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Welcome to the website of Becky Deans, writer, copywriter, proofreader, musician, event organiser and music teacher.

Happy birthday, Morten Harket (for tomorrow. Just getting in there early)

Here’s a poem for all you Virgos.

 

I have lost a slipper

found marbles

a pick

Lego blocks

 

I mean gold Lego arms

and legs and heads

and a very nice chap from Bangkok

 

He let’s me stroke his engines

and light his fires

And one day we’ll talk telephone wires.

 

Tomorrow I will be the meaning of life.

 

 

Roald Dahl inspired limerick from writers’ group April 2016 *bit rude* #amwriting

This limerick comes from a writers’ group where I introduced or reintroduced Roald Dahl to the members of the group. We had a good read of what we could find in Ripley Library. Then we wrote and blimey it was brilliant! I don’t have the other poems to share, but here’s mine!

There was a young lady from Codnor

Whose trumpy behind used to dog her

She farted so fast

It created a blast

And now she’s moved onwards to Bognor.

I haven’t read Roald Dahl’s Revolting Rhymes recently, but that was my inspiration: that and all the other poetry throughout the books.

At home, we’ve had a good go at all those a seven-year-old would relish. I particularly enjoyed reading my son Danny, Champion of the World. Love that book!

(C) Becky Deans 2017

Shred – 2017 version of this poem #amwriting #amediting

Shred

You are my life, my completeness.

This love is my weakness.

You are the treasure in my chest.

My heart can’t rest.

You are my before and my after.

The absence of laughter.

I’m held. You’re my holder.

My fortune is stuck in your folder.

My strength is this:

To shred the paper without looking.

To walk into the silence.

Here is a poem that I wrote in 2015, with an extra couplet added. It’s about the tightening of the snare of domestic abuse and the new couplet attempts to evoke the psychological effects of abuse.

I’ve recently been hooked on the Holby City Dom and Isaac story. Swearing at the television in fact. But I think that ended far too neatly and Dom was far to able to say what he needed to his perpetrator. Life’s not always like that.

The sense of documents being withheld and paper needing shredding seems to encapsulate how it ends for many people.

I’ve started the poem like a love song: Billy and Syreeta perhaps, ‘Born Again’. I’m sure that has the word ‘completeness’ in it.

But it ends with walking away, which is what victims often have to do: from their homes, their lives, their friends (or those they thought were friends), their families.

‘The silence’ is their new lives. One thing I have learned about survivors is that it takes them time (often) to find their voice. So that ‘silence’ is what ever the reader wants to imagine, and probably not silent at all after years of isolation.

(c) Becky Deans 2017

 

Hello – a 1997 poem just before another poetry course! New beginnings and full cycles. #amwriting

It’s been mind-blowing to be part of the writing ambitions: Derbyshire Residencies scheme. It’s made me reappraise many things I have done, and generally give myself a big pat on the back. I mean, it was a big achievement to get on the first year of UEA’s English Literature with Creative Writing BA (hons) and then to follow with a master’s degree two years later.

It has also made me re-read poets and writers that I have been in contact with in my university life, and find hand written letters from them too. So many happy memories. And as I’m about to go on a two-hour poetry course with the incredibly talented Sophie Sparham, I thought I would share a poem that I wrote in 1997. This poem came back to me in a recent writing ambitions session, so it seems I am going full circle. It’s great to find a poem that rhymes that got me part of my first degree.

Hello

Hello
I’m Lala
How are you?
Yes, I like dancing
Pleased to meet you too.
I can’t talk now
I’m in a rush
Oh yeah, teetotal?
Well really I’m a lush.
But each to their own
Be yourself, that’s what I say
Though we’re at uni
So fuck it for today.
No rules, no hassle
I’m aiming for the stars
D’you want an eight then
And have you fucked in cars?
So that’s it sorted
Yes, I think I’ll see you around
Got to get on now
There’s more peeps to be found.

Chapter One of Simon Says: Perfect Prison #amwriting

 As I decide which one of my crazy ideas I ought to pitch at my agent one-to-one, here’s a piece from an unfinished novel, Simon Says.

 

Chapter 1: Perfect Prison

 

Who knows how she got to that moment? Banging on the kitchen door, demanding to be let out. She was cooking a pasta bake, pasta steaming away, needed a tissue, and she couldn’t get out of the door.

Simon had Louis, their son, their one and a bit year old. She could hear them playing, probably running the ride-on car along the wooden floors of the dining room and sitting room. But if she could hear them, why couldn’t they hear her? She rattled the door again, aware of the newness of the fake-old hinges and the cost of replacing the pitch pine door. She shouted, ‘love, can you let me out please?’

Nothing. She was actually getting angry now. Of course, there was sure to be a reason, perhaps the sitting room door was closed. But this was not part of the deal. And her nose was dripping.

They’d put the bolts on the doors because Simon didn’t want to have stair gates on the doors downstairs, and they didn’t want Louis to get into the kitchen. They had a bolt on the stairs as well to stop him disappearing off. Sarah had managed to persuade him to put a stair-gate on the stairs eventually, though he wasn’t keen on messing up the paintwork. But Simon had spent a lot of time painting the doorframes in Farrow and Ball pointing and he didn’t want to cut into them. He didn’t really want kiddy stuff all over the house.

She shouted again, rattled the door some more. What would it take to break it? But was she really so desperate? She started to make the cheese sauce, weighing up the butter, reserving her energy.

Could she get out of the back door and bang on the front to be let in? She checked the pasta wasn’t boiling over on the stove. It was hard to clean the starch off the stainless steel when she lost concentration and let that happen. She moved through the utility to the back door, turned the handle. It was locked. She was locked in the kitchen. She couldn’t quite believe it.

She shouted again. ‘Simon. If you don’t let me out of here soon, I’m going to break the bloody door off the hinges.’

The door opened.

‘We couldn’t hear you.’

She didn’t look at his eyes.

Let’s Talk about the Weather: A Review of The Storm Officer by Matt Black – Friday 17 March 2017

My ticket from Friday.

I haven’t seen many plays recently. The that ones I feel the most comfortable with are Shakespeare and I can’t think of the last time I saw a Shakespeare. Possibly when that lady from Surgical Spirit and Grant from Eastenders did the Taming of the Shrew. I’ve seen (and been in) a fair few musicals, playing the tenor saxophone for Our House and the Strawberry Seller in Oliver most recently.

So I wasn’t quite sure what to expect when I went to see The Storm Officer by Matt Black last Friday.

The first interesting thing for me was the musician/actors. The female part also played the clarinet, piano accordion and a bit of guitar. Even a flourish of recorder. The male lead played the guitar and a piano accordion. I’d never seen a play where the actors provided the music as well.

In some ways the play harked back to the double headers of old. The actors played many characters: the female women and the male men. This was signalled through the showing of handbags to signify ‘retired school teacher’, the naming of characters according to what they liked to drink and the wearing of an apron or a cape.

It was very self-referential and I was constantly jolted back into the reality of the theatre when I was looking for a little suspension of disbelief, but then I guess Shakespeare did that all the time.

Having lived in the Lake District, albeit 19 years ago, the accents also took me off guard. Both actors were doing generic Northern rather well, but they weren’t at all in Cumbria. They weren’t even in Lancaster. Somewhere in mid Yorkshire I would have guessed. And despite many people from many places retiring to Cumbria and the Lakes, I suspect there should have been some Cumbrian accents in there.

The local government response to tragedy seemed very real, and the stories of the people seemed real, but there was something too quick about the delivery to take it all in. This would be easily remedied by the actors speaking to some survivors of the Cumbrian floods.

I felt like I needed an interval after the first half, 30 minutes in this instance.

The second half got me emotionally. It was something about the break-up of the tarmac on the A591, given that I lived in Grasmere and used the buses on the A591 to give myself a break from from the brooding Lakes. Others audience members cried. It was still too fast, and I’m really not sure what happened to the Storm Officer at the end – did he lose his child or his job?

The team around the play managed to set off audience participation through a song with memorable lyrics and the final applause was rousing.

I think I would be very interested to see this play again after it has been to Cockermouth for another developmental showing.

© Rebecca Deans 2017