Pentlands Writers: Yvonne Crossley
I completed a book illustration course with the London College of the Arts in 2005, and then an Open University creative writing course in 2007. I was invited to join the Pentlands Writers’ Group in October 2007. I have participated in their workshops and a presentation evening, and recently assisted the School Centenary Group, on behalf of PWG, with capturing reminiscences and quotes for display.
I still consider myself to be on a steep learning curve as I try to improve my poetry and short stories. Having worked for many years with young children, I also harbor some grand idea of writing and perhaps illustrating a successful children's book one day. To that end I have collaborated with a published historical fiction author, Grace Thomson, in Wales, who gave me some of her children's story ideas to illustrate. To date a publisher for those has not been found.
As I have always had an interest in drawing and painting I believe imagery to be an important element of my work. I hope to capture that other world where we go when we read a novel or poem or admire a masterpiece.
Once-Shiny Rusted Things (A Poem) – The Fat Society (A Poem) – Death at Breakfast (A Poem)
Letting Go (A Story)
ONCE-SHINY RUSTED THINGS
(Acknowledging wonderful comments made by Chinua Achebe and Chimamanda
Adichie at the end of the latter’s novel: Half of a Yellow Sun, in a
discussion about the Biafran struggle.)
Emotional thoughts that cannot be explained
shown clearly in dispirited eyes,
in the broken pride of stooped shoulders,
in the unspoken apology of soft voices.
These raw wounds – maggot cleaned,
open to a vindictive wind,
reveal something too painful
about the crush of reality.
It is the sacred truth of recent history,
of once-shiny rusted things,
that stirs in the dust of defeat,
reawakened by the written word.
THE FAT SOCIETY
Thermal envelopes
surround our physical bodies
as we blend and spill
through our daily lives;
hauling invisible bags -
soft-bellied spheres
with awkward appendages –
behind us.
It is not easy being lean.
Indulgence and over consumption
stretch the elastic tensions day by day.
And the balloons bounce
in Brownian motion
as they rise like soap bubbles
into the air of sour blue
and sometimes pop.
DEATH AT BREAKFAST
My cup and breakfast bowl stare,
Glaikit - like the empty orbs of a soil-bleached skull.
Two silver spoons rest tear-stained lashes
against death pale rims.
Light shines dull on porcelain skins,
my own image ghostly drawn.
So I pick up the bones,
plunge them under warm suds,
and scrub and scrub until
their maudlin faces are clean again
and my reflection reappears.
Towering stacks of plastic boxes sky-ride above two chest freezers in
the back porch. Most are margarine tubs, washed clean (almost), that
might come in useful one day. On belly-warped shelves alongside, stand
redundant wine and beer-making bottles. The freezers are stuffed with
excess garden produce, so much so that he can’t eat it all, now that he
is only catering for one.
Containers of all sorts, such as cream cake domed plastic packaging, are
saved in the lean-to shed; those nifty clip-shut lids will make good
seedbed trays in the spring. Above the cluttered benches are hung the
last of the onions, knotted-up in his late wife’s tights. The garage
alongside is similarly overstuffed. Assorted bits and pieces threaten to
avalanche: ends of roofing-felt that might make cabbage collars to
prevent club root, old plywood shelves splitting into puff pastry
layers, broken bits of furniture. On the floor lies an off-cut of bubble
wrap that spud-gun pops as his shoes shuffle past. The small car is
parked so tight that it requires a slimmer, more agile body to get into
it without breaking a sheet of spare window glass that he has carefully
placed there - could make a cold frame of it.
In the 1950s kitchen, empty jars of ‘Chicken Tonight’, washed (almost),
multiply on the top shelf above the washing machine. They jostle a
regiment of mud-coloured jams - proud produce from several years’ worth
of bountiful fruit harvests. Somehow, though, their tin lids never seem
to lock tight enough. A bit of fluff won’t hurt you.
Beside the gas cooker musters a further army of tall jars, filled with
every foodstuff, easy to hand for cooking: flour, salt, sugar, pasta,
rice, lentils. Each Dymo-tape labelled container wears a soldier’s red
beret lid. It is a labour-saving solution. Every jar recycled, once
contained a certain brand of instant coffee. It is the shape and size of
jar that attracts him. A set of further storage jars – this time with
contrasting green caps – stands to attention at the rear. On the kitchen
table, which he made in the Tech many years ago, piles of magazines,
letters and catalogues totter. The clutter encroaches on the last bit of
available space left for food preparation and eating.
Open a sink draw and a collection of plastic bags breathes out, frothing
like an overflowing washing machine soap dispenser. The windowsill is
crammed with yoghurt pots part-filled with bits of fat for the birds,
and plastic milk bottles waiting to water a motley collection of
wilting, half-dead houseplants. Flowers were Peggy’s department. In
another kitchen cupboard lie stacks of wedding aluminium pans and
crockery dishes that are never thrown away - unless past all repair.
Everything is restored; rivets, whittled wooden knobs, handles added
where necessary.
The darkly varnished utility sideboard in the front room houses a
well-stocked drinks cupboard. Beside the decanters and sherry bottles
are two smaller (and mildly curious) white plastic containers - good
screw-top lids. They are fished out every evening for his regular
nightcap tipple. Rather awkwardly it has to be said since the heavy,
floral armchair leans against the door and is difficult to shift. One
container is filled with tap water, the other with a ration of whisky;
both, of course, saved from the bin because of their excellent
pour-and-fill qualities. And apparently their previous contents had been
equally useful – medicinal laxatives!