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When I visit your blog, I shall be posting as
where you can kindly leave a comment as before. But this has its difficulties.It might be better for me to have the post appear on both sites....
Unfortunately, when I post with the web address above, there is no photograph beside my name, but I'm trying to discover how to make this happen. No luck so far. If anyone has any knowledge of how to do this, I'd be very grateful to have advice on this and other problems, such as linking my blog to my website. Still working on this.
I should like to add followers to my website too, maybe my grandson
James Brinkler will be able to help me with this.
I'd love you to visit my new site and leave a note, so that I can see who has found it. Many, many thanks, but I know how busy you are.
On the title bar at the top of the website you will find the word Diary, rather than Blog. I think it sounds nicer. And I copied the title from the book
Virginia Woolf, A Writer's Diary, a book for writers that is well worth returning to, time and time again.
It's
Alex J. Cavanaugh's time again, a time to review what has happened in the last month and share. For too long, I have written very little of my sequel,
River Dark. I told myself that it was because my husband is constantly ill, that I hated sequels, that the book wasn't any good.
So I resorted to N.L.P., listening on the iPod every night for a week or so and have programmed myself to return to work. With a re-wired brain -good old N.L.P. - I now find that every morning, the task of recommencing the sequel is no longer a chore, and that I now have a more than positive attitude to the book. However, the wonderful reviews I received from you, concerning my poetry book
Kaleidoscope, also encouraged me to keep going. So thank you all.
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 5/1/2015
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Kaleidoscope - Poetry by Carole Anne Carr [Kindle Edition]
| £0.00 includes free wireless delivery via Amazon Whispernet
available from 1st to 5th May |
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
These poems are wonderful! I absolutely love them. They draw the reader in from the first line, and one feels not only totally engaged, but often greatly moved. Artistic sensitivity is in evidence throughout - pictures are painted with colour and texture and vivid appeal to the senses, all making for wonderful imagery and use of metaphor. To me this is a very fine collection of poems, which I find myself mysteriously drawn back to, such is the freshness and pull of the narrative.
Weaving youth to adulthood in a women's poems. 8 Jan. 2015
By Patricia Kennington - Published on Amazon.com
‘Kaleidoscope’ by Carole Anne Carr, is a story of child-woman growing into woman-child. Her shared lyrics become a vehicle to convey dreams, memories, hopes, and desires for “the more.” Through her poems, Carole invites us to relive and feel both the clarity and confusion of moving from child to adult. Her poetry encourages us to re-experience the poignant and the painful, self-realization, and the recognition of human failure. We return to past decisions, joys, failures, and the anguish of being alive and moving on.
Patricia Kennington, TSSF, Ph.D., Spiritual Director
My May Newsletter goes out today with this month's free book offer. I do hope you will sign up for this, the form is in the column on the right. It is my first attempt at such a thing. The interest rate in my first newsletter at Easter was 60%, so very hopeful. Thank you and hugs for being kind enough to get this far with reading my post xx
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/23/2015
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Fairy Tales ....from Kaleidoscope
she stares into the fire and weaves
castles, dragons, caves into stories
shutting out loneliness and bitter weather
remembers pages of well loved fairy tales, wishing
to be carried off to that land where things happen
and she is the princess, dazzling, beautiful
where the hot bellied dragon
gazes in awe at the sight of her
unable to gobble her up
wanting to be loved and take the hero’s place
and carry her off to his bed of emeralds, pearls
and other hoarded treasure
but knowing tradition on these occasions
she marries the prince, allows chaste kisses
for a place at the castle
years late, remembering the dragon
she sighs regret, wonders if he ever forgave her
and if another, gazing into embers on a winter’s night
made the right decision.
from Thin Time.... in the Shropshire village of Tong, a bad tempered dog called Fymm, who is many centuries old, makes a mistake and chooses the wrong girl to be Task Bearer. Chased by gargoyles, Alice reaches the Green Lady’s cottage, receives the first of her three gifts, and learns that she must enter the Other World at Thin Time. Her task is to bring back the New Year seeds before midnight and prevent the world from dying. With her small stepbrother Thomas, Ratatosk the squirrel who can’t be trusted, and Fymm by her side, she sets out on her dangerous quest. Using the skipping rhyme password to enter the door into the Tree of Life, she travels into the Other World. With the help of the singing cockerel from Tong’s church tower, and armed only with a stone and a gargoyle’s shield, she must face the three terrible Sisters at the Well of Wyrd and the fury of Nidhogg the Snake-Dragon. But does she possess the one thing that will protect her – a loving heart? For without that, she will never be able to return to her own time, and the treasure, whatever it may be, will never be hers.
‘The Three Sisters of the Well of Wyrd,’ whispered Fymm, settling beside me and pointing at the women sitting on the wall. ‘They are the Guardians of all the knowledge in the world. It is knowledge written in magic symbols on stones at the bottom of the well. Go on, Task Bearer. Speak to the sisters. Ask them to read the runes and to tell you where to find the seeds. Be quick, there can only be an hour or two left before midnight. Thin Time will soon be over.’
‘You ask them,’ I said angrily. ‘They are horrible. Why must it always be me?’
Fymm growled under his breath and I backed away, trying to keep clear of his snapping teeth, and not looking where I was going, stumbled into the clearing.
The three sisters saw me, stopped knitting, and stared at me through strands of frogspawn hair. Their silvery, fish-scale skins glittered in the moonlight, and on the sides of their necks were gill slits that flapped as they breathed.
They looked so alike it was impossible to tell one from another, and I stared at them in horror. There were bubbling watery sounds coming from their throats and they chanted, ‘Go away, go away, GO AWAY!’ Waving their strips of frog skin knitting at me, I saw the leathery skins on their needles lift their heads, their bulging frog throats croaking like kettledrums.
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/21/2015
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You old devil, performing conjuring tricks
in the bleak December classroom.
You ham act the nativity, roll up your sleeves.
The ginger hairs on your arms glisten
under the naked bulb.
Your fists scoop out manure, cleansing the stable floor,
warm dung drips between your coarse fingers,
as your sour breath touches open faces.
You revel in their reaction, forming young minds,
creating an hypnotic state.
Your stoat to their frozen rabbit,
you teach them original sin,
tell them they shut the inn door, and weave
a glowing lantern slide before their astonished gaze,
with towering Magi bearing bitter gifts.
Lord of your chalk domain, exhausted by your
matinee performance now replete,
you close moist fleshy mouth, replace the lens cap
over thrusting tongue, and Pied Piper them
into a leafless playground.
Years later, standing in that empty classroom,
the stage of your many triumphs, you look at the rows of
iron-runner desks, breathing the fumes from the
pot-bellied stove, and rummage in your bag of tricks.
Your hopes for your future, your religious faith, now gone, have you forgotten the Christian army you sent into battle?
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/17/2015
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from First Wolf...
‘Keep still, wriggly little eel,’ I whispered angrily. ‘If the men see us, we’ll both be beaten.’
This quietened him, for he knew about beatings, and I settled to watch the members of the folk moot with a feeling of great bitterness in my heart. I was old enough to attend the meetings, to join their war talk, but there was no place for me. With my useless leg, they would never send me into the forest to kill my first wolf. They would never think of me as a man.
Many nights I dreamed I was searching for the wolf, only to wake sweating, shouting, and filled with sick fear. The creatures often hunted in packs, it would be dangerous work, but I longed for my chance to prove my worth. Boys of my age had slain the wolf; they sat by right at the meeting place and pitied me. Their pity did not upset me much, for it was kindly meant, but some like Oswold, uncle Heolstor’s son, threw stones at me and shouted insults that made me burn with anger.
At my birth, my kinsfolk saw my useless leg and voted to leave me on the hillside for the wild beasts to eat, but Father would not let them tear me from my mother’s arms. He followed the teachings of the good Saint Cuthbert, knowing it wrong to kill a helpless child, and I was thinking it was a blessing to have such a father, when a sudden shout made me jump.
‘Godwin, what use is your folk moot?’ It was Heolstor, his face like thunder. Spitting angry words, he threatened my father with the ash spear. ‘There’s no king’s man to attend the meeting,’ he shouted, ‘there’s no one with the right to hold the spear, to judge what should be done!’
My father growled, wrenching the spear from his brother’s hand. An anxious cry went up, for only the king’s high reeve held the ash spear to decide right from wrong. Then clenching the spear in his fist, as tough as the hammers he used to beat the glowing iron on his anvil, my father gave so threatening a look that the men placed their weapons on the ground, squatting in the sand to listen to him speak.
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/16/2015
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from First Wolf..
Monks working in the fields, close to the beehive huts, ran towards the leeward side of the island. Others came from the long house, helping those who were old or ill. Abbot Higbald ordered them to seek safety in the church and protect Saint Cuthbert’s gospels. He ran towards the building, flinging open the door. Monks followed him, and as we hurried after them into the church Modig raced ahead of us and one man locked and bolted the door behind us.
The abbot seized a heavy, silver cross from the altar, and holding it before him, ran back to the door crying, ‘Deliver us O Lord, from the fury of the Northmen, deliver us O Lord, from the fury of the Northmen!’
There were heavy, running footsteps coming across the enclosure, men shouting in that strange language. Axe heads thudded against the stout, oak door, making me shake with fright. There were terrifying screams. I smelled burning thatch, there was a terrible crackling and a frightening whoosh above my head. Thick smoke drifted under the door, swirling round my feet.
‘Quick,’ an old monk shouted at me, the one who sent poor Desmond to his death, ‘follow me.’
He hurried as fast as his old body would allow and ran to the altar. Snatching up the book covered with Juliana’s jewels, he thrust it into my hands and cried, ‘This is more precious than your life – you must bring it safely to the monks at the White Church – close by the monastery at Durham.’ Then picking up a tall candlestick, fear giving him strength, he swung it above his head, smashing the coloured glass in the high window above the altar.
Screams from the enclosure froze my blood. Modig was barking, the church door splintering. The old monk peered through the wreathing smoke towards the door, grabbed me by my tunic, and shouted, ‘Swear you’ll do this. Swear on the holy book that you will guard it with your life!’
He seized my wrist, slamming my hand hard onto the surface of the gospels, the jewels digging into my flesh, and I cried, ‘I swear! I swear!’
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 4/14/2015
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Lindisfarne, an island off the coast of Northumberland, is also known as Holy Island, and it is where part of my children's book First Wolf is set...
from the book blurb:
It was Toland's twelfth year of life when his father hurled the wolf's head at the mighty Eorl Uhtred, bringing his childhood to a violent end. These were dangerous times, with people driven from their settlements, tribal wars, and bands of robbers on the roads, but Toland must keep his solemn promised to save the Lindisfarne Gospels from the Vikings, protect his family and find his father. With is faithful hound Bodo, he sets off on his quest through Anglo-Sazon Northumbria and his many adventures lead him into the fortress of Bamburgh, to the mysterious hermit on Inner Farne, the mystery of the stolen jewels, a blood debt, and a terrible discovery at the White Church...
Afraid to return to the road, I set off through the sand hills, but it was difficult with my feet sinking deep in the wind-swept dunes. Weary, and my leg aching, I was glad to reach the damp, hard-packed sand of the bay and see the island of Lindisfarne at last.
The crossing place was a long narrow road made from a pile of rocks, with stakes driven deep to show the way. Thinking I might soon be safe, I hurried towards it. It didn’t seem far, and I limped as fast as I could, but with growing alarm realised the tide was moving swift in silent ripples towards me. It was coming from many directions, each dark sheet of water criss-crossing another, creeping around my feet. I backed away, but the advancing tide surrounded me, rising above my ankles and filling my boots.
The speed of the water was frightening. It was already up to my waist, and I fought to escape its powerful tugging. I turned and found I was far out in the bay and visible from the road. I started to wade back towards the dunes as fast as I could, but the sea slowed me down, and I hadn’t gone far when I heard a shout.
A small group of horses had stopped on the road. One rider was galloping across the beach towards me, clumps of sand flying from his mount’s hooves. The sucking tide was almost up to my shoulders. Men were shouting and pointing in my direction. A rider urged his horse chest high into the water, but before he could reach me, a wave knocked me off my feet and carried me out to sea.
I let out a cry of fear, salt water slopped into my mouth, and powerful currents took me further down the coast. The sea soaked my woollen cloak and wrapped it around me. I thrashed about, desperate to find sand under my feet, but I was out of my depth and sinking. I kicked hard with my one good leg, fighting to keep my head above water. I’m a strong swimmer, but not strong enough to fight the weight of my wet clothes and the power of the tide. It was carrying me further along the coast. I struggled to free myself from my cloak, but my brooch pin bent, it wouldn’t open.
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 1/13/2015
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River Dark - Chapter One - A Terrible Enemy
 |
| Copy of 18th century painting, help by Ironbridge Museum |
|
If I’d known I would be hunted down like a criminal, I would have turned away from Atterley Hall the moment I heard that horrible screaming. But this was the first day of my new life, I wasn’t going to give up now, and as the wintery sunlight broke through the early mist over the parkland, I took a deep breath, charged through the archway into the stable yard, and saw a huge black stallion rearing up, thrashing the air with his hooves.
Shrieking with anger, the horse began a furious dance. Swinging his body from side to side, he tried to shake off a small, grizzled haired man who clung grimly to the leading rein, his riding boots sliding on the damp cobbles. But he was no match for the angry beast, despite his square, heavy body and big fists, and unable to control the stallion, he punched the animal’s neck, making the creature wilder than ever.
Now bellowing in anger, the horse gave a violent twist of his spine, flung the terrified groom into the air, and I watched in horror as he landed cobbles on the cobbles with a sickening thud. With a furious prancing motion, the stallion clattered the cobbles and reared again. He was about to bring his enormous weight crashing down on his tormentor, and I frantically waved my arms and shouted, ‘Thunder, don’t!’
Ready to be Christmas storyteller, hence the headdress.
It was videoed, so hope to post a clip. So many people enjoyed the performance and were kind enough to say so.
Wish I could spend time as a professional story teller - suppose I am in a way with my children's books - there is never enough time to do everything.
A Very Happy Christmas from myself and my family to you and those you love xx
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