‘Eat, drink and sleep in Mungrisdale’ beckons the pub’s website. Now on Thursday 14th December 2023, at the Mill Inn in Mungrisdale, at 10.30am, you can add writing to the list, too!
Looking forward to seeing you.
Thursday 14th December 2023
Long time no post …
Long time no post, dear friends, but the good news is that the story and the stories of Mungrisdale Writers have continued during the course of the pandemic, post-pandemic, and onwards and upwards!
What a pleasure it is to publish details of our next meeting, at Mungrisdale Village Hall, on
Thursday 19th October 2023 at 10.30am
Please bring your own tea or coffee, your poetry and your stories, your boundless imagination, and joy in the renewal of friendships long held dear.
Angela writes in April 2020
Dear Mungrisdale friends
I hope you are keeping well and safe. I have been thinking of you all a great deal in recent weeks, and really missing your inspirational writing and our happy times at Mungrisdale. I am hopefully very much recovered after my operation and this week is Week 8 of that recovery, when I would normally be back with you all! So I thought that, if you are slacking in a world weary sort of way, ‘in the bliss of solitude’, lying on your couch (as in couch potato?) or raring to go, I would give you a little exercise to stir the old brain cells into action.You may have this email twice as I will ask Trevor to pass it on if he would be so kind, just in case I miss anyone off the list.
During the last war, housewives particularly were asked to write a diary of daily experiences. Some of these accounts became famous after the war and really reflected the privations of a nation under extreme stress. There was also humour, pathos and tragedy in those intimate reflections. We have become so used, very quickly, to the strange country of pandemic – social distancing, PPE, battling for slots at 11 o’clock at night with supermarkets, hand washing, Lockdown, to name but a few. As writers, it seems to me important to record these extraordinary times, even if it is a while before we want to revisit them when it is all over. There are unique challenges of isolation, the inability to see family and friends, or even to talk to neighbours. I would really like you to begin to record these times through poetry or prose.
For myself, I have found, having been in isolation with my husband for at least a month, and probably before that because we were in isolation since the beginning of January, waiting for my operation, I long to go to the beach, I am afraid to think about going to shops again, worry about running out of essentials, but at the same time by myself much enriched by silence and quiet time and stillness. The pleasure of a daily walk is intensified.
I will try to give you a short exercise occasionally, while we are all in isolation, which you are very welcome to do. You can send them to me directly. I cannot promise to answer or comment on each one immediately, but I will do my best. I would also like you to keep them in a file for when we come together again and we can tell each other how we have fared.
This time I would like you to write either a piece of flash fiction, strictly no more than 100 words, a short poem, or a piece of descriptive prose, and again no more than 100 words, on the subject of Lockdown. You can, as usual, take it in any direction you wish. Please please please put your name at the bottom of the piece and send it as a Word Document. It can be as personal as you like, and you can also tell me whether you would prefer that I do not share it. If Trevor, our esteemed secretary is willing, we can share some of them with you all.
Most importantly, I would also like to know from everybody whether you have managed to master Zoom, as I am planning to try to host a very short meeting – about 15 minutes, sometime soon as an experiment
In the meantime, my thoughts are with all of you, and my fervent wishes that you keep safe and well.
Warmest good wishes
Angela x
Homework for 21 November 2019
Think about Chapter 4 of ‘The Book of You’. List six or more things you really hate. Things you may find really frustrating. Then pick one of those things and write a poem or short piece (100 words limit) about your chosen hate.
Splutters
A Short Play
by David Clemson and Charles Woodhouse
Written jointly in a 15 minute exercise in Iona on Angela Locke’s May 2019 Writers Retreat. Denis is named after David’s childhood cricket hero, Denis Compton (Middlesex and England) and Len after Charles’, Len Hutton (Yorkshire and England)
Selection Committee, Haltwhistle
Stage Direction
Denis knocks on Len’s door
Denis: Morning, Len.
Len: Morning, Denis. I have put the kettle on.
SD
Denis sits at kitchen table. Len makes pot of tea.
Len: We’ve got a real problem here, Denis. Saturday approaches and we still don’t have a team.
Denis: That’s right, Len, and Haydon Bridge are top of league.
SD
Men ponder and drink more tea.
Len: You don’t think they’d lend us a couple of players?
SD
Denis splutters and nearly spills tea.
Denis: Haydon Bridge! Them beggars wouldn’t give you time of day even if stood by church clock.
Len: Aye, you’re right. So what are we going to do?
SD
Men ponder and drink more tea.
Denis: Haltwhistle isn’t just up to much this season. But we could reach out a bit. What about asking help up at Alston and then over at Brampton?
Len: It’s a bit of a stretch but why not? I’ll ring Steve in the Post Office at Alston.
Denis: And I’ll ring Bert at the grocers at Brampton. Then we’ll see what we can do.
SD
Denis and Len sit back and enjoy rest of tea.
Denis: You know, Len, Haydon Bridge won’t know what’s hit ‘em. They’ll be stuffed.
SD
Curtain closes
Summer Homework 2019
Make or find a photograph of a place with which you have some sort of relationship. Write something to appear, framed, alongside the photograph. Maybe a poem?
The Woman’s Own
How long does a river flow to the sea?
How high are the clouds in the sky?
How deep is the valley between you and me?
How many times can you lie?
You are a river that flows deep and fast
You are the sea and the land
I am the woman who still comes in last
I am the well-bitten hand.
How to survive when you can’t breathe the air?
Or live in the world unmolested?
How do you speak up? How do you dare?
When love is eternally tested.
If I was a tiger, then you’d be the gun
If I was a candle, then you’d be the wish
I honestly feel as if I am all done
Like I came to dinner, and I was the dish.
Lorraine Mackay
Leave Taking
Solid stone steps lead down to fields and flower beds,
Before this ancient house, a green lawn spreads.
But turn your head, look back towards the door
An anguished couple stand, as sun drops lower.
And what of the lad who’s saying good-bye?
His gaze looking past Shepherds Crag,
Is he riding away with a sword at his side?
Or wearing a khaki cap?
Is he trying to smile, and promise his mum
That one day, very soon, he’ll be back.
Can he see how the bees make the petals expand?
Hear the fountain that plays in the pond?
Will he care if the trees are cut down when he’s gone?
Does he feel any sort of a bond?
The house must have known many similar scenes
It’s stood on this brink for so long.
But the strength of the love when your boy takes the place
Of failed politicians, in war,
Is something beyond what we know of as love,
It’s not better than love,
It’s just more.
Lorraine Mackay
Pilot light
Pilot light still on –
when I find inspiration
it bursts into flame
Sylvia Stevens
Walking with Gods and Saints
Crete is the largest of the Greek islands and strategically separates Europe from Africa. Here on the southern edge of Europe King Minos once ruled; the legendary Minotaur roamed deep in the labyrinth of Knossos and Zeus is claimed to have been born in a cave in the Lefka Ori mountains which form the backbone of the island. To walk along sections of the south west coast of Crete is to travel back in time. In places, where the limestone cliffs fall vertically into the sea, the old sea level is clearly visible. Seismic activity has violently tilted the land upwards until it is three metres higher than in ages past. As well as a journey through geological timescales there are also events which occurred in more recent times. Shortly after leaving Chora Sfakion, where over 20,000 British, Australian and New Zealand soldiers were evacuated when the Germans occupied Crete during World War II, a walker travelling west comes to the steep descent down the cliff face to the long sweep of Sweetwater Beach. So named for the freshwater springs which emerge here after percolating from high in the limestone mountains. St. Paul landed here as the ship he was travelling on collected fresh water. Two kilometres further west from Sweetwater one comes across the tiny church of Aghios Stavros perched above a semi-circular bay. On a hot day a swim here in the silky waters of the Libyan Sea is refreshing before continuing the walk along the oleander fringed path to Loutro, five kilometres further on. Half way round Loutro Bay is the Blue House restaurant and their fish soup makes a perfect first course followed by tender artichoke hearts in lemon sauce. Take your time at the Blue House if you are waiting for the 5.00pm ferry back to Sfakia but be warned, as Loutro may work its magic on you and you decide to find a room here for a night or two.
Colin Dixon
Pilgrimage
Every year, when the air becomes sweet and warm with Spring’s green promise, and trees burden themselves with blossom and birdsong, my mother would take us on the pilgrimage. Sandwiches packed, the youngest crammed into the pushchair, we’d set off on the 5 mile round journey.
Stopping only once along the way we entered the municipal cemetery, and my mother would begin to unravel Time. Pointing to this or that headstone we learned our lineage and paid homage to ancestral bones.
Leaving the Joshuas, Jeremiahs and Sarah Annes to enjoy their eternal rest we headed west, through the council estate. And every year my mother pursed her lips and grumbled at the litter and told us in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t like this in her day, when fields stretched as far as the eye can see.
So it was with a sense of relief when we finally reached the track to the Hall and the green pasture of the farm. Surrounded by the familiar She would settle into the tale. This was where she had spent her childhood, an arm waved vaguely in the direction of the Hall giving us a false sense of ownership. Passing by the wall that separated the Hall from the farm, she pointed to the ivy covering virually every brick.
“I remember that being planted,” she’d say.
Awed by our mother’s great age we barely took in the row of cottages opposite where my mother and her sister spent the first years of their lives. And then, at last, the woods green and beautiful and effervescent in a bluebell haze.
Sitting by the beck she kicked off her shoes to rest weary feet on a flowery cushion and the stories would begin.
“Look, over there, that’s where Grandad found us the day we ran away because we’d lost half a crown on the way to the shop.”
Two little girls dabble sticks in the brown water, wrapped in a dream. And again we see them scooped up into their father’s arms, hugged close and carried home, their arms curled around his neck.
Passing Snotty Hill where She and her sister go shrieking down on a home made sledge we stop by the ruins of two tumbledown buildings. And another story, this time of the Victorian skirted grandmother who lived in one of the once-upon-a-time cottages. I gape as Little Red Riding Hood comes to life.
When, at last, we reach the path which runs through the centre of the wood, there is one final story. She and my father join other couples to walk out, arm in arm on a Sunday evening. Once more we see the girls in their Sunday best arm in arm with their uniformed beaus – for this is war time – heads close in happy conspiracy.
The last time my mother came here she was in her eighties. But as soon as she stood under the trees a younger self emerged. Spinning round on her heel, arms spread out she smiled up at the trees.
If she haunts any place, it is here in Judy Woods where on a windy day the trees sigh her name: She-Shee-She-lagh.
Kath Sunderland
A Tourist Guide to Torridon
A thousand million years. The Torridonian sandstones are almost the oldest rocks in the world and they were, in effect, an American import. Scotland itself was born and bred in the North, hitching itself to England who had made a long journey, from South of the equator, to seal the match. In Torridon you don’t need to imagine these elemental, earthly forces – you can sense them. And it was only the blink of an eye since there were bears and mammoths. Their bones are still here. This is not the land that time forgot but rather the land where time still lives.
Travelling down the gradually narrowing single track road, West from Kinlochewe, you will also notice a narrowing of the gap – between you and earth. You may arrive in the diamond-studded freeze of February or in June’s everlasting light. You may come for a daring climb on Ben Eighe’s Triple Buttress, a stout day’s walk over Ben Alligin and its horns, or a stroll by the Loch or a bracing dip. Whatever your mission I would recommend the T Room, open from Wednesday to Saturday. Black pudding butties, with an egg too if you’ve earned it, worth a Michelin star at least.
But it’s the presence of the place, the mountains, the sea and the way they breathe together. Their conversation will pull you in and it’s easy to forget who you were the other side of Kinlochewe. All the things which make you separate – money, job, the things you own, the names you are called by, the story you tell about who you are. Looking down the Loch from the shore or up on the Liatach ridge,you might as well be a red deer or an eagle. It’s easy to forget to take photographs when you are no longer an observer.
Julie Carter
Homework for 2 May 2019
After a time of quiet, go to a tiny patch of ground outside.
1 – After a few minutes return indoors to write an objective paragraph about what you saw
2 – Make a list of the things you saw
3 – Write a second paragraph describing your personal view of what you saw
Homework for 18 April 2019
Colin Dixon writes
In the last class session we wrote about a place/landscape that was very special to us. Angela has asked that we write about the same place but this time as a paragraph for a travel brochure. This needs to be an objective travel piece without you in it.
If you were not at the last session write a brief description of a place that is special for you and follow that with the homework above. Our next session is on Thursday 18th April.
Spring!
Homework for 28 March
Colin Dixon writes
The homework for the next session on Thursday 28th March is to write a little slice of a play. No more than 300 words and don’t give any stage directions. The theme is that of meeting an old friend. Angela suggested that ‘Brief Encounter’ was an excellent exemplar.
An additional piece of work for those at the last meeting is to carry on with the work done in class where we put a character in a particular landscape.
Homework for 14 March
Colin Dixon writes
The homework for the next meeting on Thursday 14th March is firstly, to write half a page of prose which contains conversation or to write a poem which is a conversation. Secondly, extend your writing done in the session on Thursday 28th February, about time.
Riversong
Stop!
Slow your pace to a meander
that I may spread my waters
like a sheet upon your bed
here upon my mossy lap take root
and reflect as do I
on the shifting sky
while my babel tongues
hush to still
slow
thought
this moment
now
trickles through your fingers
and moves on –
a journey ended
when only just begun
I with my spate and flow
gather the rubble from a thousand dreams
pour over rock
seep into cracks
and smooth
and break
and soothe
and make
tomorrow
today
yesterday
Kath Sunderland
Inside there is everything!
It doesn’t look much from the outside, but inside there is everything! Behind this heavy metal door, which once slammed across her fingers … eek! Up came her shoulders as she winced at the memory. On entering, it occurred to Katie that no matter what the temperature outside – hot as it was on this summer’s day- the temperature in her Dad’s workshop was always the same. She delighted in visiting with the workshop when it was empty. No angry circular saw, threatening to take fingers, good job her Dad was steady. No welding sparks, sizzling and glowing with a drifting stench that hits your nose. She felt pleased her dad cared for himself. No clashing hammer and whirl of wood- chewing drill. He has learnt how to use his tools well, she mused. Feeling full in today’s stillness, this silence had a back drop of a gentle hum from the cylindrical light and the beat and breath of herself. Katie began tinkering. Ruffling in the sawdust rug, to find discarded wood and opening oily dust clad boxes filled with treasure. Her eyes cast about in awe of myriad things, waiting to be useful and myriad tools, waiting to make use of things. With hammer and nails Katie turned her piece of wood into a work of art, leaving it in pride of place on the workbench.
I look at my feet on the floor – the sawdust rug is still there. My Dad’s workshop has changed location, how it feels has not changed at all. Every nook and cranny filled up and it’s all him. My Dad’s steadiness, his care, his strength and ability to make and mend, his big heart emanates from this place. I don’t come in here much now, although when I do it still fills me, Katie spent many an hour breathing it in and tinkering. Leaving her work behind, wanting to know and be known. I believe Katie achieved her goal, I do know and I am known. I don’t need to know anything else. I don’t look much from the outside, but like my Dad and his workshop – inside there is everything!
Catriona Messenger
Ode to Mungrisdale Writers
I am, I hope, attaching my Ode to Mungrisdale Writers for your perusal. If you can find time to read it, can you tell me how many well known songs, all favourites of mine over the years, have gone into the writing of the piece? There is a prize for the one who gives the nearest number, once the invigilator (Doreen) has checked your song titles, to prove your number is not just a guess. Love and best wishes to you all. Trev
Angela and classmates, you are the wind beneath my wings, it is not within me though to soar as high as the examples set each meeting, perhaps some of you are literary Eagles, whilst I am a Rook or a Crow. When away from the class, you are all, always on my mind.
Joining the class was one of the best things that ever happened to me, it made me wanna shout “read all about it”, but for once in my life I have tried to stay composed.
Once when I was little, I planned to be a writer, I told my brothers I’m into something good, we were young we were free, but I can see clearly now that dreams require talent in order to come true, so to avoid the highway of regret and the risk of Desolation Row, I am working hard get back on top.
However, if my mediocrity can make someone happy, it will content me, because for me nothing compares with the joy of laughter. Your love and support is lifting me higher, though sometimes I feel I am flying without wings.
I just can’t help believing that one day I will retrieve the book within me, otherwise no satisfaction will be achieved, this however could be the last time, I could soon be out of time.
Thank you all again classmates, I am writing this to make you feel my love and let you know that you are all I need to get by, you are simply the best, better than all the rest.
When the pieces don’t fit anymore, I could be on the dark side of the street, unable even to get my Mojo working. When my pen runs dry I will resort to memories, memories of all of you, realising that our friendship and coming together was just another brick in the wall of my life.
Trevor Coleman
Maryport Creative Writing
Derwentwater – Friar’s Crag
Sitting above you, my feet on rock,
My bottom on a thoughtfully placed bench.
I ask you…
And you wash over me.
The sound of your cells colliding,
It is the buzz of connection.
The voice of the world,
All its cells moving together,
Including mine.
You flow over and through me,
Joining us,
We are one.
All at once – bonded together.
Free of separation,
I am one with the world,
As are you.
This tingling dance of life,
Moves me!
Swiftly and easily,
Circulating, fluidly,
Through my flesh
And hard bones!
How I delight in flowing like you do.
Ever changing – as you are,
With the wind,
The rain,
The Cumbrian skies.
Different, but in truth the same.
With every visit,
We share contemplation.
You show me with mastery,
The way life is when true essence prevails.
That strengthens my ground.
I am rich,
I am abundant,
I tear myself away.
Letting others sit with your wisdom,
My heart is open,
I ask…
‘Stay with me?’
I know I’ll be complacent,
Allowing my true essence to fade,
I ‘will’ need your teaching again!
Catriona Messenger
Passing time back then
A new car clutch,
Haverick, Milium.
We leave the 2CV,
the sun shining.
Through the iron swing gate
we follow the footpath on the map.
A different world from behind,
green dew drenched grass, a winding stream.
A startled heron spreads its wings
lifts in heavy beats.
Bushes filled with blue-black berries
we pick and eat.
A boggy patch, an awkward wooden stile.
We find the place to sit.
The stream flows in both directions.
Why the whirlpools?
Water oozes from the edge of the bank.
A sewer!
Grass and vegetation, a land-drain surely.
Have sandwiches and a drink.
Willow warblers – they’re late
left Stainmore a week ago.
Haverick Pool, Seaweed!
Rising tide from the sea?
Or a fresh water stream.
Time to go
Awkward wooden stile,
boggy patch,
blackberries in a sandwich box,
winding stream, sun dried grass,
through the iron swing gate.
Ann Miller
Shoreline
Down the dusty slope to the long sweep of
gold sand and the beach café’s garlic gambas
and Pablo’s distinctively rich dark brown
coffee where the chief scent of the morning
is of suncream and warmed skin and quiet
conversation is accompanied by
out-of-control symphonies of wind-blown
wires thrashing the masts of a rainbow of
sailboards – and yes – we come here every year
to tell again of the turquoise and the
turtles and shyly aware faithfulness
to-a-fault to these times and to these hot
prawns and coffee like this and even to
the same sun oil and quieting stilling
soothing murmur of the ocean of love
and abiding in hearts and souls that know
one another so well that the shoreline
paddling and the holding hands and the light
and the deep and the sad and the funny
conversation and affectionate and
glad recollection will carry us both –
after our falling into the deepest
of deep sleeps – unto shoreline and sunshine
of our universal eternity
Simon Marsh
Whitehouse Farm Road In Winter
She trudged along the well-worn path her boots sinking in the freshly fallen snow. In the distance, a muffled hum of motorway traffic was the only sound to disturb the hush that accompanies snow, on this foggy January morning.
In the field on her right, Blackface sheep huddled around a feeding trough. They stopped chewing as one, staring at her passing, with defiant challenge, or ovine innocence? She wasn’t sure which. To her left, a small herd of roe deer emerged from the trees.stepping gracefully in single file along the edge of the field. A charm of chaffinches and one lone robin, red breast flashing crimson against the winter white background, darted in and out of hedgerows searching for food amongst the tight, thorny branches.
As she approached the railway bridge her pace quickened, she’d heard the rumble of an approaching train. Just in time, the London to Edinburgh Pendolino express thundered down the trade passing beneath her on its way to the next stop.
Turning to retrace her footsteps, the wind in her face, she halted to take in the view that always took her breath away. Spread out before her lay the bustling market town of Penrith, nestling in the lee of Beacon Hill, the tops of the mighty Pennines a magnificent backdrop. And this is where I now call home, she thought with a smile, before continuing on her way.
Mary Younger
The Place
It’s in the space between my words
In the junk in my DNA
In the pause between the lub and dub
The losing of concentration.
It’s in the daydreams
The unheard echo of silent screams
The data that cannot be set
The Doppelganger unmet.
It’s in the breeze, in the sunshine
In the taste
Not the food, not the wine.
It’s in the inner outer space
The place
Where I am.
Julie Carter
The Bridge
In gratitude to the wobbly footbridge over the Middle Derwent in Portinscale, where I live
Run River Run Below my feet
Under the wobbly bridge
Over my troubled waters.
I was only just a wobbly teenager
When I first wobbled across.
Sat for the first time in a kayak
Did capsize drill in an eddy near the edge,
In the Middle Derwent.
Skiddaw was unmoved.
I learned how
Not to drown.
I stop in the middle sometimes
Look down
Notice where the water flows back on itself
Like an afterthought,
Something needs a second look.
Now I cross this bridge almost every day
Walking, running, on my bike,
It’s only just wide enough for that.
I’m going somewhere I’m coming home.
The bridge always wobbles.
I’ve got used to it.
Julie Carter
When
You were tender to me then.
As we walked the muddied and mottled path.
We can walk it now,
Only slower and less silly.
You were careful of me then.
Gazing at the vast gouge, now filled with water
With lumbering ducks racing low across the lake
And a pair of swans, enraptured of each other.
You were happy with me then, less unyielding.
We laughed at the beauty,
Felt the joy of it.
Dipped a hand in the clear sweet pool.
I was a nicer person then.
It was all so easy on the well-worn path
That took us round the lake.
And never once did we try to love.
It came naturally to us then.
Lorraine Mackay
Dizzily
Hartside in the Eden Valley was one of the first places our daughter took my wife and I to view when visiting her in the the Lakes a few years ago. She was disappointed that although the views were wonderful, they would be better seen on a clearer day. A second visit has, since then, been on my list of must do’s.
I decided that before age dictated my means of transport, I would follow the example normally set by my daughter and make the arduous journey from Stainton by BIKE.
After resurrecting, cleaning and oiling the bike, which was thought by some to be a family heirloom, the journey began. I quickly left the busy streets and roads of Penrith and hit the country roads. Head down, sweating profusely, I forged onwards and upwards. Without warning a fox darted across my path, I swerved, lost control, left the tarmac and ended up bloody and wounded in a deep ditch at the side of the lane.
I managed to climb back to the road, staggering dizzily, but staying on my feet. Time wasn’t resonating and as if in a mirage, a red BMW drop head coupe pulled up alongside me. The driver was a very attractive woman with a dark flow of hair, wearing a half-buttoned blouse. She asked what had happened and if she could help.
Having explained about the fox and the ditch, she shouted ‘get in the car, I live not far from here, I can bathe and dress your forehead and get you some help.’ ‘Oh, no!’ I replied, staring at the half-buttoned blouse, ‘I don’t think my wife would approve.’ ‘Don’t be silly,’ she replied, ‘surely your wife would want you to get help’ – after which I climbed into the front passenger seat.
Her home was at the end of about a five mile journey, during which I noticed she undid more buttons on her blouse, exposing more of the soft skin of her breasts and arousing a long subdued feeling in my loins.
Half an hour and three cold lagers later, my forehead cleaned and treated, she suggested I take off my shirt and even perhaps my trousers to see if there were any other injuries requiring attention. ‘Oh, no,’ I retorted, ‘my wife certainly would not approve of that.’ ‘Why ever not,’ she replied, ‘and in any case, you don’t have to tell her, do you? And by the way, where is your wife?’
‘Still in the ditch with the tandem, I suppose,’ I replied.
Trevor Coleman
Mrs F’s Fine Food Emporium
There’s a café in the town
that’s not to miss
with a poster saying
50 cents a kiss!
There’s an old piano
anyone can play
and people come and
brighten up the day
The coffee’s good, the soup as well
and cakes too numerous to tell
There are sofas and individual chairs
and dogs are always welcome
no-one minds the hairs
And if you are a one
who likes to knit
there is a shelf of wool
and you can sit
and do a stitch or two
or take away
and bring the knitting
back another day
The candles round the room
a chandelier
all help to give
a welcome atmosphere
So come to Mrs F’s
and rest awhile
You will be greeted
by a cheery smile
Sylvia Stevens
Homework for January 2019
Angela Locke writes
Homework for our next session on 17 January 2019 is to
Make a list of 10 places that are special to you in the Lake District
Circle one you would like to visit before our next session
Go to that place, spend a little quiet time there
Write about it
Have a wonderful Christmas and a Happy New Year!
The book of all things
I am in a dark cell
my book is on my lap
a ray of light falls on it –
suddenly it springs open
and beauty flies on wings
of butterflies and birds
sunlight floods the cramped room
and where there once were walls
there are trees
I am on the edge of a forest
I part some saplings and
enter a world of light and
blue sky, and the perfume
of unseen flowers fills my being and
in the distance I see Michael –
he is walking towards me. I
run to him and we embrace
He can see well again. We
run and run and laugh, until
exhausted we fall on to the
forest floor and listen to the
music of the trees –
my book has no name
it is the book of all things
all possibilities, all joys
and I never want to close it
Sylvia Stevens
Fly
I reach to take my jacket from the peg
and my eyes again are drawn
to the next peg just along
where hangs a collar and a well-worn leather leash
and once again my eyes begin to mist
Then I wander back in time to when my old pal Fly and I
would go to gather sheep from off the fell
I didn’t need to speak much or tell Fly where to go
for there were no hiding places – not from Fly
She knew each nook and place of shelter
where sheep huddled in bad weather
and turned their backs against the wind and rain
eyes half closed as though in contemplation
deep in thought and cheering on the cud
I did not have long to wait as I stood there by the gate
until faint bleating I would hear above the crags
below the mists that swept and swirled
up in their rocky rooftop world
then single filed they showed upon the trod.
An odd one would make a dash but Fly would turn her in a flash
snapping at her heels in reprimand –
there was no doubting who was in command
Then all were down ‘in bye’
where for winter they would lie
until Spring when they would lamb beside the farm
more sheltered in the valley
from the elements and foxes on the prowl
Then we too would go ‘in bye’
and again I’d welcome Fly to my abode –
no kennel, not tonight
for she had earned herself the right
to dine in and lie beside the kitchen fire
And never will I part with her collar or her leash
or from the friend that in memory I fondly still admire
as now lonesome and in solitude
with misted eyes and heavy heart
I sit alone beside the kitchen fire
Colin Armstrong
Thank you & Homework!
Angela Locke writes …
Dear fellow writers,
What a brilliant beginning to our term at Mungrisdale! It was a packed session, with such fantastic writing. Unforgettable, and ‘glorious’, to borrow Julie Carter’s word. I hope some of these pieces will find their way on to our mungrisdalewriters.com website. How lovely to see old friends after the summer. And to be delighted by special cakes to celebrate the meeting – a year ago – of our first MWG romance! And a double celebration as it is our 20th birthday, since we began at The Mill Inn, Mungrisdale in 1998, only much later moving to the brand-new village hall. It is wonderful to me that there are original members still attending, providing that precious continuity, as well as the wonderful flow of new people who have come to bring fresh lifeblood to our dynamic group.
As a celebration of our 20th year, I am asking everyone in the group to step up and begin to write that book which has always been there, nurtured with passion, something you care about profoundly. It can be a poetry collection, a novel, or even a collection of short stories. We began today in the class, and it was stunning.
Homework is to continue for another two pages, at least 300 words if it is prose. I echo Ann Miller’s words today, after that first writing session: ‘I really am going to write that book!’ That book is what is inside all of us, if we are writers.
I would like you to think too about the cover and the presentation, as Julie Carter so evocatively described, for her new poetry collection. And a title! This is the book you could open if you were in a quiet room, in isolation, by yourself, even in a cell. The book you would like to read, which says so much about you, which gives so much back to you, and to others.
Every session I am going to ask you to write at least another two pages. There will be other homeworks too, as options, but not something you have to do. This is a discipline. I would like you to keep going for the whole of the term, and at the end you will, if you keep going, have a surprising body of work. We may only have time to read the next 300 words in class, but please do more if the Muse takes you. It is your work, what defines you!
I am looking forward so much to hearing you all.
Love and light, Angela x
An invitation
The Power of Story | Please click to enlarge
The Bard of Windmill Hill
Running The Red Line at George Fisher
An evening with Julie Carter at George Fisher, Keswick, 24th August 2018 at 6pm
Homework for 19 July
expand and complete
1 – Polish up in time for the next session your piece on ‘rituals’ – Whitsun Wedding – or whatever yours was. Some already finished pieces are published here
2 – Polish up and bring next time your post-meditation poem. Again, some are published already, here
3 – Use form and rhythm to write a new poem of four lines or more – and bring it with you
Will’s Riffs In Blue
Knock knock who’s there? he said long before anyone else and it became a foregone conclusion that he really didn’t believe that brevity is the soul of wit. But even with a heart of gold it left him in something of a pickle and one could see that he had not slept one wink when normally he was as merry as the day is long. However to give the devil his due there was method to his madness when he asserted the world’s mine oyster and I’ll not be a laughing stock for it’s neither here nor there nor the be all and the end all when I wear my heart upon my sleeve in this brave new world although that is cold comfort when we gave that devil incarnate Lord Chancellor a chance to speak. The relationship was not helped when he heard him mutter by the pricking of my thumbs something wicked this way comes. There was, however, method to his madness when he said he’d be glad to see the Lord Chancellor as dead as a doornail for forgetting that all that glitters is not gold. He then went on to remind us that we will all vanish into thin air and need to look at all our yesterdays as being forever and a day but advised us that with mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come but never to forget that our little life is rounded with a sleep.
Colin Dixon
A wood full of woodpeckers
I opened a British Medical Journal yesterday and the obituaries were there; earnest distinguished looking doctors, predominantly men, Roger Bannister foremost amongst them. The world reveres him for his four minute mile, yet he researched and practiced in Neurology and had a list of qualifications as long as my arm.
Our revels now are ended. Shakespeare is famous for the beauty and pleasure and truths in his works. Will I be remembered for anything? Does it matter?
When I die, I don’t expect an obituary in the BMJ, or one in the local paper. I don’t even know I know if I lengthened, or shortened, anyone’s life. If I’m lucky, some people may remember I was kind when their loved one died.
What will survive me? I like to hope a wood full of birds.
Last spring, we were faithful at topping up some birdfeeders, and a pair of woodpeckers started coming down from the wood behind us, eventually raising two young, which they often fed on our balcony rail. This summer there are another two, bouncing and teetering on the rail as their mother brings them food. On Sunday we went for a walk in the next valley and three woodpeckers flew through the trees above us, in a place we’d not seen woodpeckers before. Have we helped populate a wood with woodpeckers? I want that to be true. It’s a little thing, one that maybe only lasts a year beyond my death, until a severe winter decimates their population, but that’s enough.
Cathy Johnson
Names and shapes
Zephyr, Samiel, Williwaw,
my names are many
Yet my shapes are more
A westerly wind I’ll come and go
A will-o-the wisp with wings of snow.
I’ll whisper sweet nothings,
Caress your cheek
Then slap your face and start to shriek.
I’ll rock your boat in a lullaby
Or puff the waves to seasick high.
I’ll marshal the clouds in a fleeting flock
And tell the hours
By a dandelion’s clock.
My playground is this magic isle
a wizard’s daughter to beguile.
And now to taunt the witch’s son.
My song is ended – the story,
Just begun
Kath Sunderland
An ode to my children
Oh my delightful babes
Your revels are at their beginning
Made from the fabric of the earth
Be spirited – love is your way
Wear this worldly illusion loosely
Grace is substantial, the rest will fade
Leave forgiveness in your wake
You are such stuff as love is made of
May your lives be rounded with peace
Catriona Messenger
Interludes
I remember a conversation with a colleague some years ago. “I don’t think we are really here,” he said. “WE are just part of a soap opera.” I laughed in reply but there are times when everything feels unreal as if I am not really here. I am sure that Shakespeare was right. Our lives are like a pageant in which we are all actors playing out various scenes. Our parts are unscripted and must be written by ourselves. Those around us frame our lives as well as accompanying us on our journey … Some of our contacts stay with us for a long time, others move on quickly to other places or other worlds. Some make an impression, which leaves a lasting mark. Others are soon forgotten. But few are on stage at the same time as we are. In the end we all melt away into thin air, spirits, forgotten forever. Do we make a good or bad impression? If we are the stuff that dreams are made of do we cause nightmares or sweet dreams?
Our spirits disappear. Only the memories are left unless someone decides to dig up our bones to do a DNA test to look at our heritage and investigate our ancestry. Sometimes past memories float in and out of our minds as if they have never gone away. Putting all our lives together is a complicated jigsaw.
Our lives are short interludes in the history of time.
Dorothy Crowther
Reflection
There are places I can go, without trying,
They present themselves to me.
The perilous journey on a ship
With masts, and sails that curve into the wind,
As it navigates an iceberg sea.
Or the familiar white house I know so well
With lavish grounds, and swimming pools full of sunshine.
In one dream I was in a room,
Only to find myself in it, years later.
The sink was in a corner, and the windows
Opened with a pole. I turned and saw it,
It was there.
My soul recognises before my eyes have grown accustomed.
So that when I met you, I knew,
Before a word had passed between us.
The cynics mine for proof of truth,
Before they can accept it.
Cloud reality with clever words,
But remembered dreams are not of that order,
They are more real
The less
They are explored.
Lorraine Mackay
What of this mortal coil?
The impermanence of this, our mortal coil.
Tempts us to view this life as everything, the be all and end all.
We regard these great achievements of mankind,
Scientific, architectural, artistic or literary,
As the pinnacle of human potential.
But what of the mind of our Creator?
What truly limitless capacity lies here?
The butterflies’ iridescent wing, stars flung precisely into space, the intricate human brain.
The light of day, the darkness of night, and all that lies between.
Is the work of one mind, one heart.
What then of this mortal coil,
If it is but a gateway to greater things beyond?
Kevin Turpin
The wasp and me
All things connected?
How about the wasp and me?
Yes! The wasp and me.
I hear your approach,
With your menacing vibration.
‘WHY?’ … I hear inside myself,
‘Are you necessary to creation?’
As my judgment flares,
We become set apart
Then your interest in me,
Flies off the chart!
This emotion is ‘anxiety,’
Could it be my guiding light?
Where judgment abides,
There is always a fight.
Whose sting is worse? Mine or yours?
Arghh! Exasperation, this is not who I am!
Deep breath … remember,
This was not God’s plan.
Love connects us.
Love meets both our needs.
As I appreciate your worth,
You gently leave.
Connected to all things,
Reminded by God’s grace.
The wasp and me …
We can share this space.
Catriona Messenger
Elusive
Elusive, sharp-toothed
A miniature acrobat
Plays in summer sun
The moors are sweet this day, with the warm sun of early summer bathing everything in light. The yellow gorse and purpling heather stand vivid against the grey-green grass and black-jutting rocks. And above this sea of undulation curlew call cascades from blue sky. Such a day as this belies the moor’s true face: windswept, rain-filled; a place where hardy folk dare only go and then with care.
You peer from behind the sharp-jutting rock with the innocent face of a naughty schoolboy, bright eyes watchful, curious. I know your name though we have never met. First uttered with dark undertones in children’s books it embodies the sly elusiveness of the playground sneak. But here, on this hillside, you are a thing of beauty and wonder. Your lithe body, brown-coated, shades against the hill, slips and slides with lightning speed over rock, stone and grassy tussock to curl into the homes of rabbits and mice. A master acrobat, your leap-curl dance transfixes and beguiles until – a pounce, and sharp teeth close in for the kill.
A moment of communion – and then your tiny body twists you out of sight.
Kath Sunderland
The Dipper
It was a dry sunny day when I first saw him. As I walked along the beck, the trees over hanging it swayed and rustled in the breeze and sent dappled light to dance on the water. Amongst the patterns was a patch that remained steady. After a while I realised it was a head of straw coloured hair, and I glimpsed moving branches that were, perhaps, brown arms and legs. A tune sang through the bubble and tumble of the stream.
The sun dazzled me briefly as I approached. When I entered shadow again and my eyes could see, there was no sign of that figure.
A little dipper bird watched me from a mossy boulder. Just before I reached his part of the beck he flew upstream a few yards and perched again, bobbing his head a few times. He continued ahead of me, skimming the stream, and dipping in and out of the flowing water as he went. The swooshing of water played beside me, with a faint tune fading in and out. Time seemed endless. Now was yesterday, and tomorrow, and last year, and maybe even last millennium. The beck unchanged and timeless. But when I reached the end of the trees and shadows, I realised the bird and music had gone; I was alone, and it was now once more.
Cathy Johnson
Letting go
Ashes to ashes,
Can I bear to let them go?
I know that I must
Horace, my loving canine friend,
They say all good things must come to an end.
Wherever you went, it was always the same,
With people drawn to you like moths to a flame.
Now your spirit flies free,
But your bones I can’t yet let go;
Ground down to white dust in a container by the door,
Lie cherished fragments that wait beside me as I sleep,
Until I feel ready to cast you into the wind
Like a cloud of cherry blossom,
Settling on the foreshore,
Washed away by the tide,
Imbibed into the saline bloodstream of Mother Earth,
Nurturing her as you nurtured me,
As you nurtured those you touched.
Kevin Turpin
Deer in the morning wood
The wind in the trees
makes me want to leap and run
she is my own breath
I wake before first light, to the rustle of insects inside the hollow tree, where I have slept. I have been warm and safe. Dawn comes silver through the trees, lighting the drops of dew to diamonds. Silver turns gold. In the dappled shade I lick jewels from tall grasses. We sit together, the tree and I, in the glowing morning, listening to the music of the birds, like golden rain. Quietly we listen to the language of the wind, as she sways the branches and flutters the leaves. We sit together in a patch of sunlight and watch the moon disappear.
Sylvia Stevens
Mungrisdale Writers 
