Phil Golding

Biography

I started writing poetry after I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s in April 2005. I developed my writing skills through writing web sites, open mic performance and workshops. I wrote romantic poetry for and performed in a show called, ‘A Crow of Murders’ in 2007 at the Contact Theatre in Manchester. Whilst doing that I was completing the poetry for my first book, ‘The Taming of The Fork’, which was published by Authorhouse in 2008. It is both an informative and semi-serious look at coping with the disease. Having got the ‘show bug’ I wrote and directed my own 90minute show called, ‘Emotional Rainbows’ which looked at the different layers and aspects of society. It was performed by a cast of eight. The show was performed as part of the ‘Not Part of .... ‘Manchester Festival January and July 2008. The main thrust of my writing over the last few years has been children’s picture books. I have written four, with another three in the pipeline. A manuscript with three stories has been sent to publishers for consideration. I am, in-between, all this writing my first drama/thriller - ‘A Winters Dice’- It’s a tale about two English family’s who want to relax in the snows of the Canadian Mountains. There world melted into a battle with nature when a Grizzly smelt last night’s cooking as it wandered through an open door to where his friends daughter played... I am also adapting my poetry for six short community films based on subjects not normally openly discussed and are designed to stimulate discussion , for example ‘Domestic Violence’. My second poetry book is mid- compilation. Having Parkinson’s and a speech impediment has not kept my creative writing future on hold. Comments – from poetry web address - writeoutloud.net Bashfull Brian and the Waggle Dance andy n - Thu 15th Jul 2010 top stuff, Phil... got to see you are coming back here with some really nice stuff... this could be the beginning of a lovely kids collection i think (or possibly the collection itself with some good paintings and drawings inbetween the words) Jayne Halliwell - Wed 14th Jul 2010 Wowee! This is lovely. It's a brilliant poem for children I think and yet still be enjoyable for adults too. Really lovely. Would society find me, if I was not there? Cynthia Buell Thomas - Sun 9th May 2010 I think this is really good, Phil. It has a strong social voice, in a well-written, gripping story. It's great to have you posting. My ‘Rose’ in a Desert Storm Deborah Jordan - Wed 14th Jul 2010 "I want see the sun in your eyes, the way you had planned" beautiful words Phil, i hope she reads them, debz x General Zuzanna Musial - Fri 15th Feb 2008 I enjoyed reading your beautiful writings. All the poems are excellent! I regret we do not have the opportunity to hear the writer to read his/her poems on the stage… Nefertiti – Tue 18th Mar 2008 I'm so glad that you are channelling the negative stuff from your P.D. into wonderful poetry! Well done! Education As far as a related qualification is concerned I have achieved an ‘A’ level in English Lang/Lit. When I turned 44 I completed a Foundation Degree in Community Governance. I have attended several creative writing, and performance workshops. I have also benefitted from two ‘Writers Retreat’ weekends. Work Experience For the last 17 years of my working career I worked for Trafford MBC working closely with its multi-ethnic communities up to Management level. I now do voluntary basis in the north part of the borough. I also a member of and work with Parkinson’s UK. Favourite poets – Felix Dennis, Carol Ann Duffy, A Conan Doyle Favourite author – Wilbur Smith

Samples

Crack in the Curtains My family have finally fallen to sleep I hear the gentle snoring and sleep chatter Waiting for me on the end of my bed sits sleep I turn my head to look at my wife and smile Reclined, my eye lids heavily open and shut Thought stones skim the ripples of conscious mind Dropping off words and phrases along its path Damsel flies skip on the waters surface Each collects a letter, word and phrase in bags Each container forces sleep to retreat from my bed Match sticks prop open each eye, words cascade Moonbeams illuminate my writing pad and pencil Lifting my head I see an iridescent glow on my notes I reach for my reading light; hand merges with tableau The table solidifies as the reading light removes the dark Slowly I draw myself up leaning against the headboard Enraptured by beams my vision tracks to a crack in the curtains Locked onto the moon my eyes were transported into the cool night air Clouds were washed together by the evening breeze, hiding stars A crescent moon, like a giants toe nail, illuminates the skies The thought stones cargo stole into the draws of my memory bank Suddenly slices of recent past silhouetted against the house opposite I see pictures of me staggering; racked with pain; laughter Slides depicting possible futures for me and my Parkinson’s disease It’s hard to envisage a future with any degree of certainty The crack in the curtain offered a slice of possibility of a time yet to be It occurred to me that these could be’s are the same for everyone I certainly will have to make a few more adjustments to enable me Who chooses the pathway which provide the goals for my family and me At a momentary pause in my reflection it dawns on me, yeah it’s me If it wasn’t for Parkinson’s disease I wouldn’t have written my stories If it wasn’t for Parkinson’s disease I wouldn’t have performed on stage If it wasn’t for Parkinson’s disease you wouldn’t have heard to my poems ©Philip Golding 08/05 Starlet Blue Hands Blue hands clapped wildly, as if applauding the opening night of a new hit Broadway musical show, trying to sting them back to life. Millions of feet puncture holes in the virgin snow on a New York winters morn, like a magnificent herd of wilder beast, stampeding across the open savannah of a Central Park bathed by a fading neon moon. A few blocks away a xylophone of icicles cascade from the broken gutter of a rundown apartment building, on the corner of East 44th Street and Maddison. As the sun seeped through the concrete Redwood’s, tear shaped droplets wept from the icy face. As they fall, the film of each watery bead captures a sequence of stills, like scenes from a 1930’s movie feature, before shattering into a thousand broken dreams on the cold harsh sidewalks of reality. A shrill scream pierces the noise of swarming passengers and the hissing of steam train brakes at Grand Central. A body has been found frozen to the tracks, blue hands. I guess, her part of New York City sleeps now. ©Phil Golding 07/09 Cup of Tea This late lamented cup of tea Now as cold as cold could be Stares up at me so wistfully Why did you not drink me? He thought; an era of leaf duration When brought from a tea plantation To cure all ill’s if English nation He now sits still in exasperation I was brought to replenish thrust Like, when water on a desert burst Your throat coughs reminds of hurt The benefits of tea again you skirt So as you type or right; think of me That once hot now cold cup of tea Usurped of all its responsibility So sad to think it’s the drain for me. © Phil Golding 23/06/2007 To write a poem! Oh, to write words that may contemporise, creating living imagery behind reader’s eyes. To make spirits rise, rise past the eagle’s lair, lingering in anticipation, hovering, just there. Then with syllable, rhyme and hunters vision dive, dive, dive on pray, gorged on indecision. Armed with the skills of a milliner and seamstress create a tailored pictorial order, a literary buttress, willing to fly with the flagrancies of rich imagination, running amok, to join and rejoin community’s nation. To write pixel laden words, with the effects of a drug, that will rip you limb from limb, yet heal with a hug. Oh, to release the spirits, like smoke from fires, spiralling across sky’s, with wanton desires. Perchance to wield the pen, ‘mightier than the sword’, creating text, forever written in contemporised word. ©Phil Golding 10/09 ©Phil Golding 07/09 The Sky that cannot limit Yet here I sit, beneath the bower of an oak, late evening sun, setting horizon ablaze. My eyes scan the heavens, searching, searching, trying to trace your face amongst wispy clouds and the first faint stars, trying to make sense of a world without your magic. My eyes fill to overflowing, my cheeks glisten, reflecting tiny diamonds surrounding April’s moon. A faint breeze brushes my hair, drying a new formed tear. Memories trigger, your face fills my vision, I smile, as the day you first became part of me, the wind beneath my heart and soul. Our love like the Jack kissed by two woods that will never come to an end. The warmed pool of breath in and out as our hearts beat as one through all times. Should I accept, for the briefest of moments, that you have gone where I may not follow as I dance through the sky that cannot limit your smile. The last thread of sunset weaves its golden silk, through nimble branches, toward me, I reach out, l feel your hand gently holding mine. This golden weave will always warm me, and I know that we’ll never really say goodbye. ©Phil Golding 04/09 Lip-sync, lip-sunk My lips and voice-box had a fall out, last Tuesday week, on route to a verbal deliverance. Sounds plucked on vocal cords, swerved, uncontrollably, like lemmings on space-hoppers down flooded ‘Cavity Canyons’. Some crashed into remains of ‘Road Kill’, festering between chewing sites filled in by a fusion of silver and decay. The lemmings that made it, cascaded down ‘Phlegm Falls’ into a raging whirlpool that spilt over white cliffs. Power lines to the speech formulation flaps were sabotaged by Parkinson’s Pirates, only allowing a low wat, wat, wattage through. The result was a varying narrow gap. The steely determination of these vocal conformists forced some words through, only to be choked at birth. Prepubescent vocals that failed to find a way, smacked into the back of these flaps, landing spread eagled, drowned below the gum line. Words ‘lip-sync’, like lip-sunk. So today I greet with phenomenally functioning, flap formulating, calculatingly clear, vocal violin of delectable deliverance, until Parkinson’s pop-up pirates pounce. © Phil Golding 03/09 Is True Identity Is true identity just a mythological dream? A construction found in a thought stream Uttered to show degrees of conformity In a world that demands degrees of normality Where attempts to root identity only serve to derange When our society is fluid, a kaleidoscope of change Is identity buried at the heart, within the inner child? Described somewhere on some document misfiled Persona loses its lines of distinctiveness When you’re set adrift in a cultural wilderness Attempts to be part of a community with rights Ends up on street corners, embroiled in fights Where human emotions translate from inner coil Into bloody attempts to bring individuality to the boil ALL - Is true identity just a mythological dream? WELL THIS IS MY IDENTY, HEAR ME SCREAM Why do Mondays have to come around? Sitting on top of a hillside all swathed in green Cool air mops my perspirations I view the scene My mine drifts off closing the gate on this world Clouds beneath me, grey, white, tightly curled This place is a graceful special, on of a kind A sanctuary where I can free my mind Like a horse freed from stable to fields Releasing energy racing on land that yields Free from all the restraints of societies shackles A cruel world that just mocks and cackles I can’t be reached as I sore above cloud unfurled This is my space; I ignore the abuse being hurled I lay out my thoughts try to make some sense Taking my time with no fear of recompense Down there people fail to listen and learn Not being bothered by anything that’s my concern People are all to keen to intrude upon my time Problems pile around I get ladders and climb Getting time for me happens once or twice But as usual all this comes at quite a price By the end of the week my bodies one big bruise I’m all yellow, brown and black, no power no fuse When Friday comes I’m tired up in a knot So much so I’ve gone and lost the plot My weekend, at last, back at the hillside green Safe in the bosom of my shimmering tranquil scene Just when normality has, some how, been found Why oh why do Mondays have to come around ©Philip Golding 06/2007

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Blog entries by Phil Golding

Life is.... (28/09/2010)

Be still your Tears (19/09/2010)

Raise the Barrier (20/08/2010)

Feeling Small (11/08/2010)

Bashful Brian and the Waggle Dance - my story poem (14/07/2010)

My ‘Rose’ in a Desert Storm – my poetic song (14/07/2010)

Would society find me, if I was not there (08/05/2010)

(untitled) (06/04/2010)

Discoveries Highway (21/01/2010)

That Tomorrow (22/11/2009)

Read more entries by Phil Golding…

Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/philgolding