Today
we skip across the Pond to include a poet quite unknown over here but who has
established herself in England by
virtue of a wild, willful, and defiantly sexual life, all of which she recorded
faithfully and without flinching in a lifetime of poetry. Under the pen name Val Kirkham she published The Collected Works in
2008 which encompasses 11 short
chapbooks published on line from the time she was a struggling young single
mother to her reflective maturity as a full time writer in Lancashire.
I
encountered her through her real, not so secret identity, Geraldine Murfin-Shaw, a far distant kinswoman, thought the
tireless genealogical efforts Ed Murfin,
whose stated mission is to get all of the far flung Murfins across the globe in
contact.
Geraldine
proved to be a true delight, a blithe and indomitable spirit. Growing up in Yorkshire she became an embodiment of swinging England in the ‘60’s, reveling in sexual freedom and
entirely frank about it—a lifelong trait.
She will not mince words about sex, it joys and peccadilloes spelled out
frankly in real world language. Not for
her the gentile masks of literary devices to hint at glorious hedonism. In ever repressed America—no matter how swamped in cheap pornography we are—her frankness
will startle even sophisticated readers.
She would have it no other way.
Trailing
lovers and four husbands, she raised two children alone and returned to college
in her 30s. Becoming an accomplished
chef, she took jobs as far flung as at a zoo, an island resort, a medieval castle,
and even an American college. That led
to the publications of cook books in which tales intertwined with the recipes.
In
her middle years she took up an interest in witchcraft, traditional Celtic/Druid
religion and what we sometimes dismiss as the occult. That infused a new richness into her work, as
did a bent toward history and scholarship, including tackling translations from
Latin sources.
In
the ‘80’s she established herself as a performance poet appearing mostly in the
Northwest of England and also featured on the BBC. Her readings were
lively, shocking, controversial, and evidently quite entertaining wining her a
devoted following. The editor of Lancashire Life called her “the
predatory sexual voice cruising in the fast lane of poetry.”
These
days she lives singly with her beloved dog, tends her garden, watches out for
her nearby aged mother and continues to write.
More cook books and new material are in the pipeline. Her more recent
books are published under her current name Geraldine Murfin-Shaw. Part 1 of her autobiography has been
published and part 2 being written now.
Americans
can find copies of The Collected Works
and other books under both names can be found o on Amazon.com and other sources.
I recommend it.
For
a sample of what she does and is up to visit her web page, The life, loves and
literature of Geraldine Murfin-Shaw.
There
was a lot to choose some, and I was sorely tempted to give you a full on blast
of her wanton sexuality, but I was utterly charmed by this piece. We’ll save the bawdy stuff for a return
engagement.
Romans in My Garden
There are Romans
in my garden
they lie beneath
the sod
in leather-thonged armour
safe with their alien god.
They fell here in some battle
launched from the neighbouring hill,
deep in their
throat death' s rattle
catches at them still.
I
Love you, ancient Romans.
How can I find a way
to journey
down the ages
a thousand
years away?
The distance in between us
is measured in mere feet,
yet all the longlost
ages
lie buried in the peat.
0, Romans in my garden,
rise up at noon today·.
put on your tarnished armour
and lead me far away.
I’ll journey to your hilltop
windswept and bleak and cold,
I’ll cook food at your campfire
as women did of old.
I’ll follow you into battle,
bind up your jagged wounds,
I’ll sleep on skins beside you
Among the burial mounds.
O rise up, ancient Romans.
March down the silent street
and I will march home with you
on fantasy winged feet
—Val Kirkham
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