Rosy Cole

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Rosy Cole was born and educated in the Shires of England. Her writing career started in her teens. Four apprentice works eventually led to publication of two novels. Life intervened, but she returned to authorship in 2004. She has worked as a Press Officer and Publisher's Reader. Among widespread interests, she lists history, opera, musicals, jazz, the arts, drawing and painting, gemmology, homoeopathy and alternative therapies. Theology also is an abiding interest. As a singer, she's performed alongside many renowned musicians and has run a music agency which specialised in themed 'words-and-music' programmes, bringing her two greatest passions together. Rosy's first book of poetry, THE TWAIN, Poems of Earth and Ether, was published in April 2012, National Poetry Month, and two other collections are in preparation. As well as the First and Second Books in the Berkeley Series, she has written several other historical titles and one of literary fiction. She is currently working on the Third Book in the Berkeley Series. All her books are now published under the New Eve imprint. Rosy lives in West Sussex with her son, Chris, and her Labrador cross, Poppy, who keeps a firm paw on the work-and-walkies schedule!

A Postcard From Dystopia

 

 

A vignette...

 

A couple of times a year, Jamie's grandparents would brace themselves to take him on a trip to a theme park or adventure playground and made a great show of having fun. He couldn’t make out where they were coming from because they were normally quite humourless. Above Jamie’s head, they would bicker about what children liked and what disciplines were called for, each claiming a superior interpretation of scriptural wisdom.

After these outings, he’d have bizarre dreams in which his grandparents were cast as 2-D comic Disney characters, pulling and twisting with the immanent velocity of the plot. It was funny, but sort of scary too, like those supermarket promotions where a big, furry cereal monster greeted you at the door looking friendly and benign, but you knew there was an unknowable being inside the costume.

On one occasion, they’d taken him to a Safari Park and monkeys had clambered all over Grandpa’s newly waxed Vauxhall and torn off the windscreen wipers as if they were stripping bamboo. He had made believe they were mischievous tykes and grunted with grisly laughter, but Grandma’s face was menacing with indignation. All day, even over their corned beef picnic, she talked of recompense, insurance. It was no use Grandpa pointing out the notice disclaiming indemnity against such risks. She didn’t blench at the sight of the lions and tigers lunching on blood-smeared carcasses, but turned pale and uptight when he depressed the accelerator hard to show Jamie how the car could whizz along ‘to give the pipes a good blow’.

“Edwin! You’re over the limit! Don’t expect to be kept safe! It’s not me speaking, it’s God!

With the penetrating and uncluttered intuition of a child, Jamie knew that his Grandpa’s mastery of the machine was the one aspect of performance in which he could excel and have Grandma at his mercy.

When she went off to the Ladies, Grandpa told Jamie about an awful dream he kept having.

He was riding a tiger. He was sitting precariously upon its bare back and could see the muscles rippling through the striped sheen of its fur. The tiger repeatedly turned its head and snarled. A hollow rumble was coming from its jaws. Every time hanging foliage whipped against Grandpa's face, he had to concentrate hard to keep his balance. If he fell off, he would be devoured in seconds.

Jamie listened agog. Disappointment at the open ending of the story was stilled by a dull relief.

Then Grandpa said: “You know, don’t you, James, that Grandma’s got native blood? Pirates from the Barbary coast!"

Jamie had only the haziest grasp of what this might mean. He was inherently blind to shades of skin. His best chum's father was from Nairobi. It was not a good time to probe such matters because Grandma was coming back wearing her usual sour expression. She appeared for all the world to be sucking lemons.

“Right then!” said Grandpa. “There’s enough wind to fly a kite today! What do you say, James?”

Evermore, James was to associate kite-flying with the dream. The trouble with kites was that if you let go, they took off in a demented whirl, up and away, before a nosedive over some entangling wood, or plumb into the middle of dark, deep waters where they sank without trace.

 

 

Images courtesy of Nancy Tillman, children's illustrator.

 

Recent Comments
Katherine Gregor
Wonderfully thought-provoking.
Sunday, 17 February 2019 18:44
Rosy Cole
Thank you so much, Katia. It's helpful to know you found it so. The passage is from Entertaining Angels, a novel I wrote twenty ye... Read More
Monday, 18 February 2019 12:05
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2 Comments

Changing The Shape Of The Universe

 


A response to Stephen Evan's post, The Jesus of Silver Spring



English has two great forgotten words, namely 'helpmeet' which is much greater than 'lover' and 'loving-kindness' which is so much greater than even 'passion'.  Lawrence Durrell

I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in. Virginia Woolf. (Without hesitation, I would remove the 'perhaps'.)

A good poem helps to change the shape of the universe, helps to extend everyone's knowledge of himself and the world around him. Dylan Thomas (What he says of the powers of poetry, I would extend to all authentic writing and every random act of kindness.)

Who do you say that I am? Jesus Christ to St Peter.



Perhaps the last quote seems a strange inclusion in the light of Stephen's post. For me, it does sum up his musings.

Any response to the question is generally unvoiced, shadowy, hardly or never considered, but is implicit and inescapable in our attitude to being. In this mirror, we see our reflection. Through our own lens, we measure others, forever searching for an image we recognise, though we're scarcely aware of it. Meanwhile the quest for joy, for a life of fulfilment and meaning goes on.

Jesus says: I am come that they might have Life, and that they might have it more abundantly.

Abundant life! A blossoming tenderness for the whole of Creation and a compulsion to care for it.

Then all may become as it should be, by miraculous consolation, even in the dark times. Keats' 'negatitive capability' is a cosmic phenomenon and a scandal equally to logicians and doomsayers as to those who seek shelter in a shiny fools' paradise.

This is the most precious gift. This is Living. This is Love. Enjoy!

Hearts do matter!

 

Heartsease courtesy of Matthew Drollinger

Recent Comments
Stephen Evans
Durrell was right - two great and and forgotten words.
Saturday, 02 February 2019 23:34
Katherine Gregor
Helpmeet. What a beautiful word.
Sunday, 03 February 2019 17:32
Monika Schott PhD
I love the word too. I'll have to find somewhere to use it!
Monday, 04 February 2019 03:29
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3 Comments

Silver And Gold Have I None...

 

 Harking back to 2012...a lifetime ago!

 

 

Febrile kindled flame
gathering energy on

deluged thoroughfares

banishing our ruined dreams

fresh vision broadcast

 

the nation focused
reminiscent spectacle

of our heritage

gone the touchstone of its soul

the flint and tinder

 

struck by our forebears
tillers of the untamed earth

servants and soldiers

merchants, miners and martyrs

bringers of quick light

 

vicarious now
the hope of saving glory

coffers overdrawn

no securities gilt-edged

faint hearts overwrought

 

seams, today seamless
our lottery's tarnished coin

spent and spent again

the lure of medals hinting

new Jerusalem

 

Seize the pick, the pen, the spade
the simple plough and harrow

bind up wounds, support the sick

life's not fair's true sportsmanship

our children's gold tomorrow!

 


 

from Mysteries of Light (collection in preparation)

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Sharing The Voyage

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's getting on for five years since most of us said our hasty farewells on the sudden closure of Red Room, surely the grandest literary salon there has ever been. It was a forum for stimulating debate and the time of day, where writers could post blogs and advertise books in respectful company which was representative of many nations and backgrounds and levels of achievement. A truly cosmopolitan place.

This is what I wrote back in 2014:


Okay, I'm trying to smile...

I just wanted to say goodbye in this forum and to thank Ivory, dear Hunti, and all the team for their part in making RR such a fantastic experience and an astronomical learning curve in the best possible sense. Little did I expect', when, having returned to authorship in the 'noughties' and was seeking showcases for work, that I'd stumble upon such a warm, vibrant, cross-cultural, wise, inspiring, dynamic community. You know - I have to say this - it never really was about fame and selling books...for any of us. It was about recharging, sharing and discussing what there was no occasion to discuss in the busy context of 'real time' and the obligations of our daily relationships. It was about examining what really made us writers in the first place and affirming who we are as individuals.

Make no mistake, the warmth, friendship and appreciation I have received in this wonderful cyber salon have been life-changing. And no way would I have thought of producing a book of poetry (with two more in the pipeline!) without it. Like the old pioneers, I have crossed many frontiers in the New World!

I wanted it to go on for ever.

So thank you team and Red Room friends from the bottom of my heart. I wish you all the very best. We shall meet elsewhere, I am sure.

Now it is time to look to new horizons, braced by having known... This may be my last post, but it's not the past lost.

 

That was then.

A few days later, some of us boarded the Green Room barque and set sail on a voyage of our own. Sometimes the waves roll and sometimes there is a tempering breeze. It matters not. Several of you have called this vessel 'a refuge', 'a haven of peace', and have been brave enough to embrace a different technology. So I want to say thank you to the loyal bloggers who value this space and to tell you how much you are appreciated. It would be lovely if a few of those other writers who, at the outset, signed up with us to comment only, would share a post or two of their own. It's a great way to keep in touch!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recent Comments
Ken Hartke
As the Red Room went under the waves, I was happy that I scrambled into what I thought was a lifeboat along with a group of voyage... Read More
Thursday, 20 December 2018 17:31
Stephen Evans
Hear Hear Ken! - thank you Rosy for your patience with your quirky colleagues, and constant support for this unique literary vent... Read More
Friday, 21 December 2018 00:34
Nicholas Mackey
I second the comments of Ken and Stephen as Green Room is a most venerable successor to Red Room and I thank Rosy very much for he... Read More
Friday, 21 December 2018 15:54
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Perhaps I should have added that, nevertheless, I do feel this is a limpid piece of poetry you have...
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