Ginge Reads

Photo by Danny on Unsplash With so many countries being on lockdown due to the recent pandemic (let’s say no more), it’s no wonder that people have turned to books for a bit of comfort. Not only do they help pass the time, but for a moment, books help you to escape from the worry and chaos of the real world and transport you to a happier place. Yet for many people who usually spend their days at the office or studying and don’t have much time to sit down with a good book, it can be difficult to know what to read. So for that moment when you’ve gone through all the old faithfuls, here is a little list of tried and tested favourites, all of which are available on kindle.  Fiction: On the Other Side - Carrie Hope Fletcher When Evie Snow reaches the door of her own private heaven, she finds that she must lighten her soul before she can enter. She embarks on the journey of a lifetime, learning more about life and love than she ever thought possible. A beautiful, easy read tha...

'Birmingham Canals' Photo by Jimmy Guano via Wikimedia Commons Brummie born and Brummie bred – No one’s uprooted this household For generations. A heritage That spans, all told, Years and years on end. A nation in its own right, With rock music in the blood And spitfires in the soul. We travel the world despite Never leaving. More canals than Venice, Which wind through the streets And around the back doors Of a very German market. Now what’s mine is yours When it’s Shakespeare And his whole country just down the road. We’ve no need for Spanish When a bronzed-up bull does all the fighting And the accent speaks for itself. A little further, roam To India, where spices warm the air In a hearty curry, Then migrate to Tolkein’s Hobbit home That’s based on our own Mosely Bog. You see, even in fantasy, A Brummie stays put.

Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash Watch the greens blush in crimson hues, Drunk off summer's waned warmth. Kisses on windburned cheeks That dim an African sunset  Are stained with autumn's whispers. And leaves The colour of her eyes Are wakened by the crispness of the October morn. The world reflected in a single raindrop Carrying her shy smile. Keep these moments between the pages They are not pressed leaves, They will not crumble.

Photo by Andrei Bocan on Unsplash As a speaker of both English and French, it is unsurprising that I might read for pleasure in either language. As many  multi-linguists will know, reading in your non-native language is an excellent way to maintain it, but it also provides a unique entry into whole other aspects of literature, including poetry and drama, that might otherwise be hidden. So why shouldn't others also read in a language that they may not necessarily understand? Many of us are quite content to listen to Spanish pop-songs and pay good money to see an Italian opera, so surely this in itself is evidence of the beauty of the words alone. Lyrical melodies, satisfying rhymes and clever stress patterns please the ears enough that they become number 1 hits or box-office sell-outs without the need for them to be totally understood. And then of course there are those who frequently wear French sayings on their t-shirts, without any indication or understanding of what they ...

The moon just as paper when a torch sines behind, A puppet display with characters from the mind. The stars how they wink, it's that alien again! Yet it moves and you spot that it's just an aeroplane. At the end of the rainbow, a pot full of gold! With leprechaun guarding, or so it's been told. While a stick in a forest is magic to own, And a rock from the seaside, a dinosaur bone. A monster which lurks to make dinner of me, Just shadows of clouds that float in the sea. Then fairies who leave a gift from their dance, Just a circle of mushrooms that grew there by chance. Vampires will get you and soon they will bite, Or is it those bugs that nip you at night? And then there's the dust that Santa Claus drops, A pot full of glitter you see in the shops. The world can be strange, and seem upside down As an adult grown up, with no mystery around. Imagination dwindles, the magic may fade, But children will teach it's just magic mislaid. Pho...

They came swimming into the harbour with the morning tide, a flurry weaving in and out of the buoys and knocking against the old boats. Like a school of fish two miles long and wide. They moved as one, some afloat, some submerged, some pushed beneath even the seaweed, tumbling through the watery maze. No direction, no purpose, just a will to travel the world. Some had been exploring the waters for years, while dozens of others were new to the flock. It didn't matter their shape or size - the sea didn't discriminate. Sat atop the harbour wall licking half melted ice-lolly from their fingers, children pointed for their parents to see. Such a dazzling display of faded colour! Worn off with the salt but visible still. In they threw the little wooden stick, which was quickly surrounded and disappeared into the mass. The fishermen retreated, their nets newly full of the tricky stash. Quite impossible to ship. Whilst on the other side, holiday makers simply picked up their towels ...

A team of opposites, with identical differences Red haired and independent Both reflections in a house of mirrors. Ying and Yang, Fire and ice, A sister and a friend But not the same person twice. Photo by Marc Schaefer on Unsplash

Strawberries, Photo by Cole Keister on Unsplash far sweeter than those we ate in the spring, giggles held in a cloud of smoke, chapped lips, calloused fingertips, the gentle weight of eyelids resisting sleep, frosted leaves settled on grassy corners, painted toenails, chocolate dusted with gold and unevenly halved, fragments of amber blowing past the car, hazy glass, upturned snow globes, blue eyes, and you: pale skinned and divine.

So many hearts on the love lock bridge 'Pont des Arts', Paris Photo by Dietmar Rabich via Wikimedia Commons   Fallen from sleeves and onto the rail Reflected back in moonlit waters In a Paris fairy-tale. Rain-kissed rust splatters the oldest Announcing the age of love Padlocks fixed those years ago Now often thought of. Seven hundred thousand and counting On each, engraved a love note Of three words and a special date, Or an overused Shakespeare quote. A key tossed into the river Of the Parisian Seine Creating heart-shaped ripples As it floats downstream and then Settles in the mud, Clinking against the others. Those thousand chunks of metal A symbol of the lovers. And now the iron begins to bend Under the weight of l'amour, Railings balance on the edge of danger For tourists who adore. Heritage defaced by fashion For the sake of an Instagram post An icon attacked by love locks A fact ignored by most. The waters turn a sh...

Photo by Plush Design Studio from Pexels Last night I tore out all the poems that I wrote about you and made them into paperchains. Hours of the night threaded together with your name to decorate the blues. Hanging from the chandelier twisting around table legs collecting on the sill. P apery memories gone soggy with salt water. Your face, so many times in black and white, skipping through the rhythm and humming indifference. In the morning the pages were clear, shaken from the shackles with glue that could not hold N ow the broken chains fall at my feet .

Simon Armitage (2009) photo by Alexander Williamson via Wikimedia Commons After 10 years writing poetry for her country, Carol Ann Duffy has finally passed the baton over to Simon Armitage as he is elected to be Britain’s new Poet Laureate. A truly deserved selection. Yet with the recent hand-over, it is fair to say that there has been controversy in the poetic world of late. The origins of the laureateship stem way back to 1616, when Ben Johnson was afforded a pension by the state, but the first official holder of the title was John Dryden, appointed by Charles II in 1668. The elected poet has no statutory duties but must create verse to mark significant events in Britain, such as royal weddings or memorial celebrations (although over recent decades the role has moved much more to promote poetry itself). The prestigious title also affords them a cask of sherry and an annual fee of £5,750. Until Duffy’s predecessor, Andrew Motion, limited his tenure to 10 years, the positio...

We planted the sun in the horizon, A hazy blend of yellows and blues, Gently cupped the soil over it And watched it bloom into a new day. Now enchanting little raindrops of light Bud on the surface Like promises for the coming years. Something infinite will take root here: A future, and in it, we are together. Remember that we and Mother Nature are co-creating this vivid dream. Let's not kill it. Photo by Dawid Zawiła on Unsplash

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash Monkey see, monkey do. Are you related? A copy of a copy, a duplicate me Blink twice, No, you're not imagining it. Shadow and brightness of the mirror view Those slightly distinct reflections And such perfect impressions In a synchronised pair. One and the same but nothing alike, Double up She's always right If I pinch you can she feel it?