Garyswordz

 

I have run writing and poetry workshops in a wide variety of venues to a wide variety of audiences, including children,  prisoners, and pensioners, to the committed, and curious. This was my first workshop at Longton, it was open to Church members, and those who had never visited the Church before. People with Faith often enjoy the language of scripture, the lyrics of songs and hymns. Yet the nature of Faith is intensely personal, and is rarely bounded by a belief in a single religious group. Expressing ourselves, rather than just absorbing teaching, can be a liberating experience.

The group that assembled for the day was enthusiastic and attentive. As the day wore on their latent talents emerged and shone. My method was simple. Engage everyone in a discussion about the possibilities of poetry and writing, enthuse and inspire with a rhyming and word association exercise, and then put what had been gleaned to the test by listening to a guided meditation by co-workshop leader Jane Osborne, and then writing about it.

In the afternoon we had fun, and surprised ourselves, with list poems, then explored two short poetic forms, Haikus, and Cinquaines. The former is a traditional three line Japanese form with nature its usual milieu, the latter a five line form, useful for nature and place, created by American writer Adelaide Crapsey in the early 20th century.

Haiku  are short poems that use sensory language to capture a feeling or image. They are often inspired by an element of nature, a moment of beauty, or another poignant experience. Haiku poetry was originally developed by Japanese poets, and the form was adopted (and adapted) by virtually every modern language, including English. The secret to writing great haiku is to be observant and appreciate nature. The form is three lines, seventeen syllables, split 5/7/5.

Fan Piece- Ezra Pound

O fan of white silk,
clear as frost on the grass-blade,
You also are laid aside.

 

A Cinquain  poem consists of five lines and one topic. Its invention is often attributed to the early 20th-century American poet Adelaide Crapsey.   But Crapsey’s Cinquain is a variation on similar, previous Italian, English, Spanish, and Japanese structures. Those few extra lines and syllables make all the difference, and  Cinquaines on a topic can be linked in multiples, classically as a Cinq Cinquaine. Her form comprises five lines, twenty two syllables, split, 2/4/6/8/2.

Niagra – Adelaide Crapsey

How frail
Above the bulk
Of crashing water hangs,
Autumnal, evanescent, wan,
The moon.

 

Lichfield– the Lichfield Poets

A cinq cinquaine

 

Both forms were largely new to the group, but all workshoppers were soon producing multiple examples of a very high standard. It did not matter if the forms were going to be widely used in the future. What did matter is that everyone became aware of what they were, and how they could be used, if needed. They are ideal when time is short, and a writer has a single idea, or emotion, they wish to express.

We then closed the session with another guided meditation from Jane Osborne to inspire further writing.

The objective of any writing workshop is for the participants to write, and write they did, here is a selection of poems by course members during the day, in random order

:

Haiku

Jane Osborne

Summer

Blossom sings from Rose

Melody measured by love

Mood altering essence

 

Dawn

Dewdrops whole and fresh

Before day break’s rise

Sun glow warms heart’s rise

 

Friend

Sense your fear friend

Heart racing, wide eyed, no run

Blacksmith grips the hoof

 

Rob Stevens

Wedding

Wedding bells peeling

Vows cut across summer sky

Confetti dissolves

 

Pond

A new silent pond

A second frog springs forwards

Splat! Winter ice.

 

Fay Smallman

The  silent sun rays

Closed briefly by a shuttered cloud

Once passed, shine again

 

Nathan Smallman

Belching pottery

How silent under blue sky

Weeds sprout from the bricks

 

Cinquaine

 

Jane Osborne

Boy

The boy

A man to be

More lessons, joy, growth

Boy man

 

Rob Stevens

For Cathy Grindy

Patience

With the whole world

Or the badly parked car

Measures out my humanity

And fails

Paris 1983

Bridges

and Bateaux Mouche

Red wine with water flows

Leaving two tipsy travellers

Adrift

Fay Smallman

In to

The sunlit sea

Flies the dark shadow of

A feeding bird, long beak agape

And strikes

 

Nathan Smallman

Victoria Pot Bank

Bustle

Morning Chaos

New day starts in earnest

The clatter of the steam engine

Snappin

 

 

 

List Poems

Jane Osborne

The beating heart, affirming all is well inside, even when outside rains

The breeze, profound, gentle, yet powerful enough to force nature forward.

Jasmine sweetened by the sun

The ugly criticism of others from an insecure voice

Reach within me to allow creativity to flow

Thanks for the love you gave me to grow wise

My son, daughter, mother, father, particles of the universe

Great bear, for presence, silence and wisdom

Victorian ways of structure, culture and fear.

 

Rob Stevens

Today

The space between heartbeats

Melted butterscotch

Eventual success

A rebellious pen

The tv remote

You here now

The first spring lamb

The birth of two sons

Listen more, talk less.

 

Fay Smallman

 

Kaikoura, where the mountains meet the sea

The flutter of a butterfly’s wings’ The scent of a rose

Good choclate

The silky fur of my cat

Wisdom

My mother

A mongrel dog

The day of my wedding

To listen more, work less, enjoy life.

 

Nathan Smallman

Only place where you can see the wonder of the milky way galaxy on a clear night.

The brush of your feet when walking thro grass covered in morning dew.

Freshly made coffee.

Marmite spread thinly over toast.

A soft silk robe

My light weight bicycle

Sydney harbour

 

Dawn O Connell

Touch the sky

Touch the trees

Push the trees

Feel the wind

See the path

See the bees

Mother nature, mother earth

The path strewn with bracken and sawdust

Push the trees, feel the trees

Feel the strength, the energy

From the soil feel the earth

Connected, united as one

Black and white, young and old

se before you as life unfolds

Like a new life as it fits into the world

---

 

 

Dawn O Connell – List Poem

In a group  of spiritually minded people

My grandchildren running, playing barefoot

Sweet peas

A banana pancake

Flowers with perfect petals

My knowledge

My son and mum

Butterfly

My 40th birthday

Don’t be so serious- enjoy life

Diane Blundell – List Poem

Clearwater beach when the sun goes down

Wind chimes in the gentle breeze

Rose garden in the summer sun

A fresh fruit smoothie chilled

My family and grandchildren

My notebook and pen

My Dad’s Dad, never met him, lovely man

My dog  Lola

Native America in the last century

Relax and don’t stress about anything

---

Diane Blundell – Haiku

Radiant light shines

An angel appears in view

Peace knows no limits

Diane Blundell – cinquaine

Sunrise

Appears in view

Shadows steal the skyline

Daisies raise their sleepy heads

Daybreak

---

 

Gary Longden

Made here

Pots and porc’lain

Fashioned by nimble hands

Wedgewood found fame amongst the smoke

In Stoke

---

 

Bright glare blazed outside

Patio bricks oozing heat

Our Saturday treat

---

 

Bob Stanley’s Poems

 

Home at the end of the day

A baby gently snoring

Rain caressing a lavender plant

My wife’s cooking

My dog curled up on my lap

Nothing – I eagerly await the adventure

The Pope to discuss the futility of his calling

Chimpanzees

The Elizabethan era

Go   with your dreams- some will come true

 

---

Calming chants

Soft disguised colours

Drifting

Serene

No thoughts of the here and now

No space

No time

Tranquillity

After

 

---

 

Imagine

the still cool calm

of a cold winter’s night

Broken by the hoot of an owl

Silence

---

 

The old oak tree stump

Rotted, ravaged by weather

Home to creatures small

---

 

Spirit

Is it green, purple

Does it linger

change shape

contort

spirit

does it drift in the ether

soar to the heights

fall to the depths

spirit

sanctum

oblivion

sanity or insanity

spirit

watching

waiting

caring

unseeing yes

guardian of us all

spirit is

what was- but

Where is your spirit?

---

———————————————-

 

My Journey

Here I am on a golden path

Guided by my mother

We walk together and have a laugh

And think a lot about each other

 

In the distance there is a manor house

Blue pink yellow and orange

Such delightful rooms

Where we can reminisce and talk

 

The grounds are full of lovely flowers

A sweet sweet smell all around

My mother set playing the piano

Building up some tremendous power

 

Now it is time to return back

A purple cloak around us all

A fine time we had together

Bye bye for now walk strong and tall

 

Depression

It can be a long lonely journey

But hope is always there

Emotions are  up and down

And just need to be sorted

 

Friends are always very kind

And understand my feelings

But eventually spirits are lifted

And I feel as if I am gifted

 

Its time to move on

And try to break all barriers

The way forwards is very clear

Be happy smile and be free

 

Val

 

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I have been to, and continue to attend, many poetry events. When I started out, I wanted to read as many of my poems as possible. As time wore on I wanted to listen to as many poems, and poets, as possible. How can you write great poetry without hearing and reading it? On one level, poetry events can be very similar, on another, the mysterious alchemy of place, performer and subject matter make them all unique.

 

Almost exactly forty years ago, after sitting my O level examinations, I made my first, and until last weekend, only visit to Scotland. With the Schools Hebridean Expedition, I visited Harris for two weeks, under canvas. We stayed at Rhenigidale, before the road went in. By train from London to Inverness. By train again from Inverness to Kyle of Lochalsh, by ferry to Kyleakin, by coach to Uig, by ferry to Tarbert, by coach along the road north to Lewis, and then a seven mile hike along the old postman’s track to Rhenigidale. It would be fair to describe it as some trek, and although it was August, it rained most days. A memorable adventure, my memories of magnificent scenery were tempered by the arduous journey and subsistence camping lifestyle, oh, and the rain.

Almost exactly forty years, and a couple of months ago, I also met Peter Kerr when we both attended the same sixth form in Bedford, England. We soon became friends, with a common interest in the Arts, and pop music in particular.

 

He was the best man at my wedding to my late first wife, and we have stayed in touch, on and off ever since. Latterly, Peter’s interest in the Arts has manifested itself in poetry dominated by the landscape that surrounds him on the islands. My interest in poetry has been shaped more by the seething cauldron of people and opinions that a big city like Birmingham produces.

And so fate drew us together once more. Peter was invited to be the headline poet at the inaugural Stornowords, in Stornoway, an event which he invited me to. By an odd combination of circumstance, I am sure to his surprise, it was an invitation I was able to accept. I could see an old friend who I had not seen for a decade, I could travel through a part of Great Britain unvisited by me, and I could catch and perform some poetry supporting a new venture. How could I say no?

The  journey by car was more straight forwards this time, the journey no less great. 501 miles from Sutton Coldfield, Birmingham, to Ullapool, another fifty miles across the Minch to Stornoway. We drove through the night on Thursday up the M6, allowing the darkest hours to swallow up the drab Midlands and North Western conurbations, the Lake District slipped by unseen, as did Glasgow, until we stopped at Stirling at around 3.15am. My conversation with the petrol kiosk attendant was surreal. I had no idea what he was saying, but my educated guesses that they involved pin numbers and loyalty cards seemed to work. A common language maybe, but his words appeared to have been processed by the sort of voice distortion device usually used by the BBC to disguise the voice of malevolent terrorists.

From here, our hard yards were rewarded. Although dawn was not due for another hour, the light grew on the horizon an hour before. The lush countryside  past Perth, gave way to the grandeur of Inverness and the sparkling moonlit waters of the Moray Firth, then the rugged might of the Cairngorms. It was as if a film slowly changed from black and white to glorious technicolour as Ullapool drew closer.

That last fifty miles by sea is a reminder of how far north you really are, which is closer to the North Pole by latitude than Moscow. A calm crossing avoided the attention of the legendary Blue Men of the Minch.

The canvas of forty years ago was replaced by the somewhat more agreeable facilities of the Cabarfeidh Hotel, providing a convenient base for Stornoway Words at the Artizan Café, barely a mile away in Church Street where the staff made extraordinary efforts to make us welcome and ply me with Harris Gin ( highly recommended).

 

Arriving early with Peter I had the chance to become better acquainted with organiser Mathew Nicholson. I too run a poetry evening, so instinctively I knew what was going through his mind. Would the venue be open? Would the staff turn up? Would anyone turn up?  Would the headliner turn up? Would they be good? Would there be enough open – micers? Would there be too many open -micers? Would they over run their slots? Would they have enough poems? Would the open- micers be any good? Would anyone perform anything grossly inappropriate? Would it all finish too early? Would it all finish too late?  I felt your anguish Mathew!

But I knew the evening was in safe hands. Mathew’s easy going, but confident manner, combined with a good grasp of what poetry is about, is the perfect combination for a host, and the audience, and poets, duly rolled in at the appointed hour. His own poems , potent and contemporary, were offered sparingly, offering the limelight to the other poets. In turn their poems, uniformly of a high standard, delighted and impressed. My partner Jane was also pleased to be given the opportunity to share her meditative poem “Pathway”, but was less than pleased when she discovered she was first out of the hat to read!

 

What struck me was how the landscape and geography of the islands shaped so many of the open mic poems, from landscapes to the intensity of personal relationships in island communities. My favourite poem came from Magz Mcleod, “We are the Offspring of Warriors”. It combined a confidence of identity, a sense of place and history, and a bold premise which is absent from the more cosmopolitan, multicultural urban centres. A cracker which I wish I could hear and read again.

Headliner Peter Kerr with Jane (left) and Mairead (right)

 

Headliner Peter Kerr delivered a substantial set which focussed on the people, wildlife, landscape and practices of the Islands. His poems are short, sharp affairs. In wild juxtaposition to the panoramic sweep of the geography of the area, Peter takes poetic freeze frames, poems which may only be a handful of lines. In so doing he has to make every word count, but can examine his subjects in forensic detail. Confidently delivered, it was a performance which did the event, the subject matter, and himself, proud. The following illustrates his imaginative imagery:

Hourglass Grey

A day when if the ferry

Pulled too hard

On leaving Tarbert

It would unplug

The sky to drain into

The waiting loch below

 

Peter Kerr 171/16

 

Then, some three hours later it was over. Mathew had kindly offered me two slots in which to read, my decision to start with a Gaelic phrase was a wise one, and my quirky English offerings about  (amongst other things) adultery, pre decimal coinage and Cheryl Cole appeared to travel safely and soundly. Tapadh leibh.

 

The trip has inspired at least three poems, about my journey, the Blue Men of the Minch, and the Callanish Stones and taught me much, not least that the Outer Hebrides, far from being a population outpost was in Viking times a communications hub. Whilst debate and discourse is meat and drink to urban life, the towering silent mountains, the deep, eerie lochs, and the Atlantic weather are constant reminders that it is mother nature who always has the last word.

Mathew intends running this as an occasional event. If you are planning a visit to the islands do find out if it coincides with Stornowords, you will not be disappointed.