I felt the weight of words run towards me when I was about seven. They drowned me in their significance. By 9 I knew I wanted to be a writer. Like so many things I was never encouraged at home and never shown the tools to be able to do this.
My brothers, five, used words to show their manliness and dominance it seemed to be. I observed the power they gained in a room full of people from using difficult to pronounce and spell words. They often teased me if I used a big word when they presumed I didn’t know the meaning of or was using one say out of context. There was one which was a favourite”phycecitous”, excuse me while I spell check. They used to roar “But can you spell it?” if I dared to use a word way off my Lexicon.
My Ma gave me her old typewriter and I was hooked. Sitting for hours I began typing out Leonard Cohen lyrics mainly and then I realised he was a poet before he became a singing artist (some might think he never was that good) I thought he was word genius. He should have been awarded the Nobel Prize instead of Dylan in my view.
In the upside down world of childhood I then changed my career towards being a poet. I didn’t know any personally, but I knew of the Liverpool poets and saw Roger McGoff singing on “Top of the Pops”, he has been my forever idol as a poet. I still listen to Poetry please on Radio 4 where he talks compassionately and skilfully to other Poets about their work, it’s a real Gem.
With little enthusiasm from my folks the Typewriter became a trip hazard and was eventually, despite my pleading to my Ma, sent to the Jumble Sale- our own personal shopping space of my era. I was heart -broken that nobody seemed to recognise how much it meant to me, so tried to find distractions.
Coming from a family of 8 children my happy space was often on my own where I could be myself. I would take myself off for long walks to see if anyone would miss me; they more often than not had not noticed I’d gone. One such walk I came upon our new Library in Hanworth, all fresh carpets and meaningful smiles from the staff. I discovered the delight of the secret packages that lingered there. Our house was devoid of these wonderful avenues of imagination. I joined and was there most weekends disgorging writers that I had never seen on the TV. Stories about Black people and by non Catholic writers – I had realised after I left school that my education in Literature was deeply squewed by only being Catholic writers.
Sometimes I couldn’t wait until I got home and read the book as I walked, tripping over in my plastic shoes that for me defined our poverty. I could escape the noise, the clambering for attention in our cluttered home. When I reached home my heart would sink as I would be expected to do something (a chore) and I would be bumped very heavily back to the reality of life.
When I got to secondary school the world of words took me by the hand and enlightened me about other peoples, travel, customs and love. This really enriched my thoughts and gave me the courage to start to write creatively again. I’ll thank Mrs. Mulveny for her tears that ran under glasses when she read one of my poems in class (to herself). She then whispered, “Your talent with words is far above your age. The tone and sentiment is very moving”. I wish I could find that piece of work. She gave me the boost I needed to believe in myself, however I had discovered the wonders of love and that diverted me for 40 years.
I had all the confidence in myself and my abilities squeezed out of me by a long failing marriage. When 20 years ago I found the true love of my life and began to really understand about what being loved properly was all about. The tortoise finally peeped out of its shell and followed the hare; I began to try to master poetry, I am still going.
More than anything else it was I had moved from a family that I destroyed I had to slowly find the ability to forgive myself for leaving my children and to learn to love myself for the first time. Powerful stuff!
The Last Piece of the Puzzle
I have for over 10 years trying to write a book about my father who had been a soldier in Burma during the war. I was driven by trying to write it for him. He had been ill all my childhood I had seen him really struggling with life; it was his way of trying to express his frustrations. I understand now in my 50’s as he was then trying to make sense of the cards you are dealt.
I had got through 3 different computers leaving behind forgotten chapters and ideas with each broken hard drive. I needed to find out what was actually stopping me complete this task I set myself. I had a serious injury to my back which meant I spent 3 months lying flat and looking at the ceiling. That transformative time, as it turned out, allowed me head space to realise what was actually getting in the way of finishing my project.
I was 18 when my dad died suddenly at 61. I was married for just a year and expecting my first child, just. For some reason this trauma lay undisturbed for years in my psyche. Some maternal instinct, I guess, kicked in and I concentrated my dearly loved bundle. She gave joy and much happiness to a very happy young couple.
After my back was mended I had a ‘kerchunck’ moment. My God mother had just died and I was reflecting on this. I suddenly realised that I had been dealing with grief of losing my DAD and it was suppressed grief e.g. PAIN that my head did not want to or couldn’t “deal” with. Understanding this really helped me and moved my writing on a great deal.
In my research for my writing I have read a lot of books about the mind and its abilities to suppress information. In recent times I have been fascinated by the idea of Trauma and how this can be passed on by each generation. I have discussed this with my first born; she a writer too, has been dealing with this concept in her writing recently.
Eerily we are often talking in our writing about the same thing even though we don’t meet up. I have been sending her some regular correspondence and we talk vaguely about putting these letters into words. Natasha Fowler is a talented writer and has a book in print all ready (The Afterbirth)
And Finally
In recent years I had the dream job running a bookshop. I ran this for a charity (see my poem “They Come to Tell”) for 10 years. Here I was able to meet other writers and fascinating quirky soles that came into be consoled.
I started a reading group which is still going after 14 years. For a short time I started a writing group which was not so positive an experience. I have judged writing competitions and reviewed books for a magazine.
Although in a full time role there is little time for reading or writing I still devour books, especially on holiday where I read one every 2 days, so relaxing. I managed to write on the daily train commute and built up a few notebooks of observations of people on trains. I plunder these notebooks to build characters in my current books.
The Unheard
I have returned to my first love the poetry concentrating on getting my 1st collection sharpened this.
This collection is a pallet of words born from outrage of minorities, neglected; the poor, the old, the innocent and more. I have spread the words into 10 poems, with pictures that help you understand and small description on what inspired me.
When I was just 11, I stood up to a playground bully who was terrorising a friend of mine. In response to my interfering he bestowed a sharp jam in my mouth and flattened my rounded front teeth.
It was not like me to confront men (boy in this case) who it seemed to me at an early age always got their own way. I could not stand by and see somebody hurt without doing something to help. The bravery subsided very quickly afterwards and required many years of expensive orthodontic treatment in later years. This instilled in me an urge to speak for people too afraid or unable to articulate their own vulnerability.
This incident planted the seed for “The Unheard” a series of poems I have written about world situations that occurred in the last five years. I mainly heard them reported on Radio 4 my Educator in Chief! I’m often inspired by listening to the wonderful writing on FOOC ( From our own correspondent) who write about diverse harrowing and moving stories situations around the world. Inspired by the excellent journalism my mind goes on a race to find the balloons of stories that it emits to set these tales free.
When you purchase the collection.I don’t just want you to read the poems to yourself read them to friends or a group to elicit some discussion about the topics (Poverty, Terrorism, Old Age, Refugees and many more),or read them out loud to yourself it is very therapeutic. Please I would love some feedback; good or bad.
PLEASE lend the book to friends, book clubs, teachers anyone who you think will really want to discuss these urgent matters of addressing Poverty, giving dignity to the old, respecting the young.
Here is the last poem written early in the lockdown 2019, about the effect of Covid-19 on all of us, but mainly to the people (the vulnerable) who are unheard.
The Virus Of (un) Learning
We were drowning in a Brexit battle
Bored beyond belief
Slowly a creeping catastrophe
Creates calamity and pain
In China a far off land
It gains momentum
Killing people quietly
Unheard numbers disappear
It jumps across boundaries
Breaking holiday plans
Gradually it dawns on us
We will have to change
Governments announce lockdowns
From Russia to Hong Kong
We all stay locked up
Safe, lives become humdrum
I long for the human touch
A 2 meter gap denies
Knowing there is someone else out there
Warm round and alive
Weeks become months
When does the learning start?
Children see their daddies
Bored mothers plan escapes
Did it begin with boredom
Or having to be nice
Or learning to cook again
Discovering new tricks and advice
We sit stuck to our screens
Waving at the world
In case they forgot us
Isolation befriends our cats; plants us
When will it end?
Will we be as before?
I’ll be just as lonely
Will you beat a path to my door?
Will we unlearn new crafts & skills?
Will we all change our ways
Try new ways of living
And relearn like a child how to play
Copyright Anastasia Pollard
Once you have read this poem, please donate whatever you can afford to any of these charities:
Age UK
Royal British Legion
Child Poverty Action
British Red Cross
Streetlink
Anastasia Pollard 