Guest Blog: Sheila Templeton

As part of Poetry Month on May Contain Nuts I thought it might be cool to hear from one of my favourite poets, who just happens to be one of my favourite people. Taking early retirement from teaching, Sheila found a whole new career in Poetry and has won prizes galore and fans aplenty with her honest, approachable and lyrical style.

I give you (you can imagine a drum-roll here) the divine Ms T herself - Sheila Templeton! 

            Hey Michael, a big thank you for inviting me to write as a guest on your blog. I know I used to be a bit of a grumpy old woman on the subject of blogs...but I have to say, yours is so good it's definitely winning me over! (note from MJM - flattery will get you everywhere)

            And the fact your timing is terrific ie the launch of my new poetry collection is on Tuesday evening, details below, folks, is no bad thing either.

            So having gone from shameless 'sooking-up' to shameless book promotion, here goes:

            Your readers might like to know how you and I know each other. The answer is...through writing! We first met at a wonderful writers' course held down in Derbyshire, where you and I, Michael, bonded forever over the shared creation of a wee plasticine man with Rastafarian locks, an inhabitant of the fantasy world we'd created together.

            Then we sort of fell into a marvellous group of four poets, the Makar Press, a publishing cooperative which we set up to publish our first collections...and almost accidently, turned into a much sought after reading/performance group! Oh the fun we had. We still do readings together, indeed we have one scheduled for the end of May at Culzean Castle. But we are being published elsewhere now, like my new collection Digging For Light pub by New Voices Press.

            What has astonished me late in life is to find I LOVE PERFORMING. Me, who used to refuse to recite at my Grannie's Sunday afternoon gatherings, unless I could hide under the long fringed tablecloth, my personal audience-proof shield.

            Fast forward a number of decades and here I am standing up in front of crowds, reading my own words, an exposing process which the first time I read in public, I was actually convinced I would die of fright. But I didn't. And I got better at it. Then many readings in the shelter of the Makar Press and got yet more confident, so that although I am often sick with nerves before a reading...now I know once I get out there, I'll love it. And that is quite something.

            One of my favourite poets is an American poet called Mary Oliver. In When Death Comes, she says

 'When it's over, I want to say; all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms...

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.'

            That's why I read poetry and write poetry. Because if I don't, I'll be selling myself short. I'll be playing small and who do we serve if we 'play small'? Nobody. It's patronising anyway, to pretend to be less than you are, just in the hope you won't offend anyone. I want to feel I am fully engaged with life, 'married to amazement.' It does help in being a writer if you are curious, nosy even...about other people, about the physical world, about your own inner process.

            Sure, sometimes my words have raised eyebrows...and I wouldn't say I am either abrasive, or controversial, or even like to shock for the sake of it. But if a 'sweary' word is the right word, the only word for a poem, I'll use it. And I have!

            It helped me when I began writing about 15 years ago, to read contemporary women poets. I ate up the likes of Liz Lochhead and Kathleen Jamie, two fine Scottish poets. I discovered it was okay to write about my own experience. I could say what it felt like to realise one day that my upper arms were best covered up! And yes, folks, that's the poem I have the 'f' word in!

            I cannot imagine my life now without poetry in it. I go to so many poetry gatherings in Glasgow, I could get dizzy thinking about them all. I've been a judge at Poetry Slams. Now there's a nail biting genre. I've read outdoor, indoors, at open mics, as a 'head line act', as a two minute participant with everybody else. I'm often terrified, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

            And I read, read, read poetry. I don't think anyone can write good poetry if they don't read good poetry!

            So wish me luck on Tuesday night at the launch...Digging For Light, pub New Voices Press, 6pm for 6.30pm ,The Junction Bar, Tuesday 12^th April,West George St, Glasgow G2 1DA. I'll be the one up by the microphone, trying to look nonchalant and cool and A POET...

            Nah! I'll just be being me.

A pie, a pint and a whole load of poetry...

That was what the good people of Newton Mearns in Glasgow enjoyed last Friday. It was part of a week long Food Festival the local council were organising and the local library got in on the act when they asked The Makar Press Poets – Sheila Templeton, Rowena M Love and my good self – to attend and provide the poetry. Unfortunately, Rowena couldn’t take part but Sheila and yours truly were happy to fly the poetry flag.

Around 40 people turned up, a few of whom indicated at the start they had no idea what to expect.

We got so many people approaching us at the end to tell us they enjoyed the event more than they ever anticipated that it shouldn’t surprise us. But it does.

Few people habitually read poetry, even fewer people buy it, but when given the opportunity to enjoy it they appear to lap it up. It would be nice to think that they go home and search out other poets they might enjoy.

Our work is accessible, works at different levels and can be in turns touching and humourous. They’re not my words but comments people have left with us – and we didn’t have to pay them.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that with just a little effort from the great unwashed we poets would be as lauded as anybody in Hollywood, or on the tv or on the sports park.

Ooooh. Did someone just hit me over the head? Like that’s ever going to happen.

Anywho, in the interests of getting more poetry out there here’s one that went down well on Friday. (Hat tip to New Writing Scotland who published it in their collection a couple of years back.)


Wounded Knee

My black trousers stumbled to a point half way
to the skull-grey cap of my knee
while I steered my way through the corrals
of school playtime, avoiding the gunslinger
glare of bullies, who’d queue
to lassoo with threats.


Pencil point stabbed between my shoulders,
beef-jerky breath in my face
and a low growl in my ear…
…."as soon as the bell rings, you’re dead!"

I was faster than any of them
Knees and fists pumping the air,
I was the best rider
the Pony Express never had.

A half-breed scout, I wore
a Colt pistol under my belt
and an Eagle’s tail feather in my hair.
A combination that won
neither friend or foe
from reservation or ranch.

A fall…and the bony plate of my knee
became a wound with hard baked gravel
ground under the torn and grieving skin.

I grew my thumbnail especially
for that moment when the scab was ripe,
when the blood had hardened
to a brown as deep as the colour of apache skin.

I would tease off the scab…
…until baby pink skin winked in the sunlight,
fresh for the next gallop across the prairie
and the race into the unreachable horizon.

Art, Poetry and Britain's Got Talent.

Having a good day people. See me with the big smile.

Started off by visiting my local library. Yeah, I know, I buy loads of books, receive more than a few freebies to review for crimesquad.com AND I go to the library. I am the book world equivalent of Imelda Marcos, so sue me.

I had some books that were overdue; they had to go back today and lo, I walked in to see that the Library staff have revamped their crime fiction section and verily it is freakin’ fantastic. I’m way too manly to squeal and do the fast handclap thing, but for a moment it was a close run thing. 10 minutes later I left with a Ken Bruen, a three in one of George Pelecanos, an Elmore Leonard, a slice of Walter Moseley and some homegrown talent in the shape of Karen Campbell.

Oh man. Somebody tell my boss I won’t be in next week. Love it, love it, love it.

The library was a wee detour on the main business of the day which was a poetry reading the divine Miss Sheila T and myself were giving in Ayr Town Hall. This was part of an Ayrshire Arts Network event. There was an exhibition in the main hall of various art groups including the literary, visual (paintings/ crafts) and auditory (opera/ choral) and some events in meeting rooms where various arty types got to do their thing. Which was where Sheila and I came in.

This part of Ayrshire (south) has a poor record in the arts and this was a brave salvo from the organisers to get something going in the local scene. Given the parlous financial state of the country there is very little in the way of funding available for the arts; it is up to the people to do something about it. So this is me tipping my hat to the organisers.

To be honest, the reaction from the public was nothing short of pathetic. Was this to do with the weather? It was a beautiful day; most people would be on the beach/ in their garden? Or was it due to poor marketing? Or perhaps a lack of appetite for these things? You just know that if people got off their collective arse they would enjoy this stuff. But it’s not fronted by Simon Cowell or featured in the gossip rags we call newspapers so it passes completely by the great unwashed.

If folks (and I include myself in this) could get their snouts out of the trough of populist entertainment for just an hour a week it would make a huge difference. Art is not a luxury, people.

I know, I know, I’m pissing into the wind.

Anywho, first thing we did on arrival was to go to the hospitality room. Man, was the food good. All local produce lovingly produced and beautifully presented. Well, the “chef” was an artist. And as for the desserts!!! A pavlova the size of my garden table, crested with a mound of summer berries and a chocolate tart that was so deliciously gooey it stuck to the knife. Yum. My teeth were sweating just looking at them. Oh right...that was saliva?

Being violets of the blushing variety, Sheila and I were first to the food...and first to break the crust on the pavlova. It was almost a sin to disturb it. Almost.

Fed and watered, we made our way to the room where the poetry reading was to take place – with no real expectation. If there were more of an audience than there were poets, well that would have been a success and ...I’m happy to report we had around 18-20 people.

The audience were appreciative, fully engaged and asked some fascinating questions. Modesty prevents me from repeating the comments afterwards (yeah, right) but it is fair to say that Sheila and I were chuffed to go down so well.

After all that art stuff, I have an evening in front of the black box and the final of Britain’s Got Talent. See, I can do popular entertainment. But I’ll record it and watch later. (I have part 2 of Mesrine to watch on DVD) Then when I watch BGT I can speed past the cloying fillers with the contestants repeating “this means the world to me” ad nauseum – can someone not teach them to say something else? I’ll also be winding past the comments of the judges, especially Piers Morgan and Amanda Whatsername. Who are they? The former editor of the biggest rag of them all and a – what is she famous for again? Feckin’ clueless the pair of ‘em. With the people they put through into the semi-finals we should change the programme title to Britain’s Got A Little Talent, Quite a Few Transvestites and Plenty Bullshit Artists.

I prescribe a day out at a local art fair for Piers and Amanda. Might learn something.