POETRY & MUSiNGS ON LIFE
I am delighted to tell you that reaction to my new memoir has been very positive. I am currently receiving great reviews from readers who have bought and read the book.
it is available on Amazon in paperback ( £8.99) and as e-book for Kindle (£4.29). Signed author copies can be ordered from me, Margaret Royall £10.50 (in UK) to include p&p. Please email me to order: Margaretroyall@icloud.com and pay via PayPal on the link
PayPal.me/MargaretRoyall
I am really excited that the great day is very close now, just 4 days away on Weds 20th May. The Paperback copies of my book have arrived and I am now taking oreders via PayPal. Go to PayPal.com and the link PayPal.me/MargaretRoyall. The price is £10.50 to include post and packing. The memoir will also be available on Amazon and Kindle, £8.99 for paperback and £4.99 for Kindle download.
It is an unusual fusion of poetry, prose, old photographs and memorabilia. It loosely takes its form from the Japanese Haibun but is updated to a modern western style.
Here is a synopsis of what to expect
The Road to Cleethorpes Pier
A Memoir in Prose and Verse
MARGARET ROYALL
‘I never missed my childhood home
until the tide stopped rolling in and
ochre sand no longer crunched between my toes …’
Nottinghamshire poet Margaret Royall’s new memoir is unusual. It takes the form of a ‘Haibun’ – a traditional Japanese combination of prose and poetry.
Margaret says: ‘I have chosen this form deliberately. The range of Haibun is broad and frequently includes autobiography. In this case the combination of prose and contemporary poetry has allowed me to really convey the beauty of growing up by the seaside in a bygone era.’
The history:
Margaret was born in 1944 to the bustle of Cleethorpes. Her world is one of family outings in a tiny Austin 7, ferry rides across the Humber, and lifelong friendships that are forged in unexpected places.
Family runs like a comforting thread throughout this lovely book, and it has been illustrated with many original photographs.
Readers will enjoy the nostalgia of poems about pushing damp clothes through the mangle on washdays, the smell of gas light, and eating fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. There are also vivid descriptions of steam travel to London, and the former glory of the Grimsby fishing fleet. And finally there are many powerfully subtle, heartfelt moments conveyed by poems and extracts about the lifelong friendships Margaret has formed along the way.
The Road to Cleethorpes Pier is beautiful portrait of childhood in prose and verse ‐ perfect for anyone who has dreamed of growing up by the seaside
Topical: Margaret Royall’s passion for poetry began in early childhood. Retirement brought the opportunity to pursue her writing seriously, giving voice to acute experiences of loss, grief and chronic illness.
The Road to Cleethorpes Pier is published on 20 May 2020 in ebook and paperback priced £8.99
A special hand bound hardback edition is also being produced at the publisher’s studio
Extract:
Love Calls Me Home
A breath of cool air kisses my brow,
disturbs the tangled curls on the pillow.
The heady scent of opening lilies
drifts up from the garden.
Threads of childhood long ago
weave complex webs behind closed lids.
As the fuse catches and smoulders
the kaleidoscope shifts into focus
Floating through the open window
on a chill sea‐breeze in late Spring
I sense invisible hands supporting me –
ghost hands, male and female
I watch myself on mornings of promise
wandering bare‐foot along the beach,
catching the fishermen on the jetty,
struggling ashore with their haul of cockles and shrimps.
Clambering down the slipway to the breakwater,
I quietly stare out to Spurn point,
waiting for the revolving light to flash again,
for the incoming tide to fill the gullies.
The film scene plays on in my head,
reliving that childhood magic,
my brain erasing negative scenes between
then and now, no second takes possible.
Startled, I wake again on the cool side of the bed
in sheets like shrouds. The silence is deafening.
Yet just for a tide‐span I was there again,
back in that safe cocoon.
[‘Love Calls Me Home’ is an extract from ‘The Road to Cleethorpes Pier’ (2020, Crumps Barn Studio), copyright of the author © Margaret Royall 2020. All rights reserved.]
Bibliographic data:
Published by Crumps Barn Studio, Syde, Cheltenham GL53 9PN http://www.crumpsbarnstudio.co.uk
Paperback ISBN: 9781999870577
178 pages
46 black and white photographs Release date: 20 May 2020
Front cover and author photo
I am now taking pre-orders for copies of my memoir above.
PayPal.me/MargaretRoyall £10.50 to include post and packing,
please contact me to order: margaretroyall@icloud.com
This brings back 50s childhood memories of Washday Wednesdays at home in Lincolnshire, recalled by a poem in my memoir, out 20th May, ‘The Road to Cleethorpes Pier’. My Nan came to help my mum do the laundry and this was the equipment we needed! To read more fascinating anecdotes of post -war childhood
To order a signed copy from me : contact me: margaretroyall@icloud.com
PayPal.me/MargaretRoyall, £10.50 incl p&p. The memoir will also be available on Amazon and Kindle from 20th May
I am thrilled to announce that my memoir of childhood ‘The Road to Cleethorpes Pier’ is due for publication May 2020 with Crumps Barn Studio. I am really excited about this project and I have very much enjoyed writing about growing up in a seaside town on the East coast of England in the 40s, 50s and 60s. It has brought back many memories, events still vivid in my memory as well as ones I had almost forgotten. Looking out old photos to include in the memoir has been a real joy, although many are grainy and need careful restoration.
I have chosen an unusual format for the book, a fusion of poetry and prose passages as a nod to the Japanese prosimetric from called Haibun. In its traditional form it is usually a travelogue Consisting of haiku ( a Japanese’s 5-7-5 short verse form ) and prose – but I have adapted this to my own format.
Last August I revisited Cleethorpes and did some photography on the sea front. Much has changed over the years but some things are still the same. Here are a couple of photos I took from the promenade. As the resort lies at the mouth of the River Humber, a tidal river, the sea only comes up to the beach at high tide but is otherwise absent. Tourists are surprised if they arrive at low tide and cannot see the sea. The tide was out in these photos, hence no water in view.
Cleethorpes traditionally boasted five miles of golden sand. It has long been the resort of choice for holidaymakers and day -trippers from the Midlands and Yorkshire. It forms a conurbation with the larger town of Grimsby to the north, famous for its fishing industry.
photos of Cleethorpes beach showing a breakwater and the pier ( tide out)
This is my latest project – a poetry memoir of childhood and adolescence growing up in Cleethorpes, Lincolnshire.
I have been looking out old photographs from the late 1940s /early 50s and I was forcibly struck by how “ Victorian” they look. Everyone seemed to wear a hat and suit, even on relaxed occasions. The pram in the photo looks ancient. I remember that my mum pushed me around in something called a Tansad – a cross between a pram and a pushchair, made by the Tansad company, hence the name, and widely in use at that time.
ON THE BEACH WITH MICHAEL.
The adverts for Cleethorpes boasted
five miles of glorious golden sand –
no mention of the biting East wind!
The Meggies*were always a hardy bunch –
a daily dose of mind-numbing fresh air
an absolute must for the health-conscious locals.
My mum and friends believed in bracing walks.
She would push me in the old Tansad**along the Kingsway –
fine when I didn’t have to share it with Michael!
Oh how I hated him, loud, impatient, whiny,
sharing the pram with a boy was humiliating.
The only recompense a choc-ice at the end,
bought from Mr Oliphant’s open-all-hours shop
crammed with buckets, spades and kiss-me-quick hats
exuding cheerful optimism on the sea-front
Familiarity breeds contempt, they say. How true!
It is only now, living as I do in a landlocked place,
that I find myself frequently craving the wildness of the seashore
*Meggies – folk originating from Cleethorpes. The origin of the term is disputed.
**Tansad – a type of pushchair with adjustable footboard in use
in the 1940s/50s. Tansad became a generic name for a baby buggy
A COUNTRY DRIVE IN FEBRUARY
Swathes of dense fog sweep the fields as I set off for home
Their eerie cloak masking the car in a haze of grey-green
The ceaseless mechanics of daily life rhythmically drone
From a neighbouring farm comes the whir of a loading machine
The brave sun is piercing through low banks of threatening cloud
Caressing the trees with a patchwork of dazzling hue
The frozen beck seeps a dank odour, as stale as a shroud
My senses are suddenly heightened, awareness renewed
Chilled through to the bone I am desperate for comforting heat
My fingers turn painfully blue and my cracked lips are sore
As I shake my numb limbs to send blood flow again to my feet
I taste breakfast’s bounty rise up in my gullet once more
The steaming hot coffee and cranberry smoothie were good
My mouth salivates for that wonderful honey on rye
The tension builds fast and I steer a safe course through the wood
Alone in this desolate dreamworld between earth and sky
Some call her a wise woman, some a white witch,
child of a milked moon, her pallor translucent,
bright sapphire eyes, just a soupçon of arrogance…
Her mission to counter the clutter and debris of
sprawling wastelands and cityscape grime..
She tiptoes through meadows mulched in deep grief
and cobbled lanes echoing thud of nailed boots
from war-weary soldiers exhaling dense breath.
Her hands ease the laboured birth of breeched calves
and mothers watch dying babes wake to new life…..
Smudged by her cauldron’s honeydew vapours,
kundalini courses through tree bark and plant sap.
Absorbed in their trivia most humans don’t see her,
yet indigo children may hear her sweet singing …
On wolf moon nights through the thin layers of cloud
they catch her winged flight across planets and galaxies….
Some say she’s a goddess and some bride of Satan
this woman of mystery, her name still unknown…
At birth displaying gentle tangerine
With inner bell of warmest apricot pink
Upward majestically it toiled
Striving towards the weak light of first Spring
Much bolder then the shades became
Blood red tendrils interspersed
With splashes of coral and ruby red
Then all too soon the glory starts to fade
Yet still a nuanced cadence is perceived;
The withering petals glow defiant crimson
As though they’re holding back a loss of blood
And clinging to last vestiges of life
This sweet enchantment warms my heart
Dispelling gloom, enlivening March’s chill
Sweet memories of this colourful profusion
Locked deep within my soul’s eternity
REFLECTIONS ON A COUNTRY WALK IN JANUARY
Forgotten, abandoned, Mother Earth is sleeping
Hidden away underground in pensive solitude
Accepting her role of prisoner under Winter’s rule.
Soft brindle cattle with questioning eyes
Huddle together In rough-hewn stalls
They do not complain at their sad loss of freedom
Their bodies take shelter from deep, piercing cold
But their souls yearn to roam through buttercup fields
Patiently waiting, their hooves stamp out
The long-lost memory of a summer dance.
Gossamer cobwebs like shrouds in the hedgerows
Weave tales from the goddess of maid, mother, crone
The shivering threads whisper close-guarded secrets
Cast far on the wind for the wise ones to hone
My breath catches quick in the sharp, frosty air
I shudder and zip up my Barbour coat tightly
A battle with Jack Frost requires some cunning!
I flip up the collar and fumble, white-fingered
In over-crammed pockets for mittens and headgear –
And find – Emma’s beanie from Nursery school days!
Complete with its fox ears and button-bead eyes
I pull it down snug over frizzy, damp curls
Its jaunty ears bobbing in time with my steps
Oozing mud clings to these Doc Marten boots
My hike through the fields becomes clumsy and slow
The moaning wind wrestles the trees in defiance
No audible birdsong …….yet, bravely nearby
A robin observes me from high on the hedgetop
His head cocked bemused as I plod on my way
Beyond the wood a welcome cottage beckons
Smoke rises, and I long for the cosy cheer of home
A steaming bowl of hot broth, buttered crumpets by the fire
Toasting stiffened fingers and stretching aching limbs
Once safe inside, the howling Winter storms
Can rant and rage at will – they hold no fear for me!
For now is the time of rest and quiet introspection
But soon Earth will don again her cloak of green perfection
We come from midnight stardust
And to dust we will finally return
.
The man in the moon draws his veil across the night sky
Sprinkling the firmament with silver blessings;
He creates new wonders with his artist’s brush
As we curl up beneath the shimmering counterpane
Blue for the protection of the father,
Blue for the nurturing of the mother,
Purple-blue for the vision of the third eye
Allowing us to scry the mystical and numinous
Exploring the mystery beyond our frail humanity.
Then when our final indigo night is spent
And life’s dream ebbs away on a Judas tide
We will once more to stardust return.
Margaret Royall 