Category Archives: Poetry

Poetry, Teggies

Leave the Pram Behind

A pram awaits in a cold, boggy meadow,

How it reached this dell alone, nobody knows,

Squirrels jump on its hood, a baby to find,

Robins search the frozen ground for a sock left behind.

Muddy footsteps a red fox spots in the straggled grass,

Leading to a mossy gate which opens up a stony path

Towards the foaming sea shore at stormy Aberbach

Where frozen moonlight forges waves from liquid glass.

The Welsh wind swiftly searches bare branches of lost trees,

Forgotten lonnings where hardy men afeared wicked fairies,

It leaps and rolls to meet a sleeping babe tucked tight

In a mother and father’s embrace, who had left the pram behind.

Actual footage of us three at Aberbach beach, after a storm. We did leave the pram behind on the path, as it was getting too rocky for it.
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Acting & Improv, Teggies

Teggies Improv

Improv Class for Mothers and Babies

Note: Article was published in The Herald (Mid-April 2025, Page 10)

Babies give more than they take. Although parenthood is not for the faint hearted, when was the last time you had so much attention from someone (hopefully your spouse)? I am curious about how we can strengthen our connection to our babies, especially when our shared language is not fully fledged. I also think mothers should support each other more, as motherhood can feel isolating at times. One way we can achieve these goals is through the art of improvisation (improv).

Ana and Dory in Goodwick, Wales

Improv is theatre without a script, where stories and characters are created on the spot. The principles of improv revolve around acceptance and building on top of other people’s ideas (Yes and!), listening and “treating each other like poets and geniuses” (Del Close). I have witnessed how complete strangers become friends by the end of an improv class, due to the nature of getting out of our heads and listening to one another.

What about babies and improv? My main experience is in attending and running adult improv workshops and drop ins. I’ve recently become a mother, however, so my attention has shifted to little people. I noticed how my daughter, Dorothy likes to mirror me, smiles at my nonsense talk and funny voices, responds with her own and explodes with laughter and enthusiasm. Why, these are the very best traits of an improviser! Perhaps they can’t articulate words just yet, but they sure understand more than we give them credit for! So, in the spirit of improv, why not treat them like poets and geniuses, to see what happens? 

The baby development books I am reading desperately, while baby sleeps, talk about the importance of relationships. Being There by Erika Komisar describes at length why a mother’s presence and emotional connection are essential in the first three years of life. Brain Rules for Baby by John Medina concludes that empathy, emotional regulation and clear and simple rules are ingredients for raising a happy, successful adult. The Importance of Being Little by Erika Christakis underlines the power of play and how meaningful relationships shape a child. 

Apart from all the name dropping, science shows that emotional connection is the basis of cognitive learning and the first three years of a child should have a lot of the former! Since improvised theatre is all about human connection, I’d say we should give mummy and baby improv a try! Be warned, it may not work at times, but in the true “yes and” spirit, there are no mistakes, just opportunities! Either way, you’re guaranteed a good laugh! If you’re interested in an improv group for mummies and babies, or even for adults for that matter (work in progress), please contact me and I’ll tell you more. Future classes will run in Ratby, but could extend further if there is demand. Let the babbling begin!

Email: westonanamaria@gmail.com

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Cufărul cu versuri, Poetry, Teggies

Micul savant

Dorothy si papadia

Degetele pline au cuprins cotorul cartii,

Paginile se incovoaie, rasfoite neincetat

Manute vii bat si trag de coltul hartii,

Rupand o tara de la un mare imparat.

Inca nu mergi de-a busilea prin casa

Dar te descurci de-a rostogolul,

Incetisor ajungi sa strangi tot de pe masa

Si pui in cutia mare, ca sa-i umpli golul.

In padure, crengi inverzite iti ating obrazul,

Tu apuci si tragi cu sarg de-o ramurica,

Tot copacul tremura, si te cuprinde hazul

Pana dai de-o tainica urzica…

Ochisorii tai au prins un porumbel de coada

Vrei sa zbori cu el in florile de mar,

Smulgi petale albe si le-aduni gramada

Ma astepti apoi sa ti le culeg din par.

Micul meu savant, acum te-a cuprins somnul

Gurita curioasa se relaxeaza intr-un oftat,

Faci cu manuta la nevazut, unde Domnul

Te calauzeste cu iubire intr-un vis curat. 

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Poetry, Teggies

Tummy Roll

I seem to be stuck under a table,

With four hard legs on a scratchy mat

My arms push as far as they are able

‘Mummy, help!’ I cry, ‘I need a pat’.

I roll skillfully all over the floor,

Finding loose threads from an armchair

I eat everything and get stuck in the door

My arms bend in ways like never before. 

I roll off the roll safe changing mat,

I wriggle and bend like an acrobat

Getting dressed has become a dance

With a foot in my mouth I give mummy a glance.

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Poetry, Teggies

Dorothy’s Smile

Sleepy eyes and dozy sighs,

The clock strikes three when I awake,

Soft murmurs turn into disquiet cries

And pleas my heart cannot forsake

The little bundle frets, distressed

As I rest her gently on my breast,

I must have missed the feeding cues

As she now stiffens with red hues

Froggy legs and sparkling eyes,

My baby sleeps, my baby cries

And when she graces me her smile

My worries melt for a long while

Her eyes squint, her nose twinkles

Her mouth open in a toothless grin,

Ah, how her light my darkness crinkles

And lifts my ever-drooping chin

A restless battle then ensues,

As little fists dart up and down

Awake fights sleep and often wins,

Her legs bend at every sound

Morning light creeps through the door,

Dorothy betwixt less sleep and more,

Oh, come to our bed, you’ll fit just fine,

No room for us now, rise and shine!

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My Little Adventures, Poetry

Mouse in the House

Skirting boards creak at night

With scratches and nibbles aplenty,

We knock three times and hide in fright

Wondering if mice ever visit the gentry.

Tick, tock goes the clock

At one, three and four,

Tim hopes he has fit a lock

On each and every door.

With baggy eyes we fall asleep

As dawn begins to break,

When a dripping noise starts to creep,

The mouse has left us with a lake!

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Formal and Polite, Poetry

Ten to Nine

To Lucy who always leaves Bath Improv drop ins at ten to nine.

Lucy, when thou art at your most fine,
You rush away at ten to nine
Bubbling baths of salts and wine,
Can’t be more tempting than the line
Which thou dost blurt out so divine
Leaving us for you to pine.

What lover awaits in the dead of night,
With palms unread for he keeps them tight
Art thou afeared you’ll cause a plight
And make him vanish from your sight?
Our ten minutes ache when your Zoom takes flight
As our once wise poems lose their might.

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Cufărul cu versuri, Poetry

Scrânciobul lui bunicu

Mărul din grădina bunicilor, noduros și cenușiu,
Șade-n umbra dealurilor de fân pline,
Florile cosite își dau suflarea de parfum sfios,
Noi ne dăm de-a tumba pe greblatele coline.

– Fă-ne scrânciob bunicule, chicotim îmbujorați
Bunicu lasă coasa grea și se pune pe urcat,
Mărul ascultă, îl cunoaște, își apleacă coama gri
Pădurețe sar pe pietre ca în jocuri de copii.

Brațul harnic și vânos învârte lanțul de o cracă
Și-ncet coboară parcă un pui de leagan dintr-o arcă 
Noi îl încoronăm cu scândurica de lemn moale și duios
Și ne-ntrecem cine poate să se așeze mai frumos.

Bunicu coboară lin precum vântul cald al verii
Limpede el ne privește cu lumina învierii,
Ia găleata și culege merele căzute-n iarbă
Oile behăie din poartă, sunând vesel din talangă.

-Hai la diresală, strigă bunica cocoțată în gireadă
Bunicu ia coasa pe umăr, nepoții grebluțele grămadă,
Numai eu rămân în scrânciob, privind mărul nostru în șoaptă,
Verii strigă, hai la fân, măi Anuți alună coaptă!

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Flowers and People, Poetry

True Beauty

Morning dew on sweet rose petals,
Awake thy mouth to-a hearty song
Though my lips are coarse as nettles,
They are wise and not headstrong.

Fresh and scented is thy gaze,
In the light of rising suns
Though my eyes are dry with haze,
They avert from charming sons.

I hope we meet in time of trial,
The outside oft reflects the deep
Where the soul soars from defile,
The body’s climb is very steep.

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Formal and Polite, Poetry

The Collector

Vincent sips his coffee in a French cafe
With a perfumed scarf and a creme brulee,
He watches people live their lives
With a pen in his hand and feverish eyes

A lady with the air of a delicate swan
Enters his gaze as she glides like a pawn,
To checkmate his heart, while his hand writes
And dashes three ticks on the page’s sides.

‘Dances ballet and plays the flute,
Can read for hours as an enchanted mute,
Her mind, as firm as her two bare toes,
But her heart is as wild as a mountain rose.’

Vincent smiles then strikes off the rows,
On her wild heart and hard boiled toes,
‘Interesting – but too hard to keep,
With a mind of her own that might take me too deep.’

He rips off the page with meticulous fingers
And folds it neatly as the feeling lingers,
With a shake of his head the paper slides loose,
In a box labelled simply “for future use”.

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