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Good evening, and welcome to dVerse, the poets’ pub. Verbs and nouns on tap, images still and sparkling.

Today is my grandmother’s birthday. If she were still alive, she’d be 107 today! It’s a day when I think of her, smiling and remembering all the wonderful things about her. It took a while to get there, but now it’s a positive day for me.

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Grandmas come in many shapes and sizes. Mine was plump and irreverent. She was a great cook, she laughed a lot, cried at sad films, and loved going on excursions. Nobody ever made pastry as well as her.

And seeing as it’s her birthday today, I thought I’d celebrate that by asking you to write about grannies. Those older women who support us and nurture us. The women who perhaps spoil us a little, but reserve the right to tell us off. Maybe you are a grandma, or live with one. Tell me how it is to be a granny.

Maybe you don’t have grandmother, but have observed them on the bus or in a local café. Maybe you had a terrifying grandma, maybe you only know her through family myths. Or maybe there are other women who have played that role in your life. Tell me about them.

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Here’s a link to a poem by Seamus Heaney that always makes me think of my granny. Not in the specific details necessarily, but in the love that shines through. https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/literature/1995/8422-poetry/

And here’s an extract from a longer poem by Georgia Hilton’s (@GGeorgiahilton) chapbook I went up the lane quite cheerful.  It’s called



Years of peeling potatoes,
fished from the bowels
of a great sack,
has blackened the whorls
of her fingertips with dirt
that never washes out.

Still she uses Oil of Ulay
for her face – marble-smooth,
beautiful – beatific even,
if the doctor is to be believed.
That woman is a saint.
We all agree.

Only I notice how her jaw
clenches peculiarly
in certain company, and
understand without being told,
that being good amounts
to suffering without complaint.

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And, finally, here is one from Katherine Mansfield – a small, intimate moment captured so simply and beautifully.

Butterfly Laughter

In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted
And each morning we tried who should reach the
butterfly first.
Then the Grandmother said: ‘Do not eat the poor
That made us laugh.
Always she said it and always it started us laughing.
It seemed such a sweet little joke.
I was certain that one fine morning
The butterfly would fly out of our plates,
Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world,
And perch on the Grandmother’s lap.

I hope you feel inspired.

You know what to do:

  • Write a poem
  • Link up to Mr Linky – and please put a link back to this post in your poetry post.
  • Go and meet some other poets’ grannies!