Unwanted gift? No wear

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Jacket 1

It’s there, on the chair
The red fleece jacket
With hood and drawstring waist
That I don’t want to wear
Don’t want to keep.

It’s warm and soft when I put it on
But far too big for me
Drowned in a red sea
Shapeless, I feel
A baggy, saggy, faceless entity.

I look at the jacket
On the chair
In limp, loose folds of red, and seams
This isn’t the jacket of my dreams.

It’s theirs to wear
Not mine to keep
Their tears to cry
Not mine to weep.

It’s there, on the chair
The red fleece jacket
With hood and drawstring waist
That I don’t want to wear
Don’t want to keep
So I’ve put a price on its head
To let it go free
To someone who wants it
But who wants me?

Jacket 2

It’s there, on the chair
The red fleece jacket
With hood and drawstring waist
That I don’t want to wear
Don’t want to keep.

It’s warm and soft when I put it on
But far too big for me
Drowned in a red sea
Shapeless, I feel
A baggy, saggy, faceless entity.

I look at the jacket
On the chair
In limp, loose folds of red, and seams
This isn’t the jacket of my dreams.

It’s not my layer
These aren’t my lies
With drawstring waist
And nylon ties.

It’s not my jacket
They’re not my dreams
These aren’t my ties
They’re not my seams.

So I leave the jacket
On the chair
To go my way
While they go theirs.

Jacket 3

Now it hangs upon the door
That red fleece jacket
That I didn’t want to wear
Didn’t want to keep.

It’s warm and soft when I put it on
And not too big for me
Warmed in a red sea
Shapeless no more
No baggy, saggy faceless entity.

I look at the jacket
On the door
In limp, loose folds of red and seams
It’s not the jacket of my dreams
But just a layer to keep me warm
From frozen looks
And glares of scorn.

It is my jacket
With hood and waist
To wear awhile
From place to place.

Jacket 4

What next?

Jacket 5

Jacket
In?

Jacket 6

No!

(c) Maggie ‘Glad the Poet’ Baker, 2003

Poetry & Pottery: The Perfect Partnership

1978

1978 was not a good year, for me
even though I hold it dear

Try as I might I could not find the key
to unlock my brain
work out its mystery

Lurching this way and that
never finding a hold
I fell so many times
but got ever more bold

Crashing right down
I broke back to the core
then inched my way through
to daylight once more

The clay in my hand
is the life that I’ve led
I have cried, ached and screamed
and wished I was dead

But I never gave up
and I never gave in
I just kept on going
and drank lots of gin

Joking aside –
though I do like a drop –
I feel like I’ve won
I’ve come out on top

For I have love in my life
a treasure most true
I’m here and I’m now
simply human, through and through

© Maggie ‘Glad the Poet’ Baker 2021

1978 was the year I graduated with a degree in Ceramics from Bristol Polytechnic. 

I’d reached out to art in my teens as a way of asserting a direction, without knowing where that direction might take me. It was driven by some deep-rooted instinct; an instinct which for a long time I thought had failed me. But it hadn’t.

As it’s turned out, my life has taken many “twists and turns, and loops and leaps”, most of which have left me struggling to find a foothold. Finally, however, I feel I am on firm ground, and astonished to find myself turning back to working with clay, after a break of over 40 years.

What’s even more astonishing is that I’m not only loving working with the medium, I’ve got ideas coming into my head from goodness knows where. I’m not having to push myself just to produce something, anything, as I did when I was at college (although I was proud of what I did produce in the end; it was no easy feat, considering the complexity of mental health problems I was dealing with).

Art didn’t work as a therapy for me when I was younger; the damage went too deep and I had to find ways to dig it out – just like clay has to be dug out.  What I’ve got now is malleable and mouldable in whatever way I choose. I can be creative in any way or ways that suit me; working with clay or words; working with my life.

I hope my pots can be poetic; and that my poetry will continue to be potty.

Solid and fluid at the same time. This one’s long gone; I’m making others now.

The Playlist

When I was young I didn’t really follow any one
I wasn’t into screaming at the Beatles
Or collecting singles or going to concerts
I’ve always been a bit behind with a lot of things
I can never remember names
Or who played what or where or when
But then that maybe only matters
In pub quizzes or if you want to feel flattered
By other people praising you for what you know
It would be nice though, sometimes, to be the one
Who remembers what they heard when they were young
And relate it to a first kiss, or a walk in the park
But then I never could get up with the lark
Always had a bit of a struggle, doing the usual things
Although I did listen quite a lot to Cat Stevens
Wishing I could be Sad Lisa but ending up just being sad
Still, it hasn’t all been bad
At least I haven’t got cluttered up
With a load of CDs that I don’t know what to do with
And now that I’m 61 I can listen to anyone
Or anything I choose
And my music collection
Is out there waiting for me
Just as it was
All those years ago
When I was young

© Maggie ‘Glad the Poet’ Baker 2017

My Garage

My garage
is very large
and accommodating
with space for everything
except my car

The garage walls
and roof
and door
make sure it is safe
like sacred space

My garage
doesn’t judge
it just accepts
and holds
and waits
until the winter cold
abates

Then when I start
to sweep
and sort
I rediscover
all the junk
that I once bought

Summer sun
brings clearance days
some things I take
to car boot sales
the rest I give
away

Eventually
the garage space
is free once more
large and accommodating
with space for everything
except my car

Ready for the debris of my life
to accumulate
all over
again

2017 & 2021

The Man in the Thin Grey Jumper with Eyes like George Clooney

The thin threads of your grey jumper
Lie loose on the bones of your back

Your life has been hard
Just getting through
So little has come your way
So much that you lack

But now you are here
And a change has begun
You have a wife
A new life
Less pain

When you smile
Your whole face glows
For a while
And best of all
Though you do not know
You have the eyes of George Clooney
Fit for a movie

As the story of your life
Continues to unfold
I hope you will find
The strength to be bold

Be happy
Be true
All good things
In the world
Should now come
To you.

© Maggie ‘Glad the Poet’ Baker 2015 & 2021

Spring

The cold, folded steel
of your handles
fit precisely into my palm
where they belong

Thumb finds familiar catch
that slips silently to one side
releasing the spring
opening your blades
for action

You are my weapon of choice
as together we cut and thrust our way
to the possibility of new growth

Season after season
we have fought fibrous flesh
of one kind or another
but today I use you
for a different reason

With a delicate snip and trim and dip
down each cutting goes into the dark holes
I have prepared for them
ready to take root
if they choose

I don’t want to lose them
or you, as I sometimes do
in places that escape me

Then, as your dull grey surface
greets me once again
I know we will go on
you with your blades
and me with my hands
to create many pots of cuttings
and piles of thorns
amongst the blossoms.

© Maggie ‘Glad the Poet’ Baker 2017

The Pie Poem

This poem was inspired by my partner’s love of pies generally and one in particular, The Famous Cow Pie at the George Hotel in Keswick. http://georgehotelkeswick.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/The-George-Evening-Menu-18.09.20.pdf.

However, even though he helped me to write the poem, I’m only crediting him with eating the pie, unless he wants to eat his words. Ha!

The perfect pie

The perfect pie
is sensationally satisfying
oozing with succulent
gorgeous, gravy goodness
as the nostril-caressing aroma
emanating from its slab-like form
stimulates the anticipation
of marvellous meatiness
turning into an explosion of flavour
the savouring of which
makes the world immediately
a better place –
perfection
on a plate.

Washing Up

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One of the few things I remember from school is ‘The Order of Washing Up’:

Glasses first, clean and bright
knives and forks come next
plates follow on until they’re done
the saucepans finally too
I’ve washed up many times and yet
the order still comes through

Washing up is not a chore
it’s a time to stand and think
of soap and suds and water
and all things in my sink

I hope my pile of washing up
is there for me each day
I never dry, just let it drain
and then I put it all away.

January 2020