Mary J Thurlow

Mary J. Thurlow was born in California in 1970 and moved to Connecticut as a child. An imaginative and bright student, she was well known for her creative writing throughout her education. She worked for the Connecticut Post after majoring in English Literature at the University of Connecticut. Her early twenties were challenging, having been seriously injured in a car accident, which resulted in lifelong delicate health. A victim of not having health insurance, Mary decided to become an English teacher for the sake of benefits and job security. Consequently, she enrolled at Quinnipiac University for the Master of Arts in Teaching. Unsatisfied, she also enrolled on a Wesleyan University poetry writing class. She taught at Westshore Middle School in Milford, CT, Betsy Ross Middle School in New Haven, CT, Ansonia Public Schools, CT, and Grossmont High School in CA. In 1997, she married an Englishman, Nick Thurlow, whom she had met as an undergraduate student. They lived in New York City, where she attended a Writer’s Bootcamp screenwriting course. After the couple moved to London, they had their first son. There, Mary wrote a screenplay and continued to create scripts after their move to Harare, Zimbabwe, in 1999. After a spell in Africa, the family returned to London, where a second son was born in 2001. Her husband, Nick, exited banking in 2002, precipitating a move to California, where he began a career in the film industry. The following year, the couple’s third son was born. A devoted mother, Mary supported Montessori education and her children’s sports teams. Upset by politics, she joined the Fallbrook Democratic Club, where she began to take leadership positions in the State of California Democratic Party and in the County of San Diego Democratic Party. During this time, supported by her mother nearby, Mary continued writing screenplays and poetry. The Thurlows' oldest son’s conditional offer to Eton College propelled the family back to England, where the three children were enrolled at Lambrook School. With her husband continuing to work in the States, Mary's health deteriorated, resulting in a Cancer diagnosis and a cardiac episode. The boys went onto Eton and Wellington Colleges, respectively. With all three children boarding and eventually attending universities, Mary re-educated herself in England. Starting from scratch, she obtained another Bachelor’s and Master’s, this time in Creative Writing, collecting diplomas from Oxford University, the University for the Creative Arts, and the University of Kent. Abandoning screenwriting, she wrote her first novel. Writing poetry remained a constant throughout. Unhappy about the political climate of Brexit and COVID-19, Mary’s poetry became laced with current events. The poems from the collection 'Quite Contrary—poems in a UK election year' speak about how world events affected her personally, having upset her sensitive sense of morality. In 2024, Mary and the family pets followed her husband to Dubai, where she is now working on her second novel and continuing to write poetry. Her health continues to be delicate, but she persists writing, nonetheless.

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1981 –

My mother puts on the

evening news and talks to

the tv – a running

commentary of how

everyone is stupid and how

the people in charge only

mess up things because of

greed and special interests,

and racism and

homophobia, and I agree

even though I am only

little and should be reading

judy blume but I close the

book because it’s

interesting to hear my

mother react until my

father comes home and

she becomes quiet while he

praises ronald reagan and

the military industrial

complex. she holds her

tongue until he drinks so

many beers he passes out

on the floor and then she

tells me how when ronald

reagan was governor of

california he made all the

mentally ill homeless and

why is he even considered

a peacemaker when he sells

a billion dollars’ worth of

arms to saudi arabia?

probably because it makes

him and his rich friends

richer and that’s why wars

never end and killing

people will go on forever

because follow the money

and you’ll find oil and

greed and nothing ever

good ever comes from

that.

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ASHES OF A VALENTINE

Cut-up technique: text source: Imposition of ashes and eucharist, Common Worship Order One, traditional language. 14 Feb 2024.

We are loved, loves, we love – love

Grace, peaceful, peace in our hearts – peace

Dust of life, ashes in air, dust – life

Ashes of a remembered presence – fragile

Ukraine

In secret, sees in secret, secret tears – quiet

Nursed in secret, seen in secret – healed

Prayer pardons. Wine soothes – forgiven

Ashes float in cool, spring water – ashes

Gaza

Hearts love, whole heart, loved – clean

Live humbly; wash in love – bathe

Life transforms to dust – air

A silent heart keeps ashes loved – silent

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COPSE

London is a city of thickets,

all examined by me as I walk the dog,

looking for places to hide in case

I become homeless.

I search trees to hang a camping hammock –

not to be seen from the road;

I don’t want to get in trouble.

There was a time when people lived in the woods.

We’re not that free anymore.

I imagine going to work –

I’ll need a gym membership to shower.

I watch autumnal-crowned trees sway

and assess the danger of uprooting winds.

If I fell, would I live?

The dog pulls the lead to continue, reminding me

this chunky choccy Lab can’t climb a tree.

I’ll need a tent.

But the Conservatives are banning tents – and

I bet not one of them has ever searched copses

for places to hide if the worst were to happen.

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IMMIGRANT

I know the sounds of dusty walks:

The rattles of snakes, the howls of coyotes,

the screams of hawks, and the whizzing

wings of hummingbirds.

They recognise me too – it seems.

I lap watery boarders,

forsaking sandy Desert Willows

and sea swept Torrey Pines,

escaping school shootings for

my children and my peace of mind.

I exchange news noise

for bright green meadows

and soft deciduous boughs.

I hike through mizzle, deciphering

strange birds’ squawks and whistles.

These creatures don’t speak to me.

Do they judge my accent as ignoble?

I fear, no matter the years here, that

when buried under England’s ghostly sky,

its chalky soil will spit out my curious taste and say:

Even if a citizen, you’ll never be a subject –

atonal bones.

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SELF-IDENTIFICATION

I don’t identify with being a Capricorn although my birthday is in mid-January. In

fact, I don’t identify with my birthday – certainly not the year. I’m much younger

than I look. These wrinkles do not belong to me nor this extra flesh. Neither do I

identify with my parents – who are not as rich as they needed to be if they were my

parents. Because I don’t identify with my social class either, or the balance in my

bank account, or my hourly wage. None of these are me. Can’t you tell I was born

a princess? I identify as royalty born in a castle. That’s me. A Libra with rich parents

of royal heritage and a Tatler Magazine type of name – Cordelia. And I’m not feisty,

not me. I am like a dove in the palm of your hand – so gentle your instincts pull

you to protect it. And I’ve never been injured, abused, or dumped. I don’t identify

with being dumped. I am not a person who is rejected. No one would ever do that

to me because I am a dove named Cordelia.

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