Like the Wind Over a Secret

Why Did You Come to England?


Name: Charles Mason
English, not the African name.

How can I know the real great granddad
without knowing your real name?

Why did you come to England?

What was wrong with your life on the Gold Coast
that you had to leave all you knew, for another world?

What was the beauty of England
except a word resting on the lips of a sailor?

Why did you come to England?

Looking at your face, with no hint of a smile,
was it worth the sacrifice?

You found a red haired Geordie woman and
two children you never saw reach double figures.

Why did you come to England?

Time Passing

It's been ages since I've been here. It will soon be a year now that I hung up my identity on tyne hat and decided to concentrate on the PhD. That move has paid off as I have completed the beast and I am awaiting the viva.
Things are slowly settling down. But I feel as if there is something missing in my life. That feeling of excitement and anticipation and fear I get when managing a project. Maybe I need to get back into identity on tyne. Who knows?
Let's see what 2010 brings.

TV Watching

I'm going to spend the day in my PJs and watch some TV.
Christmas has come early for me.
Yippee!

A Dying Breed

This anthology was produced through a series of creative workshops facilitated by Sheree Mack in her capacity of Artist in Residence in the North of England Institute of Mining and Mechanical Engineering.

All pieces included are the writers’ response to the theme of mining within the North East; the industry, the community and the social aspects.

The Grainger Women Writers' next reading is Thursday 29th January 2009 at the North of East Institute of Mining and Mechanical Engineering, from 7pm.


A poem from the collection:

The Coal Man

Every week on a Thursday with no fixed time,
along he came with his horse and cart
as we tucked into our dinners.
No matter what the weather,
we were delivered our coal.

The men appeared tough like a pole.
Their clothes were black like beetles.
Opening the coal shed we gained comfort
looking at the coal gleaming like diamonds.
Like a plant needs nurturing,
we needed coal for warmth in our lives

Thud, thud, thud; the coal poured
from hemp sacks by strong coal men.
As the dust settled like snowflakes,
the coal man winked as I shut the yard door.
These men someone’s husband, brother, son
needed to earn a living, knocking on doors
while we tucked into our dinners
in front of the glowing coal fire.


Zeibeda Sattar

Nine 'Til Five

Nine ‘Til Five, is the latest publication from the ID on Tyne press. Shirley-Anne Emmerson, Catherine Graham, Sheree Mack , Maggie Tate and Degna Stone will be reading from the anthology at Newcastle’s Lit & Phil on Thursday 20 November at 7pm. Influenced by Sheree’s work and research with the Mining Institute writers responded to the ideas of women and work to produce poems that are fresh, touching and illuminate the hidden lives of working women. Admission is free and copies of the anthology will be available on the night. All welcome.

Nine 'Til Five

ID on Tyne Press is out tonight.
Reading from the new anthology Nine 'Til Five, exploring women and work, is Catherine Graham, Degna Stone, Shirley-Anne Emmerson and Sheree Mack,
Tonight, Wednesday 22nd October at 6pm Studio 1, Gala Theatre, Durham.
Books will be on sale afterwards.
Here's a taster of what you'll hear from Degna Stone


This Love

Her alarm call of “mamma” sounds at intervals through the night.
Tiredness clings to my body as my brain works
out how to convince her that she has woken too early for play.
I avoid the gaze of the clock; ignore how little time is left until
morning,
In the half darkness I wonder how long to leave
her before going in with a gentle “shhh, my love”.

There is no time to shower before breakfast. I’d love
to take five minute’s for myself but instead I clear away last night’s
supper and somehow plan the time left
before bed. I tackle the mountain of housework
when all I want is to sleepwalk through the morning;
all she wants is to play.

As she sleeps I slip the earphones into place and press play.
I sink down and down and listen to the songs you love
to sing and suddenly the soundtrack to my morning
brings you home to me. The smell of last night’s
sex fills the air. Clings to my body. A sleepy assignation worked
into the tight schedule when there is usually no time left.

On Wednesdays she cries when I leave
her . She’s in good hands, she’s in good hands - but the guilt plays
on my mind as I close the door behind me. I switch to work
mode, dismiss the stay at home alternative - battling through days
where love
alone can’t carry me through until the night
and the same old same old begins again the next morning.

Still, no sense mourning
the independence and freedom I willingly left
behind, wasted on my younger self. Each night
chemical euphoria would play
with perception and loved up masquerading as loved...
was never going to work.

It’s a breathing space, paid work,
not my reason to get up every morning.
It’s not the job that I love
but the slight return to my old self. By the time I leave
it almost feels like play
and I arrive home refreshed and ready for the night’s

work to begin. Time to leave
tomorrow until the morning, enjoy now, play.
This love keeps us safe at the end of each night.

Making Clogs at Gallowgate

for my mother, Doris

I let him believe I'm fourteen; old enough
to be a clog-maker. The rough, green overall
tied tight around my waist gives me the figure
I haven't got: I comb my fringe to the side.
Uppers hang in the workshop like kippers;
the genuine smell of leather all around.
Gripping the sycamore sole between my legs,
I squeeze my knees together, like mam
says I always should, and hammer like hell
at the horse-shoe, braying the nails into the wood:
Slicing leather with the sharpest knife in the world;
my hands bleeding, like Christ up on the cross.
Soon I'll be promoted to stretching the skins
over metal lasts, if I keep my head down.
My workmates are five sisters, all would-be
opera singers. Listen, you can hear them
even now: Si tu ne m'aimes pas prend garde à toi!
And old Ebanezer next door, stitching:
Our would-be baritone. Every morning
we're greeted by a long-tail that runs along the pipes.
The same R.A.T. (for it's unlucky to say the word),
comes out again at noon, scurrying around
like a frantic clerk of works, on the look out
for idle crumbs. The loud clock ticka ticka ticka ticks
its way to Friday when the shop window is filled
with beautiful black clogs, perched in pairs
on shelves, like lovebirds, and I collect my
seven and six. That's when I leave work
by the front door, so I can pass the window -
and Fenwick's with its felt hats and blouses
made from the finest of satins and silks.

Catherine Graham