Christmas – Page 2 – Skirtingroundmylife

Compromise

In this poem I look at how eventually even the most radical of us eventually settle for conformity no matter how much we may want to save the world. I’ve given it the title Compromise I hope you enjoy the read.

Compromise

She was always a radical

even in her teens

dreamed of life beyond for scheme

but not suburban contentment

she didn’t resent the idea

claiming it may appeal to her

at some time in the future

just not right now

it wouldn’t feel right

she was the type

who would always say it as it was

the one who told her wee sister

Santa Claus was a myth

on Christmas eve

claiming that believing would cause

more harm than good

though explaining that he lived in our hearts every day

rather than just once a year

dried her sister’s tears

she feared nothing and travelled

to far flung places

in her twenties she lived out of a suitcase

by her thirties she’d developed a taste

for a life of luxury

not for this one the drudgery of routine

that was fine for those like her mother

or even her sisters and brothers

but she had been discovering herself

from a very early age

craving attention at every family party

she was centre stage and she loved it

wherever there was limelight

you’d find her in it

an activist and campaigner

the self styled saviour of the scheme

holds on to her dreams

though having met someone

who can handle high maintenance types

she might be ready to put her own needs

before fighting for the rights of others

and embracing the life she once called a compromise

Cut Above

Yesterday on the 11th anniversary of my transition I attended Tinsil Tales which is for those who don’t know the annual Federation Of Writers Scotland Christmas Event. This is the story of my journey to the event and relates the story of how receiving a compliment from a stranger can your mood for the better. I’ve given it the title Cut Above I hope you enjoy the read.

Cut Above

It’s a cold winter’s day

running late I’m stressed

as I prepare for my journey to an annual festive event

the bus is crawling along the road

the burden of responsibility sits heavily on my shoulders

weighing me down with concerns and cares

I mutter about the unfairness of it all

this is shocking I murmer to myself

in a voice just audible enough to be heard

as the driver trudges along at two miles an hour

stopping at every stop

as passengers get on and off

going about their business

a young mum and her son

sit on the seat behind me

I turn my head around

to get a better view of my surroundings

I compliment her on her lipstick

she says likes my hair

her wee boy smiles

she says he’s fascinated by hair

when I suggest that one day he might be a hairdresser

she informs me that’s her trade

and it’s harder work than many seem to think

I agree telling her you have to be

a cut above the rest to be a success in her profession

she smiles at my suggestion as I get up to leave

my traumatic adventure completed

I head for my afternoon out

in better spirits and a lot less stressed than I was

believing that sometimes Santa Claus

sends angels as gifts

to remind us that the best presents

are delivered by strangers

and wrapped not with ribbons

but the kindness of comforting words.

Christmas Games

As Christmas songs are often recorded at this time of year and you start to see Christmas adverts on TV I thought I would share a kind of Christmas related football poem. It relates the story of the last home game before Santa’s arrival on what can only be described as the most demented day of a football supporter’s year especially if like me, you’ve made the fatal mistake of going Christmas Shopping before kick off. I’ve given it the title Christmas Games I hope you enjoy the read.

Christmas Games

It’s the last Saturday before Christmas
Buchanan Street is crowded with shoppers
as guys in football colours
visit the galleries
hunting for that elusive gift
for partners , wives, and girlfriends
a man askes me if he can go
in front of me in the queue
I’m in a hurry hen
but you’ll have all day to buy what you need
It’s quarter to 2 and the game starts at 3
I know I reply and I fully intend
to be in my seat before kick off
I show him my season book
oh I didn’t know he says
his assumption being that women
don’t go to paradise
unless a man takes them there after the game
and he scores more goals than Larsson, Lennox or McGrory
reality relates a very different story
these thoughts remain unspoken
there are some things a woman keeps to herself
though I tell him that like our team
I can play. a tactical game
when the occasion demands I must
we walk together to the bus stop
where we are joined by others
who like us are making the pilgrimage.
on this rainy December afternoon
in the hope of a nice pre Christmas victory
they also have seasonal presents ready to deliver
as we board the bus he selects the seat beside me
asking me about favourite players
I name some he expects and others he doesn’t
as we get to the ground the place is buzzing
we part and take our seats in the stands
the game is won with ease just as I thought it would be
and as those around me talk of putting up trees
we exchange handshakes hugs and cards
but when we hear Slade belt out the festive classic
at the home of the champions
we are reminded that when we play Christmas games
we have important goals to score
to ensure the right result
and that our own domestic treble of peace , love and harmony
is won by the smiles of those who matter
and lasts long after the visit from Santa

Letters

This poem illustrates one of my most vivid memories from my childhood which streched in to my teenage years. In it I recall how my maternal gran loved receiving letters from her sister in Canada. However it also relates a piece of family history which my gran shared with me which to this day is never widely known about by any surviving relatives and wasn’t even known to her youngest daughter namely my mother. The story tells not only of my gran’s joy at receiving the letters from her sister but the heartbreak which lay behind her move across the Atlantic. I’ve given it the title Letters I hope you enjoy the read

Letters

In her eighties my gran received letters

communication from a sister

who had left for Canada

six decades earlier

at a time when a Scotland was more puritan

than the country we know as home

my Gran never thought of emigration

when she talked of Chrissy

she said that her mother claimed

she had been banished to the colony

to save her soul from Satan

and the shame of having a bastard wean

in a good protestant family

in a privite moment she said

her dad had wanted his lassie to stay

but his ‘wife’ was having none of it

boasting that in her Londonderry

good protestants didn’t have sex for the fun of it

they did what they did to produce obedient children

loyal to kingdom and crown

knickers never came down

for thorns to be planted in the garden

this lack of compassion

hardened my gran’s heart against her stepmother

who she always viewed as a cruel vindictive woman

and the worst example of humanity

she had ever known

you would have hated her she said

as she read the latest letter to me

my gran had family she would never see

except in photographs sent with the letters

I know how much this hurt her

she told me the stories

she would never share with others

not even my mother

judging her youngest child

as too conformist to cope with the emotions

some family secrets would raise

I remember one letter from Christmas 78

it came with two packages

one of which my gran said

I had to open away from prying eyes

it was a surprise present for the girl

my gran had told her sister all about

the granddaughter born a boy

I enjoyed opening my parcel

which contained three pairs

of the most ladder proof tights

I’ve ever worn

in her note my great aunt said

there are some things a woman knows without saying

that need no explaining

girls and women talk in code

if they want to swap stories

they keep hidden from others

now I know what she meant by those words

I’ve used it myself to protect others

in letters and private chats

now in a time of the internet

my gran would have loved Instagram

but feel that Facebook has replaced the art of letter writing.

Legally Me

It’s hard to believe its been 10 years since I took the important step of legally changing my name as part of my trans journey. This is a highly significant moment for any trans person as it symbolises our desire to live our lives permanently in our acquired gender. The fact that I changed my name on the morning of Christmas Eve made that Christmas even more magical than usual and this poem which I dedicate to Alison Thewliss MP and titled Legally Me relates the story of that morning. I hope you enjoy the read.

Legally Me

Christmas Eve 2008

I make my way to the city centre

to the place where decisions are made

excited, I walked in to the council chambers

for a 10 minute meeting

as the councillor greeted me

we exchanged seasonal stories

before we signed the form that changed

both my name and my life

declaring my new identity

legal in the eyes of the law

giving me the best Christmas present of all

the one that recognised me

as who I’ve always been

and the girl who never got barbies

had the right to be legally me

Backgammon

My latest poem was inspired by Karen Jones as one of her late night posts triggered a festive memory. It has a Christmas theme to it and explains that sometimes your most important present might not be the one you find under the tree but one which is handed to you in a more private way. I’ve given it the title Backgammon I hope you enjoy the read

Backgammon

a game I never knew how to play

was under the tree for me

one Christmas day

as I pondered how to tell my mum

I didn’t really like it

she called me in to her room

gave me a lipstick and two pairs of sparkly tights

my Christmas was saved

though I still dont know

how to play Backgammon

Dressed For The Job

This is my look for National Poetry Day which for those who don’t know was celebrated as it traditionally is on the First Thursday of this month (October).

As a poet this is always a busy day for me so when getting dressed that morning I have to wear something which is both presentable and comfortable. For this occasion I selected a light pink top with a black skirt both from River Island.

I think this is a nice if not quite autumnal look but it was perfect for an afternoon poetry event in which I would be not only performing but also co-hosting. I selected the outfit with the audience demographic very much in mind and I’m sure my stylist the lovely Stacey McFarlane would give her seal of approval to my choice.

Well when co-hosting an event when many if not most of those in attendence will be older than you and it should be noted that I’m at later end of my mid 50’s one wouldn’t want to shall we say frighten the horses so I think this combines just a subtle hint that I could be going out somewhere later and what some may call an office look is the perfect outfit for such an important day.

As a relugar attender as these events I always try to go for the understated look just in case I’m part of the hosting team. There is however one very important exception to this rule and that of course is the festive season when I play my part in hosting the Tinsil Tales event. Well as I might be Santa’s little helper that day I may just decide to be a wee bit more daring. That however will be a story I’ll tell when it happens.

Till next time

Gayle X

Sequined Saturdays

As we approach the autumn equinox and the return of Strictly Come Dancing to our TV screens I’ve written this poem on the coming of winter and why it’s better for us girls to prepare for it by updating our wardrobes now than be caught out during the party season. I’ve given it the title Sequined Saturdays I hope you enjoy the read

Sequined Saturdays

As the rain falls from dark September skies
the first leaves begin to leave the trees
changing colours from green to brown
as the curtain comes down on summer
we rely on memories to keep us warm
as nights gradually grow longer
and days get shorter and colder
in an effort cheer myself up
my lipsticks get bolder
changing from the pinks of sunnier days
to a deeper shade
first plum then eventually red
it is now I begin to think ahead
to christmas and the party season
with the return of strictly come dancing
to saturday night TV
I dream of satin, silk, and sequins
as I get ready to dress to impress
I remember that autumn is a time for harvest
and I will collect it under the mistletoe
if I sow the seeds I must
after all if autumn is a season of transition
it is also a time of preparation
I trust my instincts as I plan ahead
arranging my winter wardrobe
to catch stars in the snow

The Gift

I write this poem from the heart as my personal thank you to a young girl in my local church for making me feel valued and included as part of the community. I won’t name names but trust me she knows who she is. I’ve given it the title The Gift I hope you enjoy the read.

The Gift

All eyes focused on the newcomer

judgement would be passed

on her outfit and therefore her suitability for the parish

a trans woman was not something

they were used to seeing in the pews

but this week’s news would soon become

just a fleeting moment in an ongoing drama

like an extra in a movie

she knew her role and was content to play it

the sidelines suited her style

until that first Christmas when a young girl’s smile

told her you have a place here

as part of the regular cast

and a gift wrapped in words

which didn’t need to be spoken

was a present no money could buy

Midnight Rainbows

In this poem I look back on a memory which I am proud to share during this LGBT history month. This particular event takes me back to the a night at the end of the 1990’s when in spite of being closeted myself, I helped a younger friend to come out by taking her to the old LGBT centre in Dixon Street for her first night on the scene. I’ve given it the title Midnight Rainbows I hope you enjoy the read.

Midnight Rainbows

It was nearing the 20th century’s end when a friend from university confided that she might be gay

in her late teens she didn’t know the scene

but was one of the few who knew

what at that time was my secret

promising to keep it

I agreed to be her chaperone

to a club I knew well

a place where she could be herself

and for the first time meet the real me

it was a dark December night that Friday

the last before Christmas

I was wearing a wine velvet dress

attempting to impress in a way only a woman would know

she said she had never seen me

smile like that before

I thought the same when it came to her

the shy girl had finally come out to play

free to be herself on a night she saw acceptance

realised her new normality and mine

we had walked straight lines till then

conforming to fit in other people’s shoes

but as Christmas stories were being spread across the world

two girls wanted fun and decided

the news would not come from Bethlehem

but from ripples made on the Clyde

when we both crossed the river

to settle in different parts of a new community

with midnight rainbows as streetlamps to guide us to our futures