Hazel White
Singer / Songwriter / Poet

 

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Poetry

I have always enjoyed writing, but coping with dyslexia has made this difficult.

What dyslexia has meant to me.

This was something that I did not discover until I was 27 years of age.
I wrote a letter to a new friend with little confidence as I had always found words hard in any form especially the written word [the dictionary was referred to constantly not always much help if you cannot spell the word in the first place] he phoned me and before the end of our conversation he quietly slipped in the phrase you know you do very well considering your dyslexia.
This explained a lot to me as even with all the extra effort at school with teachers’ help [Miss Jones tried very hard but to no avail] I never seemed to get any better at reading or writing. Many a time I have hidden my glasses as not be laughed at in class for getting stumped on the easiest of words [ having the black board rubber thrown at me on occasions by Mr Burton] English was a nightmare all the career hopes thwarted as the only thing I was remotely interested in was to be a journalist ! other than singing that is but one is told to be realistic about what can be achieved and earning a wage and paying your way as soon as you can was all that mattered back then.

I have always loved writing. Poetry has been almost a life long hobby or maybe need as to try to keep a grip on life in general when I was a teenager. When I married my husband I binned all the writing of those early years as starting a new life with him was all that I wanted and to be quite honest most of it was not worth keeping. One day I hope to find the time to transfer hand written scribbled poetry [hardly readable even by me] to the computer. My interest now has moved to writing my own songs as I love to sing and this was the only thing I remember being good at whilst growing up.

In my mid thirties I decided that I was not going to be beaten by dyslexia’ and after seeing the film “Dorian Grey” I got the book out of the Library a 1940 or so edition very complicated text. It took me over a year to get through it not turning the page until I truly understood what I had read.
The computer has transformed my ability with words what with spell check also it certainly seems to be true as I have seen on the television the brain recognises the whole word even when the letters are misplaced [I had no trouble at all with understanding the sentence in a flash!] seeing the words in the typed form for me appears to prompt my capacity to often being able correct the mistakes without the use of spell check.

The memory of seeing “The actress Susan Hampshire” at the Ideal Home Exhibition many years ago talking about dyslexia and what it had meant to her [at that time not knowing that this was my problem with words] Gave me hope to keep trying to achieve the seemingly simple task for so many of reading and writing when in my thirties I finally found the concentration it needed.
The most important thing I have discovered was to slow my thinking down, not easy this is something that I am constantly being reminded about by my husband.
Speech has also been quite a problem at times, having to write a message down in case you get the dreaded answer-phone and pronouncing words sort of backwards is the only way I can describe it plus getting the spoken words in the wrong order! On many occasions I have avoided conversation as not to embarrass myself but it still happens from time to time, the an eyebrow raises before you [ Oh no not again you say to yourself]

Writing is still a challenge and I know mistakes slip through on occasions but that’s just something I have to live with.

 

 

Lost At Sea

Written September 2009 final edit March 2014

Lost at sea in a crowd

All sound no words

Yet peace strangely is found

Amid the cacophony of sounds

In a melee of chat

On this and that

Thoughts of years gone by

Fill the memory

Yet no sigh,

Too many reasons why

Where do the years go?

They just slip by.

As I wander and wonder

Have I just tagged along?

Or have I lived my life

A loving wife.


 

What Say You, Rubbish! 

Final edit March 2014


Centra sandwich box sits soaking in the rain
Echo friendly, cardboard, soggy chicken stuffing.
Two euro fifty and the purchaser so thrifty, saving the effort of disposing
Echo friendly just one of many!
Flinging, their daily routine not seen, as the electric windows glides up and down.
Not hardly a sound as it hits the ground.

First of February cold frosty morning winter sun just up, dawning.
Spar Bridge Road Listowel, carvery dinner tin foil, crinkled.
Glistening in the early morning sun , another one.
Flinger, Spoiler, Rubbishing person, on their way home.
The working day done, remaining faceless unknown, perhaps it's the same face
over the years, they'll not be caught, no fear!

Plastic bottles in various states of decay, line the verges hanging in bushes and trees.
Skipping along the way in the turbulent breeze.
Glinting silver paper, all that is left of a dozen or more smokers packets thrown.
Flung, either coming from or going home.
Condoms' tossed spent the night before, can't take them home, that's for sure!
Syringe's sit resting empty the cost of someone's “high”

The electric cooker hob half covered in the yellowing grass, fell off the trailer,
As another load already lightened arrives at the land fill.
The sun bed frame, the shuttering for a ramp, fridges freezers and a mattress or two
Tossed along the old bog road, no conscience of the awful sight.
Bundles of unwanted clothes, carpets and chairs, lampshades and a tray of rotting eggs
whatever, it has to go somewhere.

Forest, planted, dotted here and there curtailing the views that once prevailed,
As far as the eye could see.Now hides the unwanted clutter, from faceless individuals
From all walks of life.
Used pampers, workman's gloves, sliced bread still wrapped,
The van driver that once a week on Friday afternoon wherever he happens to be,
Will empty his rubbish along the lane, for all to see, no shame!






Morning Again.

Written  July 2014


I am an old dog, that I know, but for my morning walk I am ready to go
I know that I am getting very slow and I huff and puff, every step an effort
Please put on my lead, don’t leave without me, it’s the best part of my day
The walks are getting shorter though the time walking remains the same
Sniffing all the scented trails left by whatever, the fox, the badger,
 the rabbit and the rat, and of course the smell of the old tomcat

I have walked this lane for so many years, I feel this morning's summer breeze
 and listen to the birds flying high and singing in the trees
I see the goat on the tether there, looking at me with that curious stare
The warmth of the sun makes me hot and I pant, we stop for a while
standing still, when we turn around to go home that is up to me, you see
The question is asked and I look into the distance nose in the air

A little further along the way for me today, not ready for home just now
It won’t be long though, as my bones are telling me, the lump on my knee
I eat well and I sleep well, almost all day, and then I grab a teddy and play
I might be old but I am not giving up, I have to fight on for my master
He needs me to give him strength for his day, we “soldier” on together 
The question is asked, we turn and face home, my eyes say “enough today”.


 

The Lie

Written June 2000.

Such is mind games, why the words spoken
Only to be denied.

Why the lie, Why the deceit?

This is the question asked
Protection of one’s own interest

Jealous evil desire,
The truth may never be known.

But now a friendship lost forever.
No more will trust be there.

Lost in the midst of the morning dawn
Friendship such a fragile thing,

Acquaintances from now on
Imagination not the cause,

I still see the mouth move
Saying those words apparently

I never heard.

Mould

Written aprox’1983/4

The mould on the bathroom wall you seem to say it all,
Encroaching on the plaster concealing the pink as if the flesh.

Doomed.

As a face appears in the green it lingers in my thoughts,
I remember all the premonitions, wondering

Perhaps it’s all superstition.

Not knowing, as the green makes me look deep inside myself, my life, my thoughts and me in a state of deep dark depression.

Innocence Gone


Oh where did the pretty face go?
with age it slipped away.

A beautiful rose one year and now
like a faded lily.

Two years have passed since she smiled
Complete

With innocence hiding,
now she smiles with innocence gone,

Her smiles of knowing hiding.

Bampton 1980’s


Pink Exercise Book.


I looked inside you again today remembering the writing
when it was done.
The list of photographs taken on our first touring around Irelands romantic costal shores.
Twenty leaves of Club some pages filled when sitting in a bar
In a place named Crossmalina.
The drawing of the stil and the stories of the Poctine form a memory
Of Paddy Moran.
A soft spoken and very friendly retired man who was looking for a
Saxophone c melody.
We looked but never found one and never went that way again in my mind I can still see him sitting there.


Boscastle Fair [ magic Moments ] written 4 09 87.

And 400 hundred years on I leant against the white washed walls,
Still standing.
I saw pirates with their sea burn ruddy complexions,
Watch the dancing.
Tankards in hand bragging of their latest escapades,
Spoils of ventures being sold, drinking and the maids.

Slowly the vision slipped gently away and wondering, I ask
What was it really like in those bygone day’s that have passed.

The ageing walls soaked up the vibrant effervescing atmosphere.
Kindling the echoing memories of those forgotten years.

The sun shone down in all her glory so warm and so bright,
Enhancing all the merriment, children playing and dancing such delight.

The landlord filled the flowing bowls and many times they ran over,
As people in their joyful state swayed to and fro far from sober.

Clapping hands humming stamping feet and dancing in enthusiasm.
The fiddles and flutes did flutter and flirt in wonderful unison,

As the concertinas and accordions embraced the melodies with care.
Of reels and jigs waltz and tango’s too, all did share.

With guitars some soft and gentle finger picking, others in bold rhythm.
As whistles and bodhrans and spoons and all joined in the anthem.

Babe in arms kicked her feet to the beat bouncing back, from off the
Blackened beams.
Such are magic moments beyond ones wildest dreams.

Then like a shadow oozing from the wall “old pop” did take the floor,
And the Archers and the Steptoes came to call, how he made us roar.

He played his mouth organ and told us tales too, the icing on the cake.
And Napoleon himself would have enjoyed to stand in his namesake.

 

The Unanswerable Question. Written Early eighties.


The moment after that final breath has lingered,
Slowly withdrawing leaving ones’ mortal flesh and blood.
Gone forever so quickly
And yet here to stay.
In the memories and thoughts,
Of those whom we have known.


Man and beast alike,
So many things paralleled
But only two are present now,
We are all born to die
And there must be a reason but why?

Perhaps we are all part of an experiment,
In some far off super intelligence’s plan.
We call God Ala or Buddha
The creator the giver
But also the taker.

If the secret of Life’s purpose is ever known,
Then it can only be on approaching death.
That time of the final breath.
If there is a place where our souls live on,
Or is eternal life the remembrance of us in others,
And we are no more, forever gone.

Thoughts of Love


Gentle loving calm,
Like warm winds on a summers day
And yet racing
Like the tide running out to sea.
Miles between us
Like the earth and the sun
And yet touching.

Dusk and Dawn written 1979 ish


As the darkness starts to mask the day
Shadows fall the fade
Now only shade.


The crisp edge of the November morn
Sun searing through a pin hole dawn
Another day has been spawned.


Betwixt Night and Day


Still soft quiet morn
The earth doth stretch and yawn
As whispering winds caress
Momentarily time is suppressed.
And the silver morning dew
Glistens on the flora and fauna new
Towering tranquil trees
Address the birds amidst their leaves.
Cock pheasant makes chase, decoy
To outwit mans ploy
Cunning no snare triggered
Fox has not lingered.
Perched a statue not of stone
Watchful buzzard alone
Eyes of hunting intent
His sense of purpose ever-present
Clouds of rising steam
Percolating from the hedgerows green
Rising morning golden sun
The garter of dawn undone.


The Lover.

Passion burning boiling
Brewing rampant breath,
Fingers on thigh
Sending rivers of shivers
Running high
Convulsing muscles knotting
Scheming plotting.
Excitement of youth
Deceives the truth
Pure animal attraction
Drives you to distraction
Resistance low
You know the answer
would not be no.
Frivolous escapades
Rejuvenate Complacent
Lazy ways
Now knowing eyes smile
Holding memories
Close to heart
Secret all the while,
Never letting out
Giving no home to doubt
As all together friends
Fulfilment and
Happiness depends.

1984