tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69994074299267602842024-03-09T00:36:21.902+00:00Helen ClarePoet and Educator with a thing for ScienceHelen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-61616992929984177922018-09-02T12:22:00.002+01:002018-09-02T12:22:18.600+01:00My film-poem '<a href="https://magmapoetry.com/magma-71-a-collection-of-films-from-the-open-call-for-submissions/">Reverting to Type</a>' up on the Magma website for their film issue.<br />
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<br />Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-6397498993422792082018-06-12T13:41:00.004+01:002018-06-12T13:44:22.100+01:00Manchester Poets Reading<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I am reading this coming Friday at Chorlton Library. 7.30 for 7.45. It would be lovely to see you there. </span>Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-66283328155978488742017-05-31T18:29:00.002+01:002018-03-25T20:56:44.373+01:00Poetry Patch @ Burnage and Levenshulme Gardens<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<strong><span style="font-family: "castellar"; font-size: 18.0pt; letter-spacing: 0.3pt;">Poetry
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style"; letter-spacing: 0.3pt;">Time to put down
the spade, take off the boots, slip into a fine cocktail and savour the poetry
of gardens, plants and nature.<span class="apple-converted-space"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style"; letter-spacing: 0.3pt;">Shamshad Khan
recently transplanted from Levenshulme across <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manchester</st1:place></st1:city>, but is still blooming, Shamshad
has a collection<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Megalomaniac</i>,
her poems are widely anthologised and she has performed on local and national
radio.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style"; letter-spacing: 0.3pt;">John Calvert is an
escapee from Accrington who put down roots in this part of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manchester</st1:place></st1:city>. He runs Hard Rain, a poetry
workshop group with guests and performances at Thairish from 6pm on the last
Monday every month.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style"; letter-spacing: 0.3pt;">Helen Clare arrived
on the wind over a decade ago and is now established in Levenshulme, Helen
started her professional life as a Biology teacher. She has released a
collection Mollusc and a pamphlet Entomology.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style"; letter-spacing: 0.3pt;">As a finale,
Levenshulme resident and acclaimed singer-songwriter Claire Mooney will sing
two garden inspired songs, which she has written especially for the garden
festival.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style"; letter-spacing: 0.3pt;">The ticket price of
£10 includes a Buttery botanical cocktail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style"; letter-spacing: 0.3pt;">Booking in advance
recommended. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "bookman old style"; letter-spacing: 0.3pt;"><a href="https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/poetry-patch-tickets-34226575609">https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/poetry-patch-tickets-34226575609</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-83608088029824115792016-04-23T13:31:00.001+01:002018-03-25T19:19:01.089+01:00Rain Like MercyI've been a local celebrity this week, thanks to William Shakespeare!<br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/bbcradiomanchester/videos/10153727625209965/">Here's</a> the poem I wrote for Radio Manchester, which they've filmed with lots of local people. It's a response to Portia's speech "The Quality of Mercy" from the Merchant of Venice, entitled "Rain, Like Mercy".<br />
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<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p03q5yjl">Here's</a> my slot on Radio Manchester discussing it with Alison and Phil<br />
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And <a href="https://www.mixcloud.com/colyn-alcock/shakespeare-special-lenny-banters-about-the-bard-with-local-poet-helen-clare/">here</a> I am on All FM chewing the fat with Lenny the Lounge Lizard and reading this poem and others<br />
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And here's the poem for you.<br />
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<b>Rain, like Mercy<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Febuary, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manchester</st1:place></st1:city>, we’re awash<o:p></o:p></div>
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with it. Drains are
overwhelmed. Cars<o:p></o:p></div>
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aquaplane, drenching passers
by. It drips<o:p></o:p></div>
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from the tents of the
makeshift city, muddies<o:p></o:p></div>
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premiership knees. It sits in
reservoirs<o:p></o:p></div>
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in hills above us, saved for
dryer times<o:p></o:p></div>
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piped to dryer places. We
built a city<o:p></o:p></div>
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on all this wet. We feel it
in our bones. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But under roofs and inside
glass there are those<o:p></o:p></div>
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untouched by it. So, shake it
off your brolly<o:p></o:p></div>
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in the bank. Let it trickle
from your coat hem<o:p></o:p></div>
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in the courts. Stamp your oozing
boots <o:p></o:p></div>
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on the town hall tiles. Let
it seep<o:p></o:p></div>
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into the dry places, dribble
on the great<o:p></o:p></div>
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and the good. Tempt them all
out in it – <o:p></o:p></div>
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from clerks to CEOs,
councillors, <o:p></o:p></div>
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chancellors and constables – shirts clinging, <o:p></o:p></div>
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socks wringing, all of them,
singing and….<o:p></o:p></div>
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Maybe, once in a lifetime,
all of us<o:p></o:p></div>
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should dance naked in it.
Understand<o:p></o:p></div>
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mercy through the skin, flesh
prickled</div>
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with it, carrying it with us
in our blood. <span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-83794429551796536702016-02-13T12:41:00.004+00:002016-02-13T13:04:27.882+00:00Romance in the age of Tinder (Daily Telegraph)An article in the Torygraph profiling amongst other books, <a href="http://theemmapress.com/">The Emma Press's </a> Anthology of<a href="http://theemmapress.com/books/mildly-erotic-verse/"> Mildly Erotic Verse</a> and featuring my poem A well-tempered keyboard.<br />
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<br />Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-34195654531051718802015-09-18T10:02:00.000+01:002015-09-18T10:02:12.947+01:00Reading in Chester<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-47261526594375851792015-09-07T21:36:00.006+01:002015-09-07T21:36:48.583+01:00Belonging <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">Here's the redraft of the poem written at Manchester Museum</span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">Belonging<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">We came from
somewhere and now we are not there - <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">we journeyed across
the miles, the centuries<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">and over the strange
lands of our own lives,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">sometimes with
nothing more than our names, our faces - <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">the death mask, the
label and the few things<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">we fastened to ourselves with buckles we
crafted <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">from iron or gold.
We pinned ourselves <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">to the
world around us by our naming of it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">We remembered
ourselves in the stories<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">we shared, in wolves
and forests. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">Like tea or cotton we
belonged not to the land, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">the trader, the
user, but to ourselves, though collected <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">and dispersed.
Alongside dodos, tree-frogs, moths, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">we belonged to places
and the place changed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">We carried the few
coins it seemed we owned <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">until they left our
hands for the hands of others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">We made ourselves in
things, in the guard for a sword, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">in paper, in gold.
We watered crops, collected butterflies, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">heard ourselves in
bird song, and caged the birds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">We became the coin,
the buckle, the dagger. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">We made sanctuary for
small pulsing amphibians <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">in tanks. We try, somehow,
to hold the world <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">together, with small
buckles and bandages as we bind <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">our dispersing
bodies with cloth. We buried our coins <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">and our dead to keep
them close. We named the place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">But we are always
leaving, like exhibits in crates, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">cases lying empty,
waiting for work to be done – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia;">until it seems that <i>where
</i>was never the thing at all. </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-26376636322915524792015-07-24T18:01:00.001+01:002015-07-25T10:22:30.981+01:00Belonging... at Manchester MuseumToday I've visited Manchester Museum to write a poem with the help of Dmitri, filmed by Mollie. I used a methodology that Claire Collinson shared from her work at Kettle's Yard.<br />
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Dmitri and I had previously discussed both the themes - Migration and Water - at quite some length, so I took the notes from those discussions and came up with two lists of 10 words.<br />
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Water: Pollution, Transport, Flood, Power, Sewage, Life, Clouds, Pond, Boundary, Thawing.<br />
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Migration: House, Money, Community, Belonging, Banishment, Symbols, Home, Smuggling, Settling, Survival.<br />
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I picked one randomly as a starting point - Belonging and then we went on a tour of several galleries, through archaeology, ancient worlds, the Manchester Gallery, natural history and up to the vivarium. As we went I looked for objects which related to the theme and to the object before, creating a chain of words on post it notes. Mollie filmed me at each other objections, chatting about my choice.<br />
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We took the post-its back and Mollie filmed Dmitri and I discussing them and then I went off for coffee and bruschetta and to make a first draft. Mollie then filmed me reading it (from many different directions!).<br />
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It'll be a little while before Mollie has the film finished - and I still need to work on my draft. But here it is for now.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Belonging</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We all came from somewhere and now we are not there - </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">we have journeyed across the miles, the centuries</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and over the strange lands of our own lives. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We brought nothing more than our names, our faces - </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">the death mask, the label. We gathered our few things</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">round and fastened them to us with buckles </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">we crafted</span><span style="font-size: large;">from iron or gold. We pinned ourselves </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">to the world </span><span style="font-size: large;">around us by our naming of it. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We carried a few coins, it seemed </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">we owned </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">them until they left our hands </span><span style="font-size: large;">for the hands of others. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We remembered ourselves in our stories</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">in the wolves and forests of our origins. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We found ourselves in others, we shared</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">our names with them, and our faces.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We were gathered and we were dispersed, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">collected and cast out. Like tea or cotton</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">we belonged not to the land, the trader, the user, </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">but to ourselves. Like a dodo, tree-frog, moth</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">we belonged to a place and the place changed. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We made ourselves in things, in the guard</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">for a sword, in paper, in coin. We watered crops</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and collected butterflies. We heard ourselves</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">in bird song and caged birds to hold them to us. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We became the coin, the buckle, the dagger. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We longed for sanctuary. Sometimes we built it</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">for small pulsing amphibians in tanks. We are trying</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">somehow to hold the world together with small buckles</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and bandages as we bind our dispersing bodies</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">with cloth. We buried our coins and our dead</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">to keep them close. We named the place. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But we are always leaving, like exhibits</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">in packaging crates, cases lying empty, waiting</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">for work to do done - until it seems that where</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">was never the thing at all. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-61564688868762034032015-02-18T20:10:00.006+00:002015-02-18T20:11:09.197+00:00Review - Under the Radar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Delighted to read this wonderful review by Alison Brackenbury in <a href="http://ninearchespress.com/magazine.html">Under the Radar</a></div>
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<br />Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-71498352651597043682014-11-21T17:16:00.001+00:002014-11-21T17:16:42.251+00:00Entomology Launch 11th December<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hPcWOc_cJe4/VG9zNzPrNAI/AAAAAAAAAUA/M9I091nKD7I/s1600/20141121_171223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hPcWOc_cJe4/VG9zNzPrNAI/AAAAAAAAAUA/M9I091nKD7I/s1600/20141121_171223.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a>Entomology will be launched on Thursday 11th December 6pm at Manchester Museum, Oxford Street, Manchester. There will be readings and the delightful Dr Dmitri will be there to deliver pearls of Entomological wisdom. There'll be tea and coffee and I'm baking cookies in the shape of insects.</div>
Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-35653141344663009712014-10-11T15:17:00.000+01:002014-10-11T15:24:04.868+01:00Meet the Insects - Rose Aphid<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S5x2jbNnX_I/VDk9N1FgvPI/AAAAAAAAATE/1UBeLtWgqyg/s1600/Macrosiphum_rosae_auf_Rosenknospe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S5x2jbNnX_I/VDk9N1FgvPI/AAAAAAAAATE/1UBeLtWgqyg/s1600/Macrosiphum_rosae_auf_Rosenknospe.jpg" height="400" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rose Aphid Wikipedia Creative Commmon Karl 432</td></tr>
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For a long time I've been both fascinated and repulsed by parthenogenesis - the process by which a female insect (or plant, or maybe even a reptile, amphibian or fish) creates offspring on her own, without any input from a male. The young are formed from an unfertilised egg which somehow is triggered to divide. In humans it's fertilisation, the fusing of the egg and sperm which triggers the cell divisions that eventually form a child. When <a href="http://www.sciencemuseum.org.uk/antenna/dolly/">Dolly</a> the sheep was made the nucleus from an udder cell was placed inside the an egg cell so that had the nucleus removed. This cell was triggered to divide by an electric shock. Mary Shelley wasn't so far off with <a href="http://www.newrepublic.com/article/books-and-arts/101435/mary-shelley-frankenstein-godwin-bodleian-oxford">Frankenstein</a> and <a href="http://www.nlm.nih.gov/frankenstein/galvanism.html">galvanism</a>.<br />
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Partly it's Frankenstein that haunts us. "Curiosity killed the cat" a student said to me in our <a href="http://www.frankenscienceofpoetry.tumblr.com/">Frankenscience Project. </a> But with parthenogenesis it's more. The thought of all those identical insects horrifies me - perhaps because like most human beings I prize, perhaps even over-invest in my individuality. Identical twins don't horrify me, perhaps because human experience never allows anyone to stay the same for long.<br />
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It's also the fear of the plague, the fear of reproduction out of control. It's the dread of every other American Senator apparently - the fear of women's sexuality and fertility out of control.<br />
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But I don't think that's my deep down horror (thankfully). I think it's all these generations of females each indistinguishable from the mother, the grandmother, the great grandmother. Freud, or maybe <a href="http://nosubject.com/index.php?title=Mother">Lacan</a> would have a field day.<br />
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<br />Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-18939248474117288262014-09-13T17:18:00.002+01:002014-09-13T17:19:26.507+01:00Launch Event<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WMY3L7y792Y/VBRuPATaiaI/AAAAAAAAASk/bOOZ-FVK7aw/s1600/Scan0012%2B(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WMY3L7y792Y/VBRuPATaiaI/AAAAAAAAASk/bOOZ-FVK7aw/s1600/Scan0012%2B(2).jpg" height="640" width="464" /></a></div>
<br />Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-7047278802213827662014-09-02T18:21:00.001+01:002014-09-02T18:31:35.899+01:00Meet the Insects - Solitary Bee<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-crBahdXZl9I/VAXzbnYkfAI/AAAAAAAAAOU/BNtHI4WhuyE/s1600/800px-Osmia_bicolor01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-crBahdXZl9I/VAXzbnYkfAI/AAAAAAAAAOU/BNtHI4WhuyE/s1600/800px-Osmia_bicolor01.jpg" height="258" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Osmia bicolor. Wikicommons. Jeffdelonge.</td></tr>
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I bought one of <a href="http://www.greatgardensonline.com/birds-wildlife/wildlife-in-your-garden/tom-chambers-happy-bee-box/p40710.html?gclid=CNH1zLn9wsACFQsKwwodYH0Agg">these</a> for my solitary bees. They have eschewed it. Not chewed it. (Sorry, getting carried away).<br />
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Instead they have found homes in the uncemented stone walls I built around my raised vegetable beds and I love them all the more for it.<br />
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They won't be organised into apparatchik tower blocks - unlike the lovely folk of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lAdrSl4Rxg4">Paradise Moscow</a>. They live with me in the way they chose and like little anarchists build their lives from the earth and their own labour, <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/50446-red-emma-speaks-an-emma-goldman-reader">thinking for themselves, acting freely, and living fully</a>.<br />
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We're used to bees being a symbol of organised society, but solitary bees don't quite fit.<br />
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They look like honey bees but you can tell them apart by the pollen brush (<a href="https://beesinafrenchgarden.files.wordpress.com/2014/06/1-14-26-8-13-mummy-2.jpg">look at this one</a> - and check out the rest of the blog - amazing pictures!). Unlike the honey bees, they don't feed their young - they build or find nests and leave them there.<br />
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There are over 200 species, including miner bees that dig into the ground, and mason bees (like Osmia) that find holes in stonework - or snail shells or any other bits and pieces. I think of mason bees as being the hermit crabs of the insect world. There are also cuckoo bees that do unto bumble bees what cuckoos do to other birds. Leaf cutter bees cut neat circles from leaves and petals and use them to build nests in dead plant stems or plant pots.<br />
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They're really important pollinators, so if you're worried about bees you could do worse than buy or <a href="http://www.helpthehoneybee.co.uk/bee_homes.php">make</a> a bee house, but most importantly allow a little disorder into your outside space. Like most of nature they're shut out by our need for neatness, our desire to straighten the edges and fill in the gaps. They like the messy places in between, the unexpected cranny, the forgotten corners, the kind of places we all need to live and create as we chose.<br />
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<br />Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-38509455311321294012014-07-15T11:24:00.001+01:002014-07-21T11:35:31.717+01:00Meet the Insect - Cockroach<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-B4GIyFW0tgM/U8UAxlN5EDI/AAAAAAAAALY/lftGexuoysY/s1600/Cockroach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-B4GIyFW0tgM/U8UAxlN5EDI/AAAAAAAAALY/lftGexuoysY/s1600/Cockroach.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wikipedia Commons - lmbuga</td></tr>
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I can tell you two things about cockroaches which you may already know. They are supposed to be able to survive a nuclear war, and they are tremendous fun to google.<br />
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So first of all,<a href="http://insects.about.com/od/roachesandmantids/f/cockroaches-nuclear-bomb.htm"> here'</a>s a lady that seems to know about the nuclear war thing. Apparently humans can withstand 5 rems of radiation safely and 800 rems would kills us. It would take about 100,000 to kill a German cockroach. I've not really got a way of imagining what a rem is - but lets just say it they can take over a 100 times more radiation than us. But if it was anywhere near the blast the heat would vapourise a cockroach instantly pretty much the same as everything else.<br />
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Let's just hope we never find out. Although if a cockroach did survive, there wouldn't be a scientist around to verify it. Or anyone else. There's a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thought_experiment">thought experiment</a> for you.<br />
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So, back to google. Louis Armstrong was fed cockroach soup for colds and sore throats. Not sure that's a recommendation. Much as I love <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aXwEBp3cKfM">Satchmo</a>, his is not a voice that cries out "my larynx has been cosseted all my life".<br />
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But if the bare necessities has inspired you to look for help from nature <a href="http://www.survival-goods.com/15_Insects_You_Can_Use_To_Cure_Wounds_And_Diseases_s/500.htm">here's</a> a rather unsettling list of insects you can use to cure yourself. And for those with a really strong stomach <a href="http://www.latimes.com/world/la-fg-c1-china-cockroach-20131015-dto-htmlstory.html">here's </a>some news from a Chinese cockroach farm.<br />
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And here's something to terrify star treak fans - <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-22786371">a cockroach cyborg</a><br />
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You gotta love 'em. Sort of.<br />
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And of course here's the <a href="http://www.happenstancepress.com/index.php/component/hikashop/product/47611-entomoloy-helen-clare?Itemid=102">link to the pamphlet with the cockroach poem in it.</a><br />
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<br />Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-26058057584673718962014-06-15T10:46:00.000+01:002014-06-29T16:59:38.596+01:00Meet the Insects - Damselfly<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2i5LV-9E8sA/U51oH31DRhI/AAAAAAAAAK0/3hksj8P9z8M/s1600/Large_Red_damselfly_(Pyrrhosoma_nymphula)_female.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2i5LV-9E8sA/U51oH31DRhI/AAAAAAAAAK0/3hksj8P9z8M/s1600/Large_Red_damselfly_(Pyrrhosoma_nymphula)_female.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #fbfbfb; color: #333333; line-height: 24px; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;">Pyrrhosoma nymphula female </span><a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Charlesjsharp" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #fbfbfb; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0b0080; line-height: 24px; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;" title="User:Charlesjsharp">Charlesjsharp</a> Wikipedia Commons</span></td></tr>
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Resisting the temptation to go all Monty Python on you (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fUspLVStPbk&feature=kp">oh go on then</a>), in the insect world sperm is a precious resource. Male insects can't go around wasting it on the wrong species or on a female who is likely to have already been fertilised or who's going to end up getting fertilised by somebody else. This is why every species of insect has genitals that work like little puzzle pieces and only fit with the genitals of a mate of the same species.<br />
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It's also why entomologists apparently spend a great deal of time teasing apart insect genitals under a microscope - it's the only reliable why to figure out which species you have on your pin. It's the reason that the Manchester Moth (when we get there) has most of its abdomen missing - having been relentlessly teased in this way.<br />
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Once the pieces fit, he then removes any sperm that might have been left by a previous mate - the one that he's probably dislodged - and makes as sure as he can that he doesn't get dislodged by holding on to her until she's laid the eggs.<br />
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Likewise a female insect can't afford to waste her eggs by letting them be fertilised by a male who doesn't pass muster, so she has a way of making sure he can't get to her. To mate properly he has to grab hold of her neck - if she wraps her front legs round her neck, she makes sure this can't happen. </div>
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Lots of male mammals including squirrels and leave a copulation plug in their mate - a kind of jelly that hardens off and blocks the vagina. It saves the male the bother of guarding his mate, but apparently it can sometimes get nibbled out. </div>
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Did I mention <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wehdqeZ1nc">chastity belts.</a>..<br />
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Entomology now in the<a href="http://www.happenstancepress.com/index.php/shop/product/47611-entomoloy-helen-clare/category_pathway-50"> Happenstance shop</a>... </div>
Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-77394444223608636292014-06-09T16:32:00.000+01:002014-06-09T16:33:30.790+01:00Cover design - sneak previewJust heard from Nell. Gillian's managed to get the illustration done after weeks of new house dramas and I love it.<br />
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Have a look. Isn't Ginny pretty?<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q12W6QMXV9w/U5XTU8979PI/AAAAAAAAAKc/XwmEFPLqecc/s1600/Entomology+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q12W6QMXV9w/U5XTU8979PI/AAAAAAAAAKc/XwmEFPLqecc/s1600/Entomology+Cover.jpg" height="290" width="400" /></a></div>
<span id="goog_763592223"></span><span id="goog_763592224"></span><br />Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-37518442247416857582014-05-29T16:29:00.002+01:002014-05-29T16:29:30.369+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cbKfP1gkwWM/U4dSRegh8jI/AAAAAAAAAKE/ZJZ4Kv-O8_U/s1600/Timeline+Flyer+(2)+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cbKfP1gkwWM/U4dSRegh8jI/AAAAAAAAAKE/ZJZ4Kv-O8_U/s1600/Timeline+Flyer+(2)+(1).jpg" height="640" width="449" /></a></div>
<br />Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-64657585519920667342014-05-24T13:36:00.001+01:002014-05-24T13:37:06.227+01:00Meet the Insects - Assassin Bug<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MiZkVp6cJvk/U4CQjH77CfI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/8cnFIqwDEd4/s1600/assassinbugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MiZkVp6cJvk/U4CQjH77CfI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/8cnFIqwDEd4/s1600/assassinbugs.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><i style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Stenolemus bituberus </i>dhobern Flickr. from Physics.org</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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It's unlikely many of my readers will meet this one - unless my readership is much more international than I realise - as it's an Australian species. You can see some British species of assassin bugs<a href="http://www.britishbugs.org.uk/gallery/heteroptera/Reduviidae/reduviidae.html"> here </a><br />
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But it's this one that caught my attention after a piece of research was posted on the <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-11628322">BBC website</a> detailing the way it lured it's play. One of the researchers Dr Anne Wignall explains. </div>
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"However, reliance on vibratory cues and predictable responses leaves web-building spiders vulnerable to predators that aggressively mimic prey stimuli to gain control over their behaviour," they wrote.</div>
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"If you imagine an insect such as a fly when first hits the web, it'll generate a huge intial vibration, and then it will begin struggling violently, buzzing its wings," explained Dr Wignall.</div>
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"During these first vibrations, the risk of the prey escaping from the web is largest, and so spiders will tend to move in quickly on prey producing these sorts of vibrations in the web.</div>
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"But, as time goes on, an insect may get more tired, and the vibrations it produces will be much smaller. The spider can take more time approaching these insects as it's less likely to escape from the web," she told BBC News.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helmet, Freesans, sans-serif; font-size: 1.077em; line-height: 18px;">"These are the sorts of vibrations assassin bugs are mimicking, and it makes sense as a spider is very dangerous prey for a bug. If the spider approaches too fast, the risk to the assassin bug is much higher."</span> </div>
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I can't add much to that - although if you're not too squeamish (and I've noticed that not many people's squeamishness extends to creatures without warm blood, fur and feathers), you can watch <i style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Stenolemus bituberus </i><span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">in action <a href="http://phys.org/news/2010-10-assassin-bugs-spiders-mimicking-prey.html">here</a>. </span><br />
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Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-15008806066860414482014-05-11T17:27:00.000+01:002014-05-11T17:29:52.969+01:00Meet the Insects - Emperor Dragonfly<i><b>Anax Imperator</b></i><br />
<b>Emperor Dragonfly</b><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hCXXqQdplOk/U2-fRRHNEAI/AAAAAAAAAJg/JwgcVOz1m9w/s1600/800px-Image-Anax_imperator-01_(xndr).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hCXXqQdplOk/U2-fRRHNEAI/AAAAAAAAAJg/JwgcVOz1m9w/s1600/800px-Image-Anax_imperator-01_(xndr).jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anax Imperator. Photo <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Svdmolen">svdmolen</a> wikicommons</td></tr>
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This is the first in a series of blogs giving background information on some of the insects featured in Entomology. As it happens this particular insect was also featured in<a href="http://haclare.blogspot.co.uk/p/bug-music.html"> Bug Music</a> - a series of insect poems for children I wrote 15 years ago (you can see this condition of mine has been active for some years...)<br />
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When I talk about the dragonfly to school children I usually ask if any of their teachers claim to see out of the back of their head. Look at the picture and you can see that dragonflies really can - though what they see we really can't imagine.<br />
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This insect also has a set of <a href="http://www.funnyjunk.com/Beautiful/funny-pictures/4924692/9#9">big scary jaws</a> which crunch up midges and mosquitoes and uses four independently moving wings to fly perform aerial acrobatics that allow it to hunt on the wing. It's a perfectly designed predator. Remember when TV aliens always tended to look like insects? A giant dragonfly would be terrifying.<br />
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But dragonflies also have fascinating life cycles. All insects have fascinating life cycles. It might be a while since you stopped to think what actually happens to a caterpillar! Dragonflies don't have quite such a profound metamorphosis and they do it bit by bit. The egg hatches into a larvae, which we call a nymph (entomologists are a romantic lot) which sheds its hard skin 3 times as it grows and changes into a fully grown dragonfly. Some nice young biologists from Sri Lanka have posted some great pictures <a href="http://iogyba.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/dragonflise-of-sri-lanka_31.html">here</a>.Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-37499497276175060662014-04-30T11:43:00.002+01:002014-05-01T12:00:18.455+01:00Poetry after Pain<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FhIgMYTKJc0/U2D0bjpdeQI/AAAAAAAAAJE/XTfwgo6CNR0/s1600/Healing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FhIgMYTKJc0/U2D0bjpdeQI/AAAAAAAAAJE/XTfwgo6CNR0/s1600/Healing.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anish Kapoor: The Healing of St Thomas</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="http://haclare.blogspot.co.uk/p/my-writing.html">Mollusc</a> was a work of solace, <a href="http://haclare.blogspot.co.uk/p/entomology.html">Entomology</a> of curiosity. Mollusc was 10 years worth of the poems that had to write, poems that poured out of me because no-one was listening, because I was existing in a claustrophobic marriage with a man who though occasionally well-intentioned was only vaguely aware of me as a separate human being. Those poems were easy to write. They were the valve on the pressure cooker. Those were the poems that I needed to write at a time I needed to be a poet because it seemed the only point in a life that had rarely been other than lonely and unhappy.<br />
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Mollusc starts with my marriage, Entomology with the divorce, though in actuality the first poems were written several years later, as I was learning to be happy. There were years in between when the mental chaos was too great even for poetry, and years when poetry took a back seat because, frankly, life was better than poetry.<br />
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I had that choice offered to me very bluntly in the end. Part way through the writing of Entomology I was suddenly struck with chronic pain, most likely due to damage to the pudendal nerve of some unknown cause. The medication which would stop my pain, and which would have to be titrated up overmany months, would most likely affect my mental acuity. I considered the possibility that it would impact on my ability to write, and then decided I didn't care that much. Life was more important than poetry.<br />
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In actual fact the medication affected my capacity to live every bit as much as my capacity to write and it took a couple more years before I found a medication that worked without the terrible side effects. But in the mean time I learnt something about my priorities and I learned something about living with pain.<br />
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Pain, for me, was only bearable if I could live in the moment. Behind me stretched a 'before' an unattainable state of normality. Before stretched more pain. The moment was only a moment's work of pain. And the moment contained the whole universe. To exist within myself was for pain to be everything. To be connected to a universe in which my pain was only a part was joyful. That introversion no longer worked, that focussed wallowing which is the generation of so much poetry no longer worked.<br />
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These days I'm only in occasional pain, more often discomfort - but then find me a middle-aged person that isn't! I'm not lonely. I'm not unhappy. I don't need poetry. I don't need to be a poet. I'm perfectly content with knowing I am a good poet rather than a great one, though I've a good few years to work at being a very good one.<br />
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Entomology, for all it focusses on these tiny creatures is a pamphlet about being in the world, about human relationships, imperfect and wonderful. It's about figuring that out, it's about learning to be alive.<br />
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I don't need to write poems any more. But I think I'd like to. I don't particularly want to write poems about pain. They'll come of course, because life will continue to bring pain. I'll lose people I love. I'll be hurt, disappointed, frightened sick. But not all the time. I can live a different kind of life and I want to write a different kind of poem. I want to write poems that say "Look! It's fucking amazing!" I think they might be the hardest poems of all.Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-10064834985029691102014-04-20T13:23:00.002+01:002014-05-01T08:59:00.006+01:00Why I've not been bloggingI've just realised it's been over a year since I made that last post - and it's been a year in which poetry has taken a back seat.<br />
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Last week I was approved to foster young people. Because of a debacle with Barnardos (far too sordid to mention on here - but if you see me, do ask) it's taken over two years. During that time, apart from the hours of interviews leading to hundreds of pages worth of reports, I've stripped painted, polyfilled, carpetted, knocked down shelves, stripped, polyfilled and painted some more, upholstered, curtained and become the queen of the flat pack. I've learned to do all those things I've always assumed one needs a man for, and I've got triceps and biceps and whatever you call that muscle in the lower arm that look so sexy when it's well developed on a man.<br />
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Today I'm taking a break from knocking layers of cement, whitewash and lime off the outhouse that has been and will be an outside loo. Tomorrow I'm learning to point. But I'm getting a man in for the plumbing.<br />
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Then I'm painting it pink and orange, hanging mexican curtains and Frida Kahlo prints (that's right I'm having a Kahloo). Then I'm done.<br />
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Soon, there will be children staying here. Just at weekends and holidays at first. And in between I shall readdress myself to poetry.<br />
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It has become a strange thing to build things from words, to wrestle with things that don't hurt my shoulders, to wield a metaphorical chisel. There's a simplicity and reward to physical work that is rarely mirrored in poetry. It's so much easier to see what is made, because what is made surrounds you and is lived in, it exists in a place other than the mind of another.<br />
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And a job ends in a way a poem never does - at least it does if you are able to apply the principle of 'good enough' to your home, and I am.<br />
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In a few days I shall down my tools and pick up my pen. It does not fit snugly. I'd rather dig.Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-22819428340268770152013-02-03T11:37:00.002+00:002014-05-01T08:59:18.772+01:00Small StonesOver January I've been doing the <a href="http://www.writingourwayhome.com/p/river-jan-12.html">Mindful Writing Challenge</a> organised by <a href="http://www.writingourwayhome.com/">Writing Our Way Home</a>. Each day I've been writing a Small Stone - a short piece of writing capturing a moment. The challenge has been to notice, as much as it has been too communicate. It has really been a challenge, to keep noticing at a time when I've been dealing with some difficult things, but it has allowed me to be 'in the moment' which has been just what I needed. Many thanks to Satyavani Fiona Robyn.<br />
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Here they are - just 30 of them, sadly!<br />
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<b>Small Stones<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Woodfiller turns from ochre to fired clay as I sand. Grit in
eyes. Smooth under fingertips.<br />
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Rain slides down my dirty velux, pits on the grease, prisms
the rooftops.<br />
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Light at Four O’clock. We rush to the kitchen window to
watch the sunset. Realise it faces East.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">Rabbit shit
under my fingernails. Creature flicks an ear, tugs a blade of fresh hay with
his teeth and snips it into little pieces.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">Twelfth Night.
I tug at the red ribbon to the Disco Ball. It falls on my head. I push back two
mirror tiles onto the dimpled polystyrene sphere. There's silver dust on the
mahogany piano. On my fingers. On the yellow cloth.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">My friend's two
daughters. One has curled around herself like a sea urchin. The other
star-jumps.</span><br />
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A sound like tearing paper. A smell of old cabbage. Bunny
fart!<br />
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A racket of birds hidden by bramble and bracken.<br />
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A skewed heart on a dirty white car, part erased by finger
streaks.<br />
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Planing the gate, gorged with rain, buds on the overhanging
tree brush my face.<br />
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Grey sky. Black tree skeletons. Ginger tom purring. A
quartet plays late Mozart.<br />
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Flirting has done what chocolate could not do. What yoga
could not do. What Bach could not do. I may sleep tonight.<br />
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Service station. Late. I’m the only person in Costa.
Cellophane rustles and squeaks as shelves are stacked. Cardboard is torn. Cups
clatter.<br />
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Air has formed contours within a frozen puddle. The man
walking behind me breaks his step, swings out a leg and smashes it with his
trainer.<br />
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Snow on the fields. The lake, black and white, moving and
still. Aching thighs. Coffee. Christmas Cake in January.<br />
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A black cat slips through the bars in my gate, rolls onto
his back, presses his weight into the concrete, stretches and twists, pawing at
the air, then rights himself, runs to the soil and begins to dig….<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Ice has striped the grass,
clinging to the edges and the spine of each blade.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">The kitchen floor is
scattered with pink tulip petals and stamens - their two long pockets fat with
pollen. I’ll sweep them later.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Snow on my black fur
shoulder. Rain on the tarmac.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">The shadow of each terrace is
thrown onto the red brick end of the opposite terrace: the precise slope of the
roof; two, four, three chimney pots, an aerial.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">There are autumn leaves left
- those on the pavement dry and torn, those in the gutter turning to mulch.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">The pink jasmine, months from
flowering, has a crop of bright green leaves. The winter jasmine, dark green
waxy stems almost leafless, pushes out bright yellow flowers.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">There’s a half full toilet
roll stuffed in the pocket of my passenger door. Mum was here.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Raindrop glisten in the crook
by the buds of the cherry tree, in the curls of the wrought iron gate, in the
knot holes in the fence.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">When it comes
to getting your own way in crowded car parks, your Landrover Discovery is very
big, very powerful and has bull bars, but my car is cheap. Really cheap.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">A burger bun has been wrapped
round the driver’s door handle of my neighbours silver Astra. The sesame seeds
are pale, perfect and distributed uniformly.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">A man walks down the street,
shirt and jumper, no coat. Crocus leaves spear through damp soil.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">She’s had the day off school,
is wearing a pale blue onesie, with belly fleece of a paler blue and lilac
cuffs. It’s Stitch, she tells me flipping down a cartoon hood, smiling through
sapling brown hair and zigzag felt teeth, a smile that is not quite the smile
of a child.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Thirty years later I meet
Aspergillus fumigatus in the Hacienda apartment of an Arabian scientist. A blue
grey fungus with a taste for lung flesh. An old friend. </span></div>
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<br />Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-7273805769724183432012-08-18T08:33:00.001+01:002014-05-01T08:58:38.525+01:00Every Goal Counts, Every Child MattersAs I've been driving to projects over in Middleton I find myself passing a number of billboard adverts for Sky, bearing the words "Every Goal Matters".<br />
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In the old days, just over two years ago, those of us who worked in or around education had the phrase "Every Child Matters" drummed into us. It represented our duty to make sure the children we worked with were healthy and safe, enjoyed and achieved, made a positive contribution and achieved economic wellbeing.<br />
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At the time it seems glib - it had too much of the sound bite about it - and too much a statement of the absolutely bleeding obvious. It felt overly bureaucratic too - partly because some of the quangos around education dealt with it in clumsy way - I know because I was one of the people ticking the boxes.<br />
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Now, with everything that's happened over the past two years it seems strangely noble. And with education stripped to the bare bones, with families shattering under the burden of poverty and with disabled people under attack from all quarters, the idea that every goal matters seems offensive.<br />
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Every child matters. Every goal really doesn't.<br />
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<br />Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-46593884447347148552011-12-09T19:01:00.000+00:002011-12-09T19:03:01.964+00:00Video: Reading at Manchester Book FairI hate watching myself... I haven't dared yet. But please do take a look at this. <div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BRV9isDbAZ0">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BRV9isDbAZ0</a></div>Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6999407429926760284.post-88887934327856324852011-10-30T07:19:00.003+00:002011-10-30T07:19:57.033+00:00Poems on the RoadA little late but here's the Manchester Literature Festival Page about the project and a link to the podcast. <div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.manchesterliteraturefestival.co.uk/mlf-projects/poems-on-the-road">http://www.manchesterliteraturefestival.co.uk/mlf-projects/poems-on-the-road</a></div>Helen Clarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05194376802276525611noreply@blogger.com0