Glass Mountain Writers - Janet Green

Janet Green was born in Sheffield and is married with two grown up children. A founder member of the Glass Mountain Writers, Janet has written poetry and short stories for most of her life, her work having been published in various anthologies. She has appeared at many poetry festivals throughout South Yorkshire, her biggest challenge being to write and perform a song at St. Mary’s church in Beighton for the launch of the Beighton Heritage website.

She was a member of a local community theatre group for a number of years and took part in two short films for the Sheffield Workstation. Her hobbies include swimming, reading, theatre, films and travel. In 2006, she went on a ten-minute helicopter ride and did not want to come back down. She loves to spend time with her grandchildren who help to keep her young at heart.

On the shelf

Am I invisible or what, I’m up here can’t you see me? I’m always stuck here these days, no one ever notices me any more. I used to stand tall and proud but now I have to lean against my neighbours for support; my spines not as strong as it used to be. Oh I know what you’re thinking, age comes to all of us in time but it’s not very nice is it? I must admit I’m not a pretty sight these days; my cover girl looks have long since disappeared. I used to be so eye catching; standing out from the rest of the crowd. I was always taken out on a regular basis while most of my acquaintances were left hanging around. The minute readers saw me they couldn’t wait to take me home. I’ve lost count of the times that they’ve paid good money to keep me a little longer. Some of them used to take me to bed where I would fulfil their wildest fantasies, then they would fall asleep with me in their arms. Nowadays I don’t deserve a second glance, I’m so battered and worn out. Why can’t they see past first impressions and find the sexy me inside? You know what they say, you can’t judge a good book by its cover! OK my face is all wrinkled and creased and I know I haven’t been the same since I had my appendix removed but give me a break. It’s not much fun being tormented by book mites. Anyone else would have given up long ago. But what really hurts most of all is this terrible smell I’ve developed recently; it’s kind of musty, not very nice at all. The librarians have tried their best to patch me up but all to no avail. It’s no wonder I’m on the shelf. But what’s the point in wallowing in self-pity? When I look back I’ve had a really good life. You could say I’ve been very lucky. I’ve travelled all over the world and stayed in the best hotels. Then there was the clubbing every month, I really used to enjoy that. It all began to turn pear shaped when my looks started to fade. I suppose they were ashamed to be seen with me. Ah well, I’d better get used to it, I’m on my way out. Soon a brand new re-print will take my place and I’ll be despatched to the dreaded shredder.

Indigo

In that quiet time between night and day whilst everyone’s asleep

I watch dark shadowy clouds float by on infinite indigo seas.

The stars, like fishing boats twinkle bright guided by an opal moon.

Slowly dawn breaks and shakes away the nights’ dark mantle as

Morpheus calls and I drift away to sail in my sea of tranquillity.

Pop

I knocked on the door of the ground floor flat, there was no answer so I knocked again; the door slowly opened and there stood Pop, my father in law.

“Come in lass, sit yourself down while I go and make you a nice cup of tea.” He said. I could tell by the way he was rubbing his eyes that I had just woken him up from his morning nap. He was very sprightly for a man of seventy-eight, not very tall, slightly built, with just a hint of a spread around his middle. He had worked as a cutlery grinder all his working life apart from the time he had spent in the army. He hadn’t retired until he was nearly seventy and the very same day he had stopped smoking. This was a marvellous achievement for a sixty fags a day man. He was nearly bald but sandy coloured hair grew in profusion at the back of his head. He was unshaven and whiskers stood out like sandpaper from his cheeks and chin. "I’ve just popped the kettle on it won’t take long lass,” he muttered as he came back into the room. He was dressed in a pair of baggy brown checked trousers and a yellow open necked shirt, his green leather carpet slippers were too big for him and they flopped on and off his feet as he walked. But what really caught my eye was the red velour waistcoat he was wearing; it had dried up egg yolk down the front and two buttons missing.

“How’s Ma?” I asked.

“Not bad.” He replied. “Her legs were playing up a bit last night, so I gave her a couple of pain killers. They must have worked because she’s still in bed. I’ll just go and see if the kettles boiled.” I offered to get the cups out of the cupboard for him but he firmly declined my offer. “Have you seen my African Violet?” He asked as he came back into the room with two blue and white mugs of steaming hot tea.

“Yes Pop, it’s beautiful, how do you manage to grow things so well?” I asked.

“If you think my indoor plants are good, you should have seen the flowers and vegetables I used to grow in the old days. There were no chemicals then, just good old-fashioned hard work and lots of patience. I remember once, old George from the next allotment made some home-made rhubarb wine. I’ll never forget, it went down a treat; only trouble was I drank too much of the stuff. God knows how I got back home that night. I couldn’t remember a thing. It was nearly two days before I got rid of the headache and another five before Ma spoke to me again. She only forgave me when I took her to Blackpool for the day.” He loved to talk about the past; I’d heard this little story many times before, but still enjoyed listening to them. It gave him so much pleasure to share his memories. We chatted for a while then I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“I’ll have to go now or I’ll be late for work.” He gave me a big sloppy kiss on the cheek and I kissed him back. “Look after yourself and give Ma my love” I shouted as I closed the door behind me.

Morning glory

Cool breezes fan the flames of autumn dancing in the old oaks’ grate.

Winter whispers round the corner “I’m coming soon, I won’t be late.”

Willow curtains swish, swirling the early morning mist and a clear blue sky

promises a lovely day.

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