you should definitely come along to a Colchester Poetry event.  The next one is the Sunday Matinee on Sunday 30th December 2012 at FirstSite Colchester.

For my own part, I performed six of my poems - 

Elusive Sleep

Infirm

Grecian Liar

My Past Existence

Wilfred Owen
The Ballad of the Chris Hoy Incident

Here is one of them, which was written after my Great Uncle became rather poorly.

Infirm 

by Annie Bell

Life is so simple, when you are young.

There are no aggravations,

No supplications, applications,

No real ramifications in life,

Which can't be fixed with a plaster and a kiss.

An injury to the leg? A plaster and a kiss.

A grazed elbow? A plaster and a kiss.

A bully? A plaster and a kiss.

The longer life progresses, 

The more we are alone;

Expected to cope for ourselves.

Knowledge and truth prevent white lying comfort.

Monsters and imaginary fears in the dark

Remain in the dark,

Remain real and ever present.

There is no kiss and no plaster.

The monsters remain there.

After us.

Terrifying us.

Consuming us.

Older still and even more alone,

Or are we just lonely?

A single glass of dessert wine

In a pool of its own sugary gloop

Leaves a sticky ring on the coffee table.

Why is the Shiraz always gone?

Why are we always wrong?

Where is that comforting song?

At our oldest ... we are utterly alone.

We crave attention and affection

Yet give loved ones deflections.

We crave visitors - desire them

Yet we push them away.

Dismissed as cantankerous old buggers,

Our inner strength concealed by frail bodies.

Our life long worth in question.

No kiss;

No plaster

Can fix that.  

 © Annie Bell 2012