I used to enjoy going to the races at York, Market Rasen and many other race courses. The big Boxing Day races are very popular but, years ago, if an ordinary person wanted a bet, they would often have to place it at one of the many unauthorised bookies in their neighbourhood. These were houses that had to be very discreet because the police were always on the look out for such places, ready to pounce and close them down. Worse, they would take anyone they found gambling on the premises to the police station. Taking a bet for a neighbour for one such establishment, I was petrified, certain the bobbies would come and take me away and then what would my Mum say! Luckily, it didn’t happen.
DAYDREAMING
Lying on the sofa, Remembering those old nights When even before I had fallen asleep, My ghost horse and I Were first past the winning post
I was so excited, We floated right out of the race course, Coming down into nowhere.
Knowing that at a hundred to one, Everyone had won a fortune.
The very first home I ever had was a very small two up and two down terrace house but my Mum had a large oak dresser. She told me that the big, wide drawers of this dresser had been the cot for many babies, lying beside her bed, ‘all wrapt in swaddling clothes’ as the hymn has it. It had been her cot and all three of my brothers had slept in it, then me and finally my sisters. This was quite common. I miss that oak dresser and used to wonder often if it was anything like a manger.
A COLD CHRISTMAS
A thin, fine, dusting of frost glitters On the dark roof of the shed Standing at the end of the cold garden, Ragged green and silvered weeds Pressing around the empty doorway, As if peering in at something That might be happening Inside that freezing emptiness, Waiting for a blaze of warmth and light To fill the barren bitterness. Well, that miracle happened once On a dark and freezing night.
Now, thorn red berries tipped with frosty crowns Gather as quietly as a whispered warning, Resting their icy faces Against the cracked and frozen windows Of a place cold enough to perish in.
There was no glamour then and there’s none now. No twinkling tinsel, no soft lights glowing. Just a woman’s baby lying in a manger, The ox bringing a bit of warmth to the deadly coldness, The donkey adding a little more, Its long ears twitching at the patient man, At the watchful woman waiting, At the shepherds worshipping This holy baby bathed in lamp light, Moon light and love’s pure light.
Until that other freezing night When three Kings came riding To this icy, bitter shed. Bringing their fabulous gifts, Their aristocratic knees bending To the little holy King, Who already had a thorn red frosted crown Waiting for His head.
One of my earliest memories is of going to the Library. Librarians then were strict and wouldn’t allow you in until they checked your hands were clean. I didn’t care. I just wanted to get in amongst those books. This Library has now closed and a new one built in its place, also good, and I don’t have to show that my hands are clean!
I especially remember the New York Library because it was so beautiful and because I bought two books in their book sale. ‘Letters of Arnold Bennett, Vol. 2. 1889-1915’ and ‘Letters of Arnold Bennett, Vol. 3. 1916-1931.’ I love these books.
I also love the stamped inscription on the bottom of them. ‘The New York Public Library – The Branch Libraries,’ and inside, ‘Withdrawn, for free use in City Cultural and Welfare Institutions. May be sold for the benefit of the New York Public Library only.’ How great is that.
Then there was the one in the city of Dundee, Scotland. A very small Public Library that hardly took up any room at all but had the same magic inside. That Library has also gone but I still walk into it in my mind.
Libraries then always seemed to require filled in forms and Birth Certificate before they’d let you in. I’d have supplied them with my blood group, shoe size and almost anything else just to get inside and pick up a book.
Which is why, at the time so many Libraries were having to close, I wrote this poem to defend them and remind why they are so crucial, so important to us all.
MY LIBRARY HOME
When they tell me to ‘Attach Birth Certificate here,’ I ask them which one they mean. The first one that simply affirms I have been born, Or the real one, where under ‘Place of Birth,’ I have written ‘Library.’
For it was amongst these book-lined shelves I was born to an awareness and understanding Of what men and women, girls and boys get up to, Plus all those other things we’re told that flesh is heir to. I took down those books, held them, read them And loved them so much, I hugged them.
I read about everything. Love and hate, life and death, war and peace, Joy and sorrow, crime and punishment. I read about mountains, valleys, deserts, cities and jungles, And how man was just a pinprick of light In a vast darkness. Or, maybe, a pinprick of darkness In an ocean of light.
I learnt about creatures that walk, talk, crawl, creep, swim and fly And how a sudden, surprising spark of affection Can be a connection between them and us, Us and them.
Which was why, under ‘Nationality’ where it said, ‘Tick any one of the countries that follow from A to Z,’ I ticked them all instead. For I am every colour and race, creed, dogma and faith. Is that hard? Not when you’ve got a Library card.
So that’s my real home, for me and generations before me, For together we speak for all those yet to come, Who need us to succour them, love them, encourage them, build them and fill them, and shine ‘em up, As they find their place in their Library home.
When I was a girl, we went to the seaside for a day once a year. The Miners Welfare put on buses to take the children and their mothers, grannies, aunts , brothers, sisters etc., etc., to the nearest stretch of coast. It was like a dream! For not only did we get to see the sea, we got half- a-crown
to spend, as well. Candy floss, penny machines in the Arcades, the Laughing Policeman, and, up to 12 and a half pence ( today’s half-a-crown value) anything we desired until the money sadly ran out. When I think of those days now, I can feel the sunshine.
TEA AND SUNSHINE
Tea and sunshine. Lemonade.
Sandy beaches full of seashells. Conch shells, ribbed shells, Tiny pink baby shells.
No squid. No octopus. No shark, no dolphin nor whale. These only to be dreamt of.
Poems by Gwen Grant 