The Maiden Quartet



Stood in Assembly
Tension in the back of my neck
I thought everyone would notice
How my head
Trembled on its stem.

Someone told me I’d been
Left on the shelf.
Up there in the dust
I hardly knew myself.

Walked out of school on the last day
Disappeared from memory.

0DD3C668-E913-456E-810F-9932750DDCDCMy sociology teacher
Once told me I was beautiful
I can’t remember
In what context
But it was during a group meal
On a college trip to Cambridge.

CF458272-6ED8-4BE2-A4F3-6DCE9B789709I left home
And went to sleep on my sister’s floor.
Sometimes she let me sleep in her bed
If she was bringing someone back
And needed time to decide
But then I had to move again
In the middle of the night.

Sitting in a crowded room,
The air thickened by a smoky haze
Dustmotes danced on rays
Music played, top volume.
There were endless cups of tea.
I never knew what to say.


My sister accompanied me
To the family planning clinic
Saying I should always be

It was on a blue and yellow day
When I met him.
We clashed eyes in a noon-time club.
My sister was there, we both knew his brother
I felt he and I
Recognised each other.
We fell out of the dim interior
Into sunlight, traffic noise
And Saturday shoppers.


I felt the hairs on his arm brush mine
As we walked side by side
On the busy street.
Sunshine forced my eyes into a squint
And tiny stones from the pavement
Got caught between my sandal soles
And my bare feet
But most of all I was aware
Of our electric arm hair.

when it was perfect

I wore a belted shirt
With knees-ripped jeans
My hair henna-red.
His t-shirt sparkled white,
And he carried a leather jacket
The sun made a golden halo
Around his head.


We chatted, glanced shyly at each other
And smiled
Weaving our way through crowds
On the summer Saturday streets.
When were young
And not quite holding hands.



With the radio she sings Sail Away
Rocking with her arms around herself,
Forgetting the damp laundry in the hallway but

Remembering his fingers on the keyboard
And later on her skin.
When the children are away
She’s a renewed maiden
She dances now like she danced with him
When he told her she was so tempting


Gripped her hand so tightly
She felt his fingers on her bones
Honey, sail away with me
But she was tied to family and home
The youngest of her children only three.

Clouds threaten the perfect sky
She lugs the basket onto the trodden grass,
Thinking of insects underfoot
Going about their daily business.
A wren flits from the birdhouse in a tree.
She lifts her arms to the washing line
Feels the first spots of rain
Too late now to get the laundry dry
But she hangs it out anyway
Takes the empty basket back inside.

garden fig final

A text pings from her mobile
Sorry, I won’t be there this weekend
He says there’ll be an email to follow
She steps over disappointment like the
Children’s toys,

Hugs herself again,
Thinks about tidying
But there’s too much crap to sort through.

She flops down on the sofa
Hands pressed into eyes, to stop the crying.


He burrowed into her shoulder
As they lay on this sofa
The last time her children were away
He’d said: You’re just so likeable
But it hadn’t been enough
To make him stay.
They’d all used similar terms: Soft as shit,
And: You’re just too nice
As if this was the crime for which she’d pay.


A woman sings on the radio
In a voice like liquid
Rain flicks on the windows and
She watches it stream down the glass.
Now men will want her, the words go,
‘Cause life don’t haunt her
But neither line is true.

And all the time she’s crying
The washing’s still out on the line,
Not drying.


Two years out of marriage, she’d
Made it back to maidenhood
Everything closed,
To be reopened.
Older but no less naïve, if not more.
Four children, four!
Proved to be more of a barrier than she’d thought.


In the hot tub
He said he had to take the risk
Of never finding another like her
Whose children were too many. In the end
He chose a woman with only two
And twice her income.
That loss, of self-esteem, of hope,
Was the one that hurt the most.


Singing water, singing hands,
Hot water on the underside of her skin
The cold rain glancing from above,
Leaves trapped in a circle of light
Around the hot tub.

BSS poetry
They sat there late into the night,
Are you all right there, honey? Sail away with me, honey.
But she was too late.
I most definitely do love you, he said
But I have chosen Kate.


The last things she saw of him
Were the buttons on his uniform
And when she later heard an aeroplane
She buried her face in her own hair,
Refusing to look into the air.

After a train journey home, for the first time
She took the grief into her family.
She resisted its rise into resentment,
Like yeast in dough.
She battled its attempt to subsume her
And she wrestled it to the ground.

field (2)


When she comes in the house
You shout Hi
But you hear the door slam
And it makes you want to cry
Because you know the confusion
Behind her face
You were once there
In a similar place.


She thinks she hates you
But you know you love her
And the one thing that’s sure
Is that you’re her mother
She’s so raw and tender
You try hard not to break her

But you still feel hurt
When she places cold remarks
Around your fragile motherwall
More than anything
You want to hear her laugh and sing
Like she did when she was small


But there’s no sticking plaster
Or magic kiss
Or tell-her-a-story that will fix
The broken world that makes her sad
And that makes you mad.

Then she sees your anger
And she thinks it’s against her
But it never was
It was always because
You were powerless
To help her.
All you could do
Was strengthen your motherwall
For her to beat her fists upon
And get stronger.

face traces1 (2)

You’re proud of her
But nervous too
Because she’s a carbon copy of you
And you wouldn’t know what to do
If she did all the things you used to.

You wish she was stronger
Than you think you were
And you wish she could see
That she’s so lovely
Like you never felt.


You want her to embrace
All the things you couldn’t face
But most of all you hope
She stays safe.

You want her to be happy
Whatever she does
Everything’s her own choice
She has her own voice

dustmotes on suns rays

The one fear you had
Was that she’d be taken advantage of
Mentally or physically.
You feared that she
Wouldn’t be accepted for
The person she is.

You hope you can teach her about relationships
But you want her to make decisions that are sage
And not take on the worries
You had at her age.


You wonder who she’ll choose
To partner her in life
And hope that it’s someone
Who walks alongside
Without an agenda of dominance
Or pride.

You picture the babies that she
Might have
And if so, hope she experiences the joy
And love
And accomplishment
Of maternal nourishment
Like you did.



You hope she remembers
You’ll always be there
For a reboot or some mothering care
And that it
Gives her the strength not to
Take any shit.
From anyone.


We carve water with our hands
Shape ripples
Plough channels.
We inhale,
We exhale,
We leave a trail of bubbles
In our wake.


We sculpt the silver element
Painting light on its surface
Drawing lines in it with our bodies
We stroke the waves.
Groom the water
That filters like silk
Through our fingers.

We inhale,
We exhale.

Our bodies feel weightless,
Slipping like seals
Through the foam.
We reform
Emerge on dry land
Like a new body
Has taken us over.

It works differently,
Giving more time
To our mind.


We can’t see clearly without our glasses on
Though clearer, in some ways
Than ever before.
We don’t mind the folds of flesh
As we undress.
We let our bodies fall
Into place
When fabric releases us.

We’re not here to people-please
In our nakedness.
We have dry skin,
Red patches appearing,
Feminine ‘issues’
And hot flushes
As we
Into the remade maiden.


In the changing room we once
Held a baby on the bench with our knee
While we
Struggled to dress ourselves,
A toddler pulling at our clothes.

Now we shed our clothes
With hands free,
Thinking of how
Those days
Seem no more than a moment ago.

Wrapping our spectacles carefully
To avoid breakage
We close the locker.
Fumble our way to the pool-entrance
And slip into the water.



Poem (2018) and all artwork (c) Tracey Scott-Townsend. Images of performance captured from phone video-footage shot by Kirsten Luckins of Apples & Snakes. @applesNorth @arcstockton #Derangedpoetesses #maidens

Performance “MAIDENS” for Deranged Poetesses, an Apples & Snakes commission at Arc Stockton on 10th March 2018.





















































On accepting the inevitable…

The good, the bad (and the ugly) of ageing: Terry Tyler’s thoughts

I constantly remind myself to maintain a positive attitude on getting older because my older sister’s life finished when she was six years younger than I am now.  Something that never fails to shock me. Maybe there’s a new blog post in that. But for now, I’m focussing on women’s views on their own ageing process. I recently wrote a post for A Daydreamer’s thoughts blog. You can read it here: My thoughts



The Eliza Doll by Tracey Scott-Townsend

Thank you to Sharon Booth for this wonderful review of The Eliza Doll!

Sharon Booth

Ellie can’t work out whether she’s running away from the past or towards a future she always felt she should have had. She left university and had baby after baby without even meaning to. But it was her third child she blamed for ruining her life.

Now her children have grown and Ellie is on her own. She shocks everybody by selling her home and moving into a converted van to travel the country selling handmade dolls at craft fairs.

It can be lonely on the road. Ellie has two companions: her dog, Jack, and the mysterious
Eliza who turns up in the most unexpected places. At every encounter with Eliza, Ellie feels as if she’s standing again in the aching cold of a waterfall in Iceland, the sound of crashing water filling her with dread.

Ellie can’t change the past. But is it really too late to rectify the…

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A day in the life of author…Tracey Scott-Townsend

Thank you to Louise Jensen for giving me the opportunity to rave about my beloved shed, which I have now left behind in Lincoln *weeps a little*. But at least I have my lovely pseudo-shed at my new home in Hull…

fabricating fiction

Hmm writing in a ‘shed’ with no wi-fi distractions may be the key to being more productive. Tracey, do share more about your day.

For a good deal of my writing life (which began full-time in 2010) my office has been a shed in the garden. As it happens I’m currently packing up my shed in preparation for a house move so I’m having to work in the house. I find this distracting, due to my two captivating rescue dogs wanting my attention so much of the time. I also have other intrusive business going on at the moment, mostly stemming from the house sale.

At our new home in Hull I’ve created a cosy ‘shed’ by dividing an alcove off from the main part of the spare room. I hope I feel secure and isolated (in a good way) in there in the same way as I do going…

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Not Invisible 

In my young-adult days I was frivolous and needy
As a young mother I tried too hard to please.                  Now I’m adventurous,                                                 Successful and cheeky

And I have been for a while.

My motorcycle helmet has taught me                                That I don’t always have to smile.
She replaces the helmet on her steel-grey hair                 And sits confidently back in her chair.                        Beneath the visor you can tell her                                     Mind is on her next adventure.

Friday afternoons in my art college days                                I chose fabric from the market,                                             The next woman says.

I made a complete Saturday night outfit                          Right down to my hat and bag,                                     Without a pattern, Just my imagination.                                 I designed myself the way I wanted to be.

Like me, says another. I still have some of my curtain-fabric skirts, I loved the big, bold prints.

I travelled to different cities to see my favourite bands        I danced all night                                                                     And slept at railway stations                                         Because there were no trains home.

My younger self was restless and spontaneous.               Now that I’m older I don’t feel much different               Apart from the Arthritis!

I piloted an aircraft, solo when I was seventeen, the fourth woman tells.                                                                Now I’m seen as the village wise-woman,           Resourceful, reliable, helpful and calm.                              She smiles                                                                                   But that achievement was what made me feel I could do anything.                                                                                    She sits down.

I was a punk, says one.
I trekked up the Lost World Mountain, says another.      The rest of the women join in –

I took the magic bus to India,

I lived in a commune by the sea,

I abseiled down the Humber Bridge,

I was the one who climbed the highest tree.

Then they spent years known as Mother, known as Wife, As the woman at the supermarket till, As the one who organised the bills.

They were the accountant, the doctor, the solicitor, the receptionist. The bra-fitter at Marks & Spencer’s, The teacher, The nurse at the hospital, The door-factory manager.

They were the one who made sure your belly was full And you went to bed on time. You thought they’d be lonely when you all left home                                              And their retirement party at work was done

But now they’ve stepped out of their roles                  They’re on a roll.

They’ve started all over again                                               And it’s just like when they were young.

It doesn’t matter that their backpack’s now on wheels   And they have to remember to take their pills                 And they wear comfy trainers instead of heels               And they don’t drink as much as they did                  Because it goes straight to their head.

When their busy day is done                                                The best treat they can think of is to go to bed

With a book.


I said a book.

Tracey Scott-Townsend 2017

Nationality by Valerie Pate

A poem about belonging by my Friend Valerie. Courtesy of

Celebrating Change


The TV presenters are shouting.

Every line they deliver is accentuated by dramatic pauses and rising crescendos.

I scan the jammed airport terminal,

attempting to spy a man under forty not clad in a cap.

The voices are too loud; jarring.

I have returned once more to the U. S. of A.

“Welcome home,” they beam at immigration.

The stamp comes down upon the page of my passport,

signifying yet another Trans-Atlantic crossing;

but these alien surroundings no longer feel like home.

When had my alignment shifted?

My internal compass persistently swings me back to that island nation of

patchwork fields and cobbled cities,

cloaked in history and flush with culture.

I am gaping at my “light bite”;

freshly perplexed by the mammoth sandwich that spills past the plate’s edge,

as if boasting its own preposterous proportions.

My stomach turns as ruckus commotions ricochet around me; obnoxiously intrusive,


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Book Review: Maria In The Moon by Louise Beech

Maria in the Moon

Maria in the Moon is my favourite Louise Beech book yet. My primary concern for an enjoyable read is the believability of the characters. Story, although important, comes second to the author’s ability to immerse me in the truth of the world they’ve created.

Catherine-Maria, the book’s main character, is so tangible. She’s grumpy and difficult and all the more loveable for her evident faults and often unreasonable behaviour. She encompasses all those embarrassing times you’ve stormed out of a room and snapped the things you never meant to say during an argument. When all she really wanted to say was how lost and alone she felt. Her relationship with her mother (who isn’t her real mum) is painful and constricted and she suffers from amnesia of part of her childhood.

Every time I read one of Louise’s books I learn something. How To Be Brave taught me about Type-1 diabetes and what it must be like to be adrift on a raft in the ocean. The Mountain in my Shoe taught me about the intricacies of the Care System. Maria in the Moon brings vividly to life the aftermath of the 2007 Hull floods and how they continued to affect the lives of victims long after the waters had receded.

Catherine feels compelled to work the phone lines in a Crisis Centre for those affected by the floods. Catherine finds it impossible to talk about her own night-terrors and the reasons she feels dissociated from everyone around her, yet she longs to listen to the problems and difficulties of others. Perhaps it makes her feel that little bit more real.

Although she’s as close as she can allow herself to be to her flatmate, Fern, it’s Christopher, a fellow-worker at the Flood Crisis call centre who finally gets through to Catherine and helps her recover the awful memory that’s been blocking her emotional progress since she was nine.

I would recommend Maria in the Moon to any reader who loves a novel with emotional depth, strongly-drawn characters and exquisite writing.

The Blurb: Long ago my beloved Nanny Eve chose my name. Then one day she stopped calling me it. I try now to remember why, but I just can’t.’ Thirty-two-year-old Catherine Hope has a great memory. But she can’t remember everything. She can’t remember her ninth year. She can’t remember when her insomnia started. And she can’t remember why everyone stopped calling her Catherine-Maria. With a promiscuous past, and licking her wounds after a painful breakup, Catherine wonders why she resists anything approaching real love. But when she loses her home to the devastating deluge of 2007 and volunteers at Flood Crisis, a devastating memory emerges … and changes everything. Dark, poignant and deeply moving, Maria in the Moon is an examination of the nature of memory and truth, and the defences we build to protect ourselves, when we can no longer hide…


About the author: Louise Beech has always been haunted by the sea. She regularly writes travel pieces for the Hull Daily Mail, where she was a columnist for ten years. Her short fiction has won the Glass Woman Prize, the Eric Hoffer Award for Prose, and the Aesthetica Creative Works competition, as well as shortlisting for the Bridport Prize twice and being published in a variety of UK magazines. Louise lives with her husband and children on the outskirts of Hull – the UK’s 2017 City of Culture – and loves her job as a Front of House Usher at Hull Truck Theatre, where her first play was performed in 2012. She was also part of the Mums’ Army on Lizzie and Carl’s BBC Radio Humberside Breakfast Show for three years.

More about Louise Beech here

Order Maria In The Moon here