mariesteeledelozada

Being Welsh I have always been captivated by the rhythm and beat of the spoken word. As a child I loved a good rhyme or story, but I was especially captivated by a poem with a good bit of drama or adventure. I’m not fussy, I just like what I like: which is a bit of a mix really. Anything by Pam Ayres (she made me laugh), Dylan Thomas, Rupert the Bear (the annuals were written in sing-song rhyme), and all-time firm favourites: The Listeners, Walter de la Mare; The Highwayman, Alfred Noyes and Little Yellow Idol to the North of Kathmandu, which as children we used to plague my dad to recite for us. We also loved limericks and delighted in making our own up. 

 

As far back as I can remember we children were encouraged by our parents to write short stories (anything we liked, or sometimes we were given ‘themes’). No matter, whatever the story our characters usually got up to mis-doings and a bit of mischief. There was so much satisfaction in reading out loud in the hope of creating a laugh or, and this was the best measure, for someone to say, “Stop, or I’m going to wet myself!” That such things drove us to write at that age still causes a smile! 

 

When I was 12 or 13 I won a school poetry competition for my scrap book of poems.  My English teacher was Mrs Issacs at the time and she awarded me Enid Blyton’s Nature Lover’s Book Number 4, a slim volume of poems and tales for all my efforts. I was secretly delighted and never forgot my little book of poems and the poem that won it for me: Two heads are better than one!

 

For birthdays and Christmas we were lucky enough to receive diaries, books and annuals, writing paper, crafts, paints, fancy fountain pens and pots of ink. With these we wrote and illustrated our own comics, invented silly stories, entertained pen-pals, sent letters to celebs (thankfully this was mostly my sisters) and developed a fondness for any sort of adventure story. We also loved painting by numbers, weaving, making clay pots and filling moulds with plaster of paris – we were very messy.

 

Over the years we turned less and less to this sort of thing and I preferred the safeness of looking rather than doing, but then I caught the creative bug and started to develop an appreciation for gardening and plants again. This creative bug morphed into other areas and it was much the same for my sisters and brother, too, with each nurturing their own talents: painting (Donna and Matt), sewing and making things (Clare), writing/ recording stories (all), or poetry (me, Clare and Donna).  

 

Thus I have come so far, and my little foray into the world of words might be a bit rusty after a gap of so many years, but that’s okay, I’m a work in progress! This page of postcards is a little glimpse on the world of someone beginning to explore a creative life, and beginning to set a story down in a certain way. It aims to brighten a day and encourage a smile by sharing some of life’s little joys and blips… 

 

    

 

Bachgen Bach

 

Our dog has a body as solid as any well fed little piglet.

He’s a new breed:

mochyn brindle,

all muscle and paunch,

ripe and ready for the stockpot!

(Most defin-ate-ly not.)

My husband carves up his little mochyn body in his head,

and says,

pointing to his rump,

(oh so plump)

‘I’ll have that little bit of back-bacon there

for my tea …

please,

(with two potatoes)

I gaze over,

shake my head

and admire the thus allotted hock ,

not!

My porky little Bachgen Bach!

 

***

 

What is to admire,

you enquire?

Bat ears, huge; radars to our every move.

Mouth, gummy, food hooverer;

manoeuver-er.

Nose, button-like, sniffing machine,

(quite clean).

 Egg-head.

Pure bred. 

(Ahh.)

 ***

 

Neck?

None.

Nor much of a squiggly tail

prevails,

 but there is that porky, stockpot body…

 

Watch out!

He’s the Mochyn Monster!

 

I look and never cease to smile, 

 he never ceases to smile back.

My porky little Bachgen Bach!

 

***

 

Names? He has many.

We call him Buckie

or little ‘Paquito’

a hark,

(bark)

back to St. Francis of Assisi.

To nieces and nephews

 he’s Uncle Buck

(he runs amuck). 

He likes that!

Or Buck Rogers…

(a 21^st Century busy boy),

what a joy.

But you know my favourite …

it’s Bachgen Bach,

(Cymru) still the pull of home.

Mostly, though, he is our Bonito P(B)uckito’!

We are captives,

slaves,

to his every demand,

and command,

but we don’t mind

‘cos in our heart he’s Bachgen Bach.

 

***

 

He turns our world

Bachgen Bach

Turns the sun to shine on us

Turns the world around for us

Through the snow

Through the rain

Through the icy cold

Through birthdays

Christmas

New Year

Through to next year

Bachgen Bach,

our cariad

Mochyn Brindle

 

Welsh: Mochyn – pig/piggy; Bachgen Bach – little boy; Cariad – dear/ beloved; Cymru – Wales

Espaniola: Paquito –  short for Francisco/ Francis

 

Brindle – Term used when the colour of a dog’s coat is brown and black stripy

Breed – French Bulldog ‘Frenchie’

 

 

 

***

                                                          ‘Let me Out’ 

        Brown Bear

 

‘Let me out’

says the new bear

in the new picture,

given to an old house.

 

A new bear with a red heart

to and old house with a warm heart.

 

There’s a green mountain

and a sprinkle of coal

beneath a dark night sky

in an old house with a warm heart.

 

A ‘Brown’ bear,

a William Brown bear

with a scared heart,

with a secret story

in the night sky with the rain falling

on the old house with the warm heart.

 

Be still Brown Bear,

rest on our modest wall,

rest with us,

watch the world go by,

stay awhile with us

in our old house with the warm heart

and now, your red glow.

 

A bear given with love,

on a winter’s day

in cold November

to a couple in love.

 

Marie Steele (kindly edited by David Greenslade, Welsh Poet) 

  

 

For William Brown (El Cabballo Loco) 

 

   

   

 

 

 

  

 Invitation through the door

We know the picture well

Croeso Captain Scott

Ship Ahoy!

Ship in snow

Ship frozen in time

Ship trapped under heavy sky

What a sky

We sigh

 

 

No trademark polar bears on this one

Or naughty little Loup-Garou (cheeky thing)

Or Cardiff Seagulls flying high

This picture speaks of journeys

Adventures

Times past

With a twist of today

William Brown: has Discovery immortalised!

 

 

We see Trojan Horses

Pictures from dark places

Carnival

Circus

Dark Fairgrounds (Sombre Kermesse)

Places to scare

And to invite

A Private View

Rare Works

Pictures Carys found under the bed

Of what William had in his head

 

 

We picture ourselves there

Abergavenny?

Yes, we’ll go

My neck of the woods

Family!

Dogs!

Sunday lunch

We can get a walk in

Maybe the beach…

 

 

We go to pay homage

We go to pay respect

We go for inspiration

Prepare for the fascination

We go for …

 

7pm dark and misty

Enter shop

Enter paradise

Enter hope + energy + places

In your head you seldom go

Enter William centre stage

 

Oh, the pictures

Oh, we gasp and we gawp

We tremble

We laugh

We sink to dark depths

We cling

We refer

We see the world a-new

Pictures snapped up

Red dots here and there

Everywhere

 

 

We gabber

We chat

Familiar faces

Friends old and new

Mesmerised

Hypnotised

Pictures selling like hot cakes

Of which we can’t partake

Not yet

Husband says

And I want to buy and buy and buy!

 

A gift for Carys:

Spotty Arthur

(McClure Bear)

Wood-cut

Ernesto painted

In memory of spotty colours

A token of thanks

And Remembrance

To times past

(Long may they last)

 

Time to go

One last look

I see the faces

Smiling, chatting, laughing

Conspiring, plotting, making plans

Holding William

Praising William

Missing William

 

A group photo

El Caballo Loco (William) somewhere in the midst

Thomas the poet, Keith the painter, El Parro

And my E

A little too much wine

A little too much colour on pale cheeks

A little bit too much like old times!

Until next time…

Hugs and well wishes

And we’re out

Out into the misty Welsh night

Out onto autumn-cold wet streets

Of Abergavenny

Out to make our own fortunes

Our own dreams

Out for William

 

 1953-2008   

 

‘From Under The Bed’ at The Art Shop, Abergavenny

 

~0~

   

Christmas

 

by A. Thomas (my niece) age 9 ¾

 

Everyday in December

Christmas Day we all remember

A burning fire

A Christmas tree

It’s time for tea with the family

 

There’s snow everywhere

The year is old

I’m wrapped up warm, but still very cold

My Advent Calendar is on the wall

We’re getting ready for Santa’s call

 

It’s Christmas Day!

Santa’s come!

The evening draws on

The day is

DONE!

  ~0~

 

 

Oh bliss!

  

Sisters to visit

 

family to see

 

ma and pa, Uncle Matt, Rachel, Annabel, James, Ed and Sam all on my list

 hurried ‘phone calls

a walk?

a walk where?

decisions, decisions

too many possibilities

too much choice

too many old haunts

can’t decide

weather might change

i might change my mind

agree a time instead

  

 

Slow walkers stay home

putting feet up

and TV on

a day of peace for them

oh bliss?

 

 

Cars converge

people spill out

chatter chatter

hugs and hello’s

where we going?

Pobbles

lovely 

more chatter

new car?

getting taller

shorter

fatter

thinner

conversations

all at the same time

where we going again?

Three Cliffs

lovely

 

 

Come on!

load up

who’s going with who?

children decide and divide

three cars and ten to please

where we going again?

Pwlldu

lovely

  

 

Volvo leads the way

easy journey

very quick

spill out into country-side

air fresh

sky blue

fields green

hedgerows bursting

narrow path

follow me!

and children charge ahead

 

 

Talk of pirates

talk of childhood

Annabel says she’s going to be a dentist when she grows up

talk of a lazy day and sand between our toes

oh bliss!

children brown-berried

happy faces, carefree

laughing

 what i’m missing

  

 

Descent to beach

ancient trail

winding path

careful you don’t fall!

path forks in two:

paddle through stream, or

take longer path over bridge?

paddle through stream of course!

water cold

icy toes

children squeal

the delight!

 

 

Beach looms

sea glassy

sand yellow

scorching hot

pebbles calling out for picking up

heavy pockets

can’t stop!

Oh bliss

 

 

Dump our stuff

no beach towels just throw ourselves down

sinking into hot, soft sand

up again!

children calling

running into water

then out again

i’m in!

splashed by Ed

James’ shorts rolled up so high they can’t go any further

soon wet

who cares!

sun hot

water warm

 waves rolling in like glassy curls

i pinch myself

this is bliss

 

 

Lost two children

then found

Rachel on a Time-Team dig

uncovering drift-wood booty

nails rough, finger’s raw

priceless beach treasure!

fossils!

ohh-ing and ahh-ing

eyes wide

that’s a crinnoid-polo-mint

that’s a mollusc

you what?

we collect them all

(and abandon them later)

 

 

Sandwiches!

the call comes

Gran’s already there

Andrew, Martyn and sisters

see us fed

sandwiches warm

sandy crisps

mmm, chicken on the bone

this is bliss

 

 

Time to build the boat

our usual

all hands to the deck

children digging

children chatting

children having fun

sand between toes

freckles on faces

defences!

dig those walls

pat into place

a race against time

don’t forget the final touches!

shells and pebbles to decorate

we win and wait for the tide to meet us

 

 

Everyone in!

Sam, youngest, tide side

me on the inside

squeals and applause

wave appears

get up quick!

a big one!

gran falls out onto dry land

more securing of defences

another wave

boat’s still there

a fifteen minute miracle

hot and tired

mouths dry

sun scorched skin

we give into nature

abandon boat!

such bliss

 

 

Time to go

nearly cut off by tide

no time to panic

quick!

shoes off

piggy back, or

jump the stream?

jump the stream

gran’s bad knees barely make it

phew we’re safe

uphill climb and views looking down

honeysuckle in hedge

children quiet

pace is slow

bones are aching

all are smiling

life is good

this is bliss

 

Same again tomorrow?

Marie Steele de Lozada (on a very fine day in June)

 

 

 

 

  

Man on a Mission

  

 

(again to be read quickly)

 

me husband’s on a mission

he’s a ‘man on a mission’

my man on a mission

a bullet speeding

through the house

(the only time)

on a mission to paint

paint his life

paint his dreams

paint rainbows of calypso colours

paint his emotions

on a blank canvas

and tell me its story

man on a mission

 

he paints

i muse

i guess

i struggle

i grasp

“what is it?” i say

“ah… i know, don’t tell me”

 

he doesn’t stop

rain, shine, day, night

a slave to his garage-studio

his special lamp

special light

conveyor belt workbench

takes centre stage

pinta solo

(painting solo)

me hombre on a mission

 

okay

down tools

time to rest

out to garden

sit down

nice cup of tea (or two)

kit-kat

ice-cream cornet

water the plants

what’s for tea?

got to go

man on a mission

 

 

paint on the floor

paint on the walls

paint slapped on

painted on

pushed on

taken off again

paint embellished

paint everywhere

no paint on hands?

only my husband

me man on a mission

 

“h-o-l-a!!!”

he calls me, “pppeeps”

i go

i see

i love

i say

 “a little bit here and a little bit there”

strained noises: err, umm, err

he doesn’t listen

he does his own thing! 

 and I’m proud

he’s my man on a mission

 

finished products

promoted to house

works to enjoy

works to look into

to see all sorts of things into

my artist-priest husband

a man

still on a mission

 

Marie Steele de Lozada (after a chaotic summer with husband preparing works for a new exhibition)

 

    

Arrivée

 

(On honeymoon to deepest, darkest Peru)

 

Bags packed

passports ready

itinerary ready

guidebooks to go

jabs… in a mo

milk stopped

house clean

goodbye to all

don’t forget to call

wait, don’t go!

(last minute nerves)

don’t care

we declare

and we’re off!

 

-o-

 

Long-haul tickets

stop en route

         sal-ud (chink!)

stateside shopping

without stopping

husband gets new vests

don’t jest

back to plane

thaw out

chill out

to milder climes

unchartered territory

husband’s territory

                         land of the los liber-a-doris (freedom fighters)

oooh, nearly arrivée

 

-o-

 

Midnight arrival

our survival:

noise hits me

colour hits me

what I’m about to experience hits me

swarms of people

curious faces

and embraces

a different sort of smell in the air replaces

senses overload!

explode!

culture shock!

take a deep breath

oooh, Arrivée!

 

-o-

 

Passports

papers

what capers!

bureaucrats give the once over

get over!

we’re through

taxi!

…

speedy journey

through speedy part of town

night owls out dancing

people advancing

casinos ca-ching-ing

guests a-gin slinging

turn the corner

a thankful arrivée!

 

-o-

 

Master suite

a treat

don’t care to unpack

or snack

books by bed

in we flop

chat non-stop

and we sleep and we sleep and we sleep

ahh, arrivée

 

-o-

 

Next day sights to see

Lima

old-town

look around

Lover’s Park

Larcomar

where’s the bar?

(mine’s a Margarita)

Inca Market

we shop ‘til we drop

don’t stop!

bags heavy

we feel heavy

what about another nice bevy?

more photo opportunities

more causing a stir opportunities

someone’s got their eye on us

need to take the next bus

ooh, Arrivée

 

-o-

 

Nazca City

next stop 

take a deep breath and hold it

always wanted to go

hello!

i’m there

i’m here!

i’m where?!

ancient relics

ancient ruins

Pre-Columbian artifacts

attract

oh, such flair

take care

take stock

take note

take images in my head:

sunsets

silhouette

La Fayette

sacred sites

rituals and habituals

oh what visuals

i’ve arrivée!

 

-o-

 

Nazca Lines seen by air

calm nerves

observe

dive bomb the monkey

cork-screw the spider

 our top-gun provider

(circles wider)

criss cross location

 no hesitation

in our desperation

…

eyes shut

mouth shut

abut

get me down 

over and out

oh (a shaky) arrivée!

 

-o-

 

Next stop the mountains

a place that’s so pretty

to Misti

White City

Old Arequipa

a place of ascent

once place of torment

you feel its lament

 

move over

move on

move me

 

we eat

we drink

we feel the warmth

Sunday afternoon dates

make haste

more blue skies and bustle

a protest march and tussle

American tourists

merging with the poorest

waiters with charm

calling me ‘marm’

I could get used to this

then night falls on Misti

out come the sad faces

from shadowy places

to claim their night spaces

children begging

dogs a-milling

so unjust

can’t we adjust

with heavy-heart

we’ve arrivée

 

-o-

 

Next stop the Colca

a canyon so deep

condors a-gliding

no way to horse riding

hairpin bends

with which we contend

panpipes a-playing

ladies sashay-ing

afternoon markets

sunflowers

giant veg

sturdy llama

alpaca

more sheep

can’t sleep

warm afternoon winds that blow and blow and blow

a step back in time

to superstition

their tradition

talk of Pacha-mama

talk of lotions and potions

enough!

i’ve arrivée

 

-o-

 

Weeks are passing

time is passing

the journey is passing

stop

flop

savour the moment

take it in

              mine’s a gin (and tonic)

…

more travels

amazing places

heavier cases

Macchu Picchu

Cusco

a-glow

hot springs and cuba libres

terrib-le!

by train

by plane

by car

so far

oh! Arrivée

 

-o-

 

Still here

getting grubby

my hubby!

me?

tubby

too much corn

    getting worn(out)

life on the road

now our mode

grand finale north Peru

boo-hoo

Trujillo

golden sunsets

not to forget

golden tombs

festooned

so much gold

to behold

(i don’t get any!)

more exploring

i’m imploring

more scared temples (huacas)

to the sun, stars, fish, rainbow and moon…

all in an afternoon (or three)

more pots

more windy weather

more speedy drivers

more cuba libres

more of the same please

i’m arrivée!

 

-o-

 

End of journey

with my Ernie

say goodbye

with a sigh

no dry eyes

back to Brr

back to Stateside

(back to shopping)

‘til we’re dropping

catch the flight

tonight

nearly miss

we diss

hold tight

oh, Arrivée!

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 Good girl Anouk! Naughty Timber! 

 

(to be read quickly!)

 

i need help

up to the Thomas’s

Anouk and Timber in the boot

of the nice, new, clean car

slobbers and smudges on glass

excited panting and mad pawing

from the back

i resist a smile

“get down Timber”, i say

“Anouk, good girl!”

“Timber, naughty!”

 

wellies on

bags in hand

three Thomas’s emerge

waving

full of smiles

dogs still in the back

watching, tails wagging

children to play with…

 

all aboard

where’re we going?

“Llanmadoc Hill – ancient monument,” says Annabel

the reservoir?

the beach?

“the beach,” we cry

which one this time?

Pobbles?

too far…

Three Cliffs?

maybe…

we drive on

 

smells of wild garlic from shady places

sun bursting in through the trees

we chatter

we drive

we shout “no, Timber, naughty!”

“good girl Anouk”, some more

…spilt decision

what about Tor?

all shout “yes!”

parking?

plenty

pull in quickly

dogs happy

children happy

i’m happy

 

everyone out!

we’re on our way

tatty, tesco’s carrier full of goodies

poor Rachel is lumbered with this

Annabel has Timber

James has just himself

i have Anouk

“good girl Anouk!”

“naughty Timber!”

 

we step back forty years

and abandon the twenty-first century

going back to childhood and old-fashioned stories

reminds me of that tale mum used to tell

of little boy and seven dogs, Inky, Bowser, Archie…

drat, i can’t remember the rest

dog’s tails wagging

we’re wagging

it’s hot! hot! hot!

  

we’re running!

down the sandy hill

James leads the way

ferns and brambles

wildflowers, wild smells

sea smells

damp, soft sand between our toes

dogs loving every second

shrieks of joy

yaps of love

we survey our beautiful beach

 

perfect sands, jewel blue sea

tides coming in

shoes off everyone!

we paddle in the freshwater stream

dogs slurping

dogs slopping

dogs lying down

oh no!

“naughty Timber!”

“good girl Anouk!”

 

drinks all round

and then we’re off

Timber’s being really good!

 James is at the reins

i’ve still got Anouk

(good girl Anouk!)

ascending slowly

getting tired

dogs are panting

we’re all gasping

let’s take this route!

 

bugs and beetles

creepy crawlies

forget them all!

look at the ferns

look at the butterflies

in single file we disappear

like the story I can’t remember

and we’re all shouting

naughty Timber!

good girl Anouk!

laughing

playing games

telling stories

“and we run

and we run

and we run”, said James

 

patience delivers Rachel from the tesco’s bag:

her turn with Timber:

tall and lanky meets gangly-legged husky pup

c’mon final push!

a mad scramble back or we’ll be late for lunch

hair wild

cheeks ruddy

wellies muddy

clothes full of sand

wild pack returning from

another little adventure

“good girl Anouk!”

“naughty, Timber!”

 

Marie Steele de Lozada (after a mad weekend with family in Wales)