Sunday, 6 November 2016


Over Stones
The poem on the previous post was set to music by Ian Smith of the English Folk Music Club Costa Blanca and the song Rebirth can now be viewed on YouTube, link below:



Monday, 24 October 2016

Over Stones

This is a new post on my website https://bloominheather.com , a poem called Over Stones.  

The morning mist retreated leaving green hills bright with dew.
The sunlight dried the water drops, the grass thinned out anew.
Brown stains spread
Blood shone red
In splatters over stones.
Here lay the dead
Shot with lead
And carrion bared their bones.

The land retains our history enclosed in its rich earth
Our crops feed off the wealth of dead and give us our rebirth.
New blooms spread
Petals shine red
In patterns over stones.
Rich flower bed
With love’s care fed
For our past sins atones.

The ground is hallowed where we walk in every country village
Its history holds the sins of war, of death and rape and pillage
Yet we forget
We’re sinning yet
We fight wars overseas
New death is met
New grievance set
And we harvest bitter tears.

The land retains our history enclosed in its rich earth

Our crops feed off the wealth of dead and give us our rebirth

Ian Smith of the Costa Blanca English Folk  Music Club composed the music for this, but unfortunately I do not know how to add an MP3 audio file.  

Heather

Thursday, 22 September 2016

In recognition of Cartagena's annual Carthaginians and Romans Festival this week, I have just added a new post about the beautiful historic city on my website
https://bloominheather.com/


Heather

Sunday, 11 September 2016

I wanted to acknowledge 9/11 in some way, so I posted a review of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer on my website https://bloominheather.com/   

Foer writes like an angel – or rather a cherub, since his protagonist is a 9 year old boy.  Oskar’s father died on 9/11 and in an effort to deal with his loss, Oskar embarks on an odyssey through New York, trying to find the lock that belongs to a key his father left.  His research reveals that there are 162 million locks in New York, but he has a name which narrows the search down to possible.  As Oskar progresses, we are also shown more and more of the continuing effect on his grandparents of the bombing of Dresden in 1945.
We may count, or fail to count, the numbers involved in the big events history records, but each one is made up of innumerable individual tragedies.  This family has suffered twice, and what we see in the juxtaposition of old and new grief is that the effects last a lifetime.  However hard they try, those left behind cannot let go.
We see largely through Oskar’s eyes and hear his voice, so the characters are at first sight cartoonish, but as Foer stands them in the light we see more and more of their complexity.  Particularly poignant is his portrayal of Oskar’s mother, who is not fully revealed until the end of the book, but it is Oskar himself who resonates with truth.

The reader does not have to ask or answer difficult questions about historical perspective or ethical slights of hand.  We are simply placed inside the family, incredibly close, and suffer the fall out with them, which is extremely loud.  This is a book about grief and while you will meet enchanting characters, be stunned by the quality of the writing and laugh along the way, if you survive to the end you will be beyond tears.

Heather Gingele

Sunday, 31 July 2016

Sounding Board

Hooray! I got in! Thanks to Rob.....though I have no idea how I got here!

So, as promised, here is the link to Sounding Board:
http://authorservicesnetwork.com/soundingboard/

Well what is it? (for those of you who haven't been to Writers' lately)

The best way to find out is to look here:
http://authorservicesnetwork.com/soundingboard/submit/

It explains what Sounding Board is and how it works. It's for readers as well as writers, by the way!
If you're unsure about anything please get in touch with me: maureenmoss@fastmail.fm

Thursday, 28 July 2016

Bloomin' Heather

There's been a lot going on with my family lately so I haven't been able to post much on
https://bloominheather.com/  but there is new stuff on Places and the new poem below is on Verse, not to mention the Spanish Summer poem on the front page.  Do take a look!

Heather Gingele

The Victim
Dark is the storm coming in on the tide
Dark as my memories, the place where you hide.
When love was young I lived in the light,
I thought I saw clearly what should be held tight.
With arms spread out wide for all coming my way
I’d bring all my dreams to the plain sight of day.
I thought I had choice and I thought I knew best,
Some things I’d discard, some clutch to my chest.
But some people stick fast and won’t let you go
And some fly away though you’re calling out no.
I thought I’d be stronger for all I’ve been through,
I’d put it behind, what happened with you.
But I’m still that person who suffered for love
Scars aren’t buried deep, they are here up above.
I may smile at the world but it still calls me sad;
I may look after myself but it still whispers mad.
I make choices each day, but they are a small thing.
I can no longer choose to let my heart sing.
Dark is the storm coming in on the tide
Dark as my memories, the place where you hide.

Monday, 18 April 2016

Bloomin' Heather


I wrote the verse below some years ago but I still feel this way. Even if you start out wanting fame and fortune, you can only write what is true for you while at the same time a writer needs a reader.   It is currently on the home page of my new website/blog at https://bloominheather.com/   Please take a look!

I want to be a writer and do what writers do:
Sign autographs, make loads of dosh, have discussions on BBC2.

I want to be a writer and see what writers see;
Right through the dross to the golden gloss bought by Tesco and ITV.

I want to be a writer and say what writers say,
With incisive thoughts and snap reports on the happenings of the day.

I want to be a writer and go where writers go:
To far off places and behind faces, describing it all just so.

I want to be a writer and hold what writers hold:
In the palm of the hand, time’s grains of sand, life’s story to be told.

I want to be a writer, to be what writers are.
If I wield a pen and count to ten, will the words come from afar?
Or will they bubble up from deep inside, from feelings not to be denied?
Will they come out flat and need some work? Will I persevere, try not to shirk?
Will I find the thread I lost in bed at 2 o’clock in the morning?
Or will I suffer for art, feel the pierce of the heart,
And still leave my audience yawning?

I want to be a writer and live as writers live.

I’ll be one for a while, with a shrug and a smile, if you’ll read what I have to give.

Heather Gingele