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 ‘The New York Public Library – The Branch Libraries,’ and inside, ‘Withdrawn, for free use in City Cultural and Welfare Institutions.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. 

                                                ©2017 GWEN GRANT

 

 

 

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.

A day at the seaside

Lovely!

              ©2023 GWEN GRANT

Hurt in an accident, the Blue Whales help Michael forge a
new relationship with his father.
Available in SMASHWORDS and KINDLE.

Years ago, when I was a girl, I used to read scary stories at bedtime to frighten
myself.  I bitterly regretted this when I had to live in a big old country house
with floors that creaked even when no-one was walking on them and when
shadows took the form of human figures. So, had I been asked then what was
the worst bad dream, I would inevitably have said something along these lines.
Now, however, bad dreams can be a lot more subtle and a lot more scary, just
like the one in this poem.

 DREAM MAKER

His dream maker has retired and gone
  on holiday,
Taking with it all the sunny holidays and
  golden beaches.

What has it left behind?
What couldn’t it be bothered to pack into its
  overnight bag?

Well, just about everything except the dream
  of Hoovers.
Walking up and down grey carpet, constantly
  running over the same bits of paper
With the same little black figures written on them.
The ones that don’t add up and never will no matter
  how often he writes them down.

That’s it!
A vacancy has occurred at this house.
Only dream makers with fabulous holidays in hand
  need apply.
Those who have hoovering and unfriendly figures
  in their pockets

   NEEDN’T BOTHER.

© 2023 Gwen Grant.

     FUTURE TENSE

The old girl lay sleepless in her bed,
Eyes staring through the dark,
Fretting at a future she couldn’t see,
Worrying at the hours and days and weeks
That lay before her.
Sleepless, she sighed again and again
‘If only I knew what the future will bring.’
Until the future, hiding behind the door,
Listening keenly, stepped in.

Picking up two particularly heavy days,
It smacked them round her head.
‘That’s one thing,’ it said.

 Then selecting an especially lovely
String of hours,
Gently laid them round her neck.
‘And that’s another,’ it said.
‘Now, before I go, is there anything else
You want to know?’

 ‘No,’ the old girl whispered, shaking her head,
Turning quick and over in her bed.
‘If it’s alright with you,
I’ll look at the stars instead.’

 ‘Good thinking,’ the future said.

                        © 2017 Gwen Grant

POKER PLAYERS

Magnolia time,
Each tightly folded and curving bud
Glittering palely in the street lamp’s light.
No-one walking out,
Not this early in the morning.
Only magnolia shadows awake,
Playing tag with rain puddles
Catching the moon.

What a game,
Both players hidden from sight,
Flicking joyful flashes of silver
Into the grey morning,
Into the quivering air.
Hiding their great strength and skill.

Poker players!
Both of them.
Holding winning hands,
Slapping them on night’s waiting table,
Challenging each other in storm and fury,
Until they fall out.
Lose patience.

Let’s hope they play nice tonight.

             © 2023 Gwen Grant

PRIVATE KEEP OUT!  by Gwen Grant
published by Penguin Vintage  Children’s Classics
available in paperback and as an ebook