Poetry & Pottery
Next weekend I’m taking part in an event called Potfest in Melton Mowbray #potfest. https://potfest.co.uk/potter/maggie-baker/
Maggie Baker
This completes a cycle for me that started many years ago.
Poetry & Pottery: The Perfect Partnership
There is no way I would have completed that cycle without all the help, inspiration and support I’ve had from family and friends.
And the wheel is going to keep on turning!
The other day I went through a box full of pieces that I’ve written in the past, and picked out seven items: poems, essays, ramblings. These are the titles:
I also picked out a couple of pieces that I hadn’t written: one about learning and the other about ‘Being Human’.
I think the most important thing that I’ve learned about being human is to be able to accept that I get things wrong because I’m human, and for no other reason.
In any case, ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ in my experience aren’t always clearly defined, particularly since our lives are always unfolding, never fixed or final. We have expectations based on concepts of ‘normal’ but when we can drop those then all sorts of other possibilities arise.
There was a time when I thought that if I could do nothing else other than make sure that my cat – Bertie – had a good life, then that was enough. Who’s to say that it wasn’t?
I might publish ‘Bicycle pumps & bananas’ eventually but, for now, here’s ‘ Surfing the Turf’:
I'd like to roll myself
In earth-warmed turf
Like a bug in a rug
Snug
Safe from harm
The grass would tickle
My nose and toes
The worms would squirm
Warm and
Alive
I'd have to put an elastic band
Around the roll of turf
To stop it unfolding
Unfurling
Exposing
Me
But if it did
I'd need to find
A sleeping bag
To ease my mind
And then I would
If I could
Sit by the river
Forever watching
In awe and wonder
At the world
Flowing
By
At the turn of the Millennium, I completed a project under the Mind-Millennium Award Scheme.
My project – the Lifelines Project – involved collecting and publishing poems, pictures and self-help strategies from other people who, like me, had suffered from enduring and debilitating depression.
I had not met many of the contributors, and was amazed – honoured – that they trusted me with their personal expressions, all because of the underlying intention of reaching out in the hope of helping others.
If you, yourself, are suffering with depression, I would like to wish you well and tell you that you are not alone.”
Since then, there’s been increased awareness about mental health and how it can be improved. While there remains much to be done in society from the ‘prevent’ and ‘promote’ perspectives, being able to – and even encouraged – to talk about mental health difficulties more openly represents a start.
In my own experience, I eventually got fed up of talking – I’ve never been much good at it anyway. I knew that I needed to take action, to find ways of turning my life around, however difficult or painful that might be. And I knew it would be difficult and painful, to rebuild from a below zero level when I was in my forties.
From somewhere, somehow, I found the resolve to put my head down, prioritise, and push myself through. For a long time I concentrated on work and on developing my internal resilience. Just before I turned 60 I decided to take the plunge and commit to a relationship. I now have a much fuller and richer life than I have ever had before and I’m thankful for that.
Even so, life continues to be difficult and I still take antidepressants – probably always will. But I have other coping skills and strategies, and have also been able to recently retire, taking away work pressures that I could no longer deal with.
I wasn’t able to keep in touch with all the people who contributed to the Lifelines Project but they’ve always remained in my thoughts and I hope that they too have been able to find a way through; a way that works for each of them:
Sylvia
Marcia
Maggie 2
Peter
Virginia
Henzie
Maggie 3
Jonathan
Fiona
Sean
Christopher
Polly
Christine
Caz
John
Caroline
Frances
Susan
Patricia
Mary
Dave
Mark
Tony
Iain
I thought it was fitting to include a poem by one of the Project contributors – Mark:
Recovery
The night has been terror:
depression, cold, confusion.
– Ears scream.
Grey – the morning in my front-room.
A tear on my cheek and
a child’s grizzle
for a few seconds
– From my adult form.
A small rebellion
– The beginning of action.
A tiny sunbeam through the window
– Doing again.
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
A bag of clay
some simple tools
it’s time to play
by my own rules
The place to start
is here and now
I’ll make some art
then take a bow
The bag of clay
is mine to mould
to use my way
until I’m old
Pinch, coil and fire
it will become
a bag of clay
in different form
Maggie ‘Glad the Poet/Potter’ Baker 2021
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’ve 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.
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
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 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
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
Glad About 
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