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Glass Mountain Writers - Barbara Adamson
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Barbara Adamson says that her interest in verse began sixty years ago, when an English teacher gave her a book of poetry and requested that she read aloud. She picked one at random (‘The Highwayman’ by Alfred Noyles) and found the rhythm and rhyme of the piece captivating.
Today, Barbara’s work has appeared in various anthologies and magazines. She has also had a great number of poems broadcast on Radio Sheffield’s ‘Write On’ programme, as well as a five minute story, ‘Hook, Line and Sinker’, and a five minute play, ‘Tunnel of Love’, which reached the top five in the radio station’s competition.
Each year Barbara looks forward to performing with the other group members in and around South Yorkshire during the Off the Shelf festival. She has read at Sheffield Cathedral, the Winter Gardens and numerous cafes and pubs. Barbara says that being married to a Beighton man, and having lived all her married life in Beighton, she was thrilled to see her celebratory poem, ‘Star of David’, included in the Beighton Heritage book alongside a photograph of the steel sculpture erected in the village. She also wrote two songs for this project, performed at the Beighton Heritage concert at St. Mary’s church. However, she says that she thinks she will stick to reading her work.
Why did they slay me, said each man from Brown Bayleys
Machines primed.
Furnaces tapped.
Faces wrapped
in scorching flesh.
Sweat rags choke
their BULLDOG necks,
as flecks of “Hell”
bombard the air.
Giant tubs
drip molten steel,
melting boots
of “Real” men.
Blisters pop
on barrel chests,
breathing in
an early death.
Blooms, billets
and slabs pass by,
ignoring
the cry of a
dying breed.
Blue tyrades
of disbelief
creep onto
the factory floors.
Knowing that
the cause is lost,
they fear the word
REDUNDANCY.
Amidst the doom and gloom they see
cranes battle for supremacy.
The war is long forgotten
where once Brown Bayleys stood.
Olympians may soon rise up
from ashes now long gone.
Don Valley - rallies ,
to the gladitorial call.
All is well in the East End.
Ring-a-ding door 1944
Camphor filled air..... sharing space
with top shelf tinctures.
Tantalizing mixtures, jostling for position.
Beeswaxed counter , polished to perfection.
Whatever the infection, smooth soothing syrup
seemed to be the answer.
Sweetly dispensed by Persil coated chemist,
mysteriously working behind a fretwork frame.
Boldly I’d stand.....sharing space
with big -bosomed ladies.
Cheering up the dingy room in bright floral “Pin’a’s”
Full of tales and tittle tattle.
Buying teats like those that hung on cattle up the lane.
Snuffling babies noisily slurped.
Warm “ Cow and Gate” was spat as they burped.
New young mothers put to the test
whether crescent shaped bottles or breast was best.
Lung crunching coughs.... sharing space
with a stifled sneeze.
Waiting for ease from same again medicine.
“ Fennings Fever Cure.”
Mother knew the lure for me,
was thinking liquorice twigs were free.
They kept me on the go.
Sixty years on I’ve now noticed ,
each shop is a vast superstore.
Entrances all automated, no tinkling bells anymore.
A Bouquet for Hyacinth
Ann should be of Royal birth.
She’s worth a kings ransom in crises.
Death, divorce, expanding girth,
Earth Mother friend - ends the pain
With Rosebud china,
Matching linen on a tray.
Her scented choice- of course - Earl Grey
Deftly brewed, then poured with grace.
“Face your troubles , refreshed, renewed”
“Who takes milk, one lump or two?”
Blue serviettes
control our crumbs.
Thumbs clasp nervous fingers
Around our cups - sups turn to sips
As pinkies lightly lift to show our breeding,
Heeding her words - that clumsiness is banned.
And - as the custard creams are passed,
At last we see the light.
Hot problems, melt away.
Four bags in the pot today...............
We’re persuaded to drink up.
Making time for one more cup.
Shall I wear a yellow jersey, or 'Chaps'?
“Don’t let go. Don’t let go”. I can hear Jimmy now. He was the only one in our street to have a bicycle that Christmas. We were lucky to get a tattered sock with an apple , orange and sugar mouse peeping through the toe. My surprise that year was a post office, at least that’s what it said on the khaki coloured box which eventually unfolded Krypton Factor style to make a mini counter.
The stock consisted of four pencils, a rubber, one sheet of pretend stamps and a Tom Thumb tin with a sponge inside, which my mother said was more hygienic than licking each envelope. I swiftly addressed the half dozen in the pack and enclosed one of the multi-coloured mini-sheets of paper ,upon which I’d written a cryptic message. I was disappointed at the time that I’d got more friends than envelopes. On reflection I still don’t know if that was a wise or foolish thought.
Jimmy made it clear that friend or no friend, at least until after Christmas he wasn’t going to give any of us a ride on his super silver steed, not that many of us knew how to ride a real grown up two-wheeler. All the kids in our “Wild West” gang were badgered into taking turns holding the saddle steady and running along side of him as he wobbled along the street. He never did give us a ride. One or two of my pals managed to beg steal or borrow a bike from time to time, providing me with a tottering debut that ended with laughter all round and a couple of knees that needed antiseptic for weeks .Cycling I decided, wasn’t for me.
How time flies. My retirement leaving do went down well. There had been a lot of whispering those past few weeks. Every time I entered the tea-room the conversation seemed to wane. I thought at the time it might have been my imagination. For an instant I suspected they might be hiring a male stripper knowing I’d die of embarrassment. I suppose I expected them to have the usual whip round, although it had always been me who had done the collecting for special occasions in the past, usually resulting in a crystal vase or a decanter if we knew the recipient imbibed. “.Right Babs, you know we‘re sorry to see you go.” I can hear them now. “We’ve made sure there’s plenty of gin in your usual boring tonic before we show you your proper present. “Open this box first.” Good grief, I thought, not a decanter. Stripping off the jazzy paper to reveal a large iridescent crash helmet, I wondered what the wind up was going to be, fully expecting a couple of Hells Angels to pop up from somewhere flashing their tattooed bits and pieces. “We think you’ll like it they guffawed” as they dragged me outside into the pub yard. “Here Babs, this is from all of us... have a happy and a healthy retirement.” I couldn’t believe it. ...a balloon trimmed super silver mountain bike for me. I was speechless . After my polite, yet profuse thanks, I now had to learn to ride the ruddy beast.
Well, here we are my spouse and I at Rother Valley. I hope there aren’t too many people taking the air. I suspect I’m about to make a complete prat of myself.
I mount my steed with the aplomb of the Lone Ranger. My very own Tonto grabs the saddle, gives an almighty push to the cry of "Hi-ho silver."
The Lone Ranger ’s response ? "Don’t let go... don’t let go..."
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