On the road

cowz-1200x800.jpg
photo at pixabay

How now brown cow newly
before me on the brow of
the hill

For a moment your great
sandy head was that of a
watchful lioness and awed
at forty-five miles an hour
I was suddenly driving red
dust tracks in Africa

Until snapped back to the
morning’s reality on the road
to Mungrisdale

Aye. Red dust gave way
to grey tarmac. Cumberland
bloomed. This was not tundra

For a moment my own great
sandy head is mildly
embarrassed by the watchful
vividness of my colourful
imagination and I concentrate
brake, slow, park, going

And then I find myself again
in a wondrous seat of art and heart
shared creativity and growing

Marvellous. Graced. Extra-ordinary –
a pride of lions and lionesses in a
little village hall. We write 
meditate, laugh, cry, articulate
enumerate – watchful eyes and ears
on the brow of many a glorious hill

and – exactly where we’re
meant to be – thee and me
quiet and still

Simon Marsh

At the church door

 

pexels-photo-734483
photo at pixabay

(where no one draws breath, and you’ll have heard it all before)

Guess what Norah? there’s going to be
meringue! – ‘a nest of strawberries and
blueberries, raspberries, and rhubarb
coulis.’ Aw thump! Grandpa’s ratted and
Mam’s anxious and Granny’s weather-worn.
God, it’s hot isn’t it? Our Paula’s
nice fascinator’s wilting. Not my
choice of flowers! Who is going to
sweep up all that confetti? Verger
prefers white rice for a white wedding
‘e says. Confetti’s as daft as top
hat and tails when us lot are out in
us t-shirts and jeans, normal. Like them
bridesmaids on the hen night full of beans
and planning a dead rude speech to make
all them others screech. And now the Best
Man’s sweating. He’ll faint in a mo’ what’s
the betting? But his partner’s brought him
posh mineral water and the guy
with the camera says ‘stand in t’ shade’
which won’t make for good photos here or
at the Reception. Got any coins
for the collection? No, love. I’m broke
Hope it’ll be the old vows. We was
at the Methodist’s last weekend and
their vicar can’t half shift the trifle
Aaaaah ha ha! You know, like, worra mean?
You mean ‘obey’ and all that in them
old vows? Well, you know what? You can get
stuffed! Ey up, ‘ere come the eyelashes

Simon Marsh

SaveSave

The wasp and me

wasp-2369191_1280.jpg
photo at pixabay / alexas_fotos

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

brimham-rocks-3129704_1280.jpg
photo at pixabay / tim hill

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

dippers-3475233_1280.jpg
photo at pixabay

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

heart-978119_1280.jpg
photo at pixabay

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

forest-1043846_1280.jpg
photo at pixabay

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

Gatecrasher

elk-1987417__480.jpg
photo at pixabay

Wedding Reception
In Colorado mountains
Bull elk gate crashes

Dancing in full swing
Enjoyment and fun
Sudden dash to the window
Cameras flashing
Bull elk wants to join us
Who can get the best picture?
We all knew there was danger
But he stayed where he was
He did not move
Posed for photos
Stayed for entertainment

Dorothy Crowther

Homework for 5 July 2018

The homework set by Angela for the session on 5 July was to consider carefully this speech from The Tempest

‘Our revels now are ended’

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yes, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

William Shakespeare
From The Tempest Act 4 Scene 1

See what really stands out for you from this speech. It may be one line or the moods of the whole. Make of it what you will and write a poem (max. 50 lines) or prose (max. 300 words) based on your reaction. Bring it along to share at the session on 5 July.

 

In the arc of the bay

IMG_9249.jpg

I tried to paint it
pale particularity
hues colouring faith

I did try to paint it but have
failed to do justice to the pale
particularity of this
panorama’s hue

sunlit mist disperses – yet the
colours remain only just brown
or blue or green – restful upon
the eye and for the

wondering soul too – arrow head
of wild geese honk in-flight above
me while swallows dart low above
protein-laden

mud-flats and the curlews’ cry and
sitting on millennia-old
rock by and by Wisdom’s care and
love attracts my soul’s

eye – pale hues deepen, colouring
rich and bright and in the silence
save for light breeze and birdsong
cheer – looking on Nature’s

beautiful architecture in
the arc of the bay, Wisdom shows
me love’s hope and meditation’s
delight and so faith

is here

Simon Marsh

The Rope

knot-1242654__480.jpg

60m of blue climbing rope
Uncoiled on grass under crag
It must be ready to pay out freely

Within its strands the memories
Of every previous winding up
And knot

The rope pays out
Freely
We climb

Julie Carter

Stirrings

hen-852760_1280.jpg

New shoots seeds with needs
Hedgerows home to the broody hen
Stirrings in the loins of young men

The Season of the Hormonal Male

Shorter skirts and softer dresses
Encouraging thoughts of sweet caresses

Female bodies released from winter cocoon
Will be turning heads very soon

Resolutions now easier to keep
Thoughts of loves one is hoping to reap

The season has sprung, there is no going back
Desire is there, it’s the route one might lack

Hedgerows bristling with new life at a pace
Shoots, buds and eggs all caught up in the race

Matches, hatches, it’s a time for them all
Memories made you will forever recall

A prelude to summer, don’t let it waste
Time will soon pass, go to it in haste

With someone to love, you will feel on a throne
Much better than spending time all alone

If all else fails don’t give up on the spree
Lower your sights and spend time with me.

Trevor Coleman

I polish my boots

sunset-3292912__480.jpg

A summer day dawns
Mist lifts from the mountain top
I polish my boots

Missing Parts of Speech

Poetry and prose without adverbs and adjectives is like a summer without sun and strawberries. Their lack creates a drought for our ears and ideas which those missing parts of speech can help to take wing and fly, lifting our minds above chatter and chaff, nurturing insights into mundanity. The discipline of the sadhu on a ledge suits such a being but the potential in language for rhythm, scansion and rhyme are tools to be honed and cherished like a burning glass igniting fires in our hearts and minds that can then take us beyond the shadows in the cave.

Colin Dixon

Flowers paint the grass

herbstaster-2183119__480.jpg

The light has come back
Lambs are in the field where
Flowers paint the grass

It is that time of year. We are treated to more sunlight and the days are growing longer. Snowdrops in the garden remind us that things are changing. Leaves return to the hedgerows and to the trees. We rejoice at the colours of the flowers and go for walks in the sun by the Lake. Soon the bluebells will be with us. We rejoice with our friends the birds who sing in the trees.

Dorothy Crowther

SaveSave

Soon drunk

butterfly-992585__480.jpg

Peacock fans in trees
Smoke turns gold to grey
Taste of ash on tongue

Over-ripe, flowers seed
For next year’s Spring
And you say: ‘Another year
older,’
We smile,
Knowing now
That summer is a sweet cup
Soon drunk

Kath Sunderland

SaveSave

SaveSave

Tongue

chameleon-384957_960_720.jpg

A shape, etched
For future fingers yet to trace
Hunched and wall eyed
I meet your gaze
A flickering moment
and then –
I’m gone.
A turncoat self
I march along
to any song that please my ear.
A frozen statue in a forest glade –
Or assassin lurking in the shade?
Houdini-like I come and go,
A cameo part I play.
But always, still, unseen
My razor tongue, held in,
Darts
Catches, flicks around your words
And pulls them deep within.
I taste your thoughts upon my tongue:
A self dissolved
to essence.

Kath Sunderland

Walking with Haiku

animals-3341443__480.jpg

i

wide eyed owl sits light
on an ancient platform of
oak and sometimes hoots

ii

foal looks into the
blind eye of an old mare and
thereby knows her depths

iii

blackbird sings for to
call his love who will bring to
birth his future songs

iv

bluebells about the
skirt of the hill invite quiet
delight and picnic

v

dappled sunlight golden
gladdens the heart of one who
came to it downcast

vi

forget-me-not’s call
to minds fractured by life’s cares
is soul’s light within

vii

silk eared labrador
bounds ahead as though present
she already lives there

viii

haughty cat sits on
warmed stone garden wall and is
secretly smiling

ix

timid orb eyed – tail
quivering beneath beech leaves
slowly awakening

x

man beckoned forth to
nature encounters deep joy
amongst earth’s glories

Simon Marsh

I AM

planet-2666129_1280.jpg

Unsure of where my margins lie
I
Know only that
In my fishy depths strange energies
Pulse,
Tossing me hither and thither.
And yet,
The storms that make me heave and writhe
Pull my tears into the sky
To fall as dew on a rose’s bloom
Or rain on forest canopies.
I, passive,
Am filled by others’ lives
Their stories flowing into my depths
Until
Tranquil now, a mirror, I
Reflect the stars and sun and moon
And, yes, your face.
I cast myself in arching bows
A dove of peace upon my breast.

Kath Sunderland

 

Cave painting

stone-age-2115388_1280.jpg

From my cave I do behold,
I look around at all I see
And listen to legends told.
I stand upon a lofty edge
And look out upon bird and tree.
From animals wild I protect my ledge,
Wolf, cats large and small
My family – I must protect them all,
Children, wives that belong to me.
I cannot write but on my wall
I paint all that I see and spy,
For life is good as days go by,
The sun doth shine and that’s fine for me
As I paint animal, bird and tree.

David Edge Marshall

Cave painting

Rembrandt_The_Artist_in_his_studio
Rembrandt | The Artist in His Studio

Cave painter

in his studio
his eyes
are black

self portrait
requires
hand on

balanced
brush or
dust for

blowing
and an
inward

turned eye
the depth
of parietal

art’s mirror
to espy and
translate

to white
canvas
or cave

wall to
speak of
community’s

necessity
without
which there

is no
life or
growing

neurological
pathfinding
at all

in his studio
Rembrandt’s
eyes are

black as
also the
cave painter’s

forty
thousand
long years

before his
yet no
insight

do they
then or
today

our own
inward
eyes seeing

to the
back of
our soul’s

deep caves
ever
lack

Simon Marsh

SaveSave

SaveSave

Cave painting

petroglyph-55507__480
cave painting | homework for 10 may

I don’t know why I do this,
But something inside me needs to be expressed.
I don’t talk much.
I just feel, and see, and hear, and touch and smell.
So I make marks on the wall.
Marks that look like the things around me,
And express the things I feel inside.
Marks made from the juice of the berries I crushed,
Mixed with my blood.
I place my hand against the cold dry wall.
I fill my mouth with the warm, bitter tasting fluid,
And spit it at the back of my hand,
Until my hand and the wall are coated deep red.
Then I take my hand away,
And reveal the print of where it was.
This is me.
This is my mark.
And I was here, do you see?
I was here.
I was here.

Kevin Turpin

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

Running the Red Line – book launch

Running The Red Line.jpg

What an enormous privilege it was to be invited to capture some images of a vibrant and wonderfully ‘alive’ book launch for Julie Carter’s Running The Red Line on 21 April at The Skiddaw Hotel, Keswick. Broadband users, please click on the image above for a photobook (pdf) which will download in around 30 seconds.  Best viewed full screen.

Simon M

Homework for 10 May

petroglyph-55507__480.jpg

Find out about cave painting, and what it is, and how it relates to your work. Had you been alive before the days of words what would you paint (upon the back walls of your deep, dark, mysterious cave). Your painting might never be found so you can be honest and straightforward. It’s a journey for you, and for any who may find what you leave there. What will you write-without-writing to speak of your soul?

300 words flash fiction, or a poem

SaveSave

The Unlined Book

background-2846221_1280.jpg

This, the new book my children gave me,
its pages empty, except for lines.
Lines I do not want, they proscribe me, hold me in.
They wouldn’t know, when they chose it for its cover –
pink, with flowers, how mothers ought to be,
that each new book I have to buy has empty pages,
unlined. Hard to find. Now, in a world
where everyone should write and stand
in line, straight side to side, not up and down,
not in the circle, nor ragged, no dots nor clumps of words,
no untidiness. I secretly long for order,
yet helplessly, my life spills out beyond the lines,
an effulgence, colour, books, words unread,
poems written on scraps, lost and found,
half-empty cups of words, littering my days.
Until I drown in things, duty, worries, memory –
the unlined pages of my life. I reject the book with lines,
yet long for tidiness. Perhaps after all, they chose wisely,
my children, seeking to help me make sense of my unlined,
unruled world.

Angela Locke

Homework for 26 April

DSCF8895.jpg

1 – Write something themed around the villages beneath Blencathra, poetry or prose. 200 words.  Can you link it into your experience with Mungrisdale Writers?

2 – Make 2 lists of things you remember about your maternal / paternal grandparents. Then circle something in one of the lists that especially stands out. Write a paragraph to explain why.

SaveSave

Dawning

dna-1811955_1280
dawning | lorraine mackay

Genes, genomes, DNA in a lovely spiral,
And inside a soul stands proud,
Creates meaning as, like the prongs of a tuning fork,
I quiver into existence,
Excite the air around me at
My own frequency.
I try to bring you closer
To my wavelength, by scratching
Symbols on a page, a piece of bark, a cave wall,
I put a foot through the ice on the top of a puddle
Just to show you that I’m here.

Lorraine Mackay

SaveSave

Snow in Easter

nature-3241334_1280.jpg
photo at pixabay

All of my security is found
in the predictable ticking of the planet
As it spins reliably upon its axis and measures out the hours,
My soul responds with a sigh of recognition
To the same indicators
That chug around and pull into the station
Every year, more or less on time.

So don’t give me a balmy Christmas day,
Or a cold shower in July,
I have watched these days go by
And my heart pumped with the waning of the moon
And soared in my veins as the rays of a hot noon sun
Fall, and bake me into the ground.

Give me life, death, renewal,
Give me spring’s early wakeup call, or winter’s death.
Give me gold in autumn, give me responsive, bitter, living,
In all its fashions.
But never give me snow in Easter,
I will not have it.

Lorraine Mackay

Reflection and histories

branch-3242148__480.jpg
photo at pixabay

We who are water know
familial communion with
pond and river
lake and ocean
and we abide and communicate
by way of ripple and reflection
warmed by amniotic held
flotation – raised from
which our primal gasp and
cry signalled alpha and omega
of incarnate gradation – and
sight of mothered Wisdom
and taste of liquid nutrition
alongside growth spurt’s
sensation

Yes: our infancy born from
someone else’s depths never
leaves us – we are forever
embraced by it and so return
to reflection and histories
and promise as though to the
breast – and in gazing into
layered depths see at the
same time the light of height
yes: we who are water know
familial communion with
pond and river
lake and ocean
and we abide through all
eternity

Simon Marsh

SaveSave

SaveSave

Spring

tadpole-1694373_1280.jpg
photo at pixabay

Children searching for tadpoles in the pond
Little lambs prancing in the fields
Their mothers watching and protecting
Days getting longer

Darkness receding
Light returning
Pretty flowers emerging
Trees greening
Shoots springing from the soil

I love this time of year
There is so much to look forward to

Woodland floors spreading with bluebells
Daffodils, primroses
Summer holidays, warmer weather
Fewer clothes needed
Blossoms, azaleas and rhododendrons
A time of plenty and lots of birdsong

Dorothy Crowther

SaveSave

Wild Tulips on the Omalos Plain

tulips-3251581_1280.jpg
photo at pixabay

In April the snow on the high peaks of the Lefka Ori mountains in western Crete is usually receding as warmer weather arrives. This snow is often stained a pale reddish brown from the wind blown dust of the Libyan Sahara. The locals still refer to these dusty winds as Gaddafi’s breath. Omalos is a small farming community on a 1500metre high, flat, fertile plain midway between Chania on the north coast and Chora Sfakion on the south. Apple trees delineate the small fields of wheat, potatoes and okra. Small round stone houses called mitata are used for making the local graviera cheese and also a softer creamy version of feta. Rickety fences protect the crops from flocks of sheep and goats which roam freely. It is because of the protection afforded by these fences that so many of Crete’s profuse wild flowers are found at the edges of these crops.

Crete is a botanist’s dream, especially in April, with around two thousand flowering plant species. Many of the plants are spiky such as spiny burnet and others are poisonous such as sea squill and oleander and these the sheep and goats avoid. Many other plants grow on the steep limestone screes and cliffs and their inaccessibility affords protection. By looking carefully around some of the field edges of the Omalos plain you will almost certainly encounter one of the five species of wild tulip to be found on Crete. It is here that you may find clumps of the endemic wild variety called tulipa bakeri. About half the size of the shop bought varieties we are used to they are a pinky lilac shade with delicate pointed petals. In the strong breezes they dance around with a natural gestural eloquence that all tulips possess.

Colin Dixon

My loves

red-wine-2443699_1280.jpg
photo at pixabay

Where to start
My love is life itself
Favourite loves change with age
More gentle past times play a part
Music, sailing , oceans and rivers
Still stir my heart
Family – the bond of love ever strong
Grandchildren on the cusp of life
What will their future bring
I want to know but cannot
Contented now
Log fires, red wine and friends

Michael Bohling

What I love

kaleidoscope-2186166_1280.jpg

I’m more claptrap than Von Trapp so
Let’s rap
What do I love? You really wanna know?
Well here’s a list and here I go
I love the tricks that light can play
How it chases the night and colours the day
And that’s kinda cool, no colour no hope
So I wanta live in kaleidoscope-scope
Pick up a brush and paint for joy
Just joy
No ulterior motive, no sinister ploy –
Just joy
And hey, Mr Bach, now he’s my man
He makes a tune like no one else can
And on that cello
he’s soaring and mell-ow
He’s on in my car where I feel at ease
To come and go just as I please
Now smell those hyacinths and look at those trees
In their greens and browns
And their red autumn gowns
Sliding cool into black for the snow to scarve
As it covers the world in waves of white
But most of all I love just this
The Black and white of the written word
That gives me wings to soar like a bird
And draw a picture for you to see
What I love
Cos you are my literary fam-ily

Kath Sunderland

Homework for 12 April

photo at Pixabay

Homework for presentation on 12 April

1 – Following our conversation about this year’s Mirehouse Poetry Prize winners (winning poems here) – think about the poem you chose as your favourite and write one of your own (poem or prose poem) along the same lines. 200 words maximum

2 – Allan Jenkins’ Morning (his Plot 29 was also mentioned) reflects on what he values about mornings. Write a few lines about your own appreciation of morning, or evening

3 – Think about your use or non-use of punctuation in some of your recent poetry

 

SaveSave

SaveSave

Locating the Word

world-3043067_1280
photo at pixabay

From the programme for Words by the Water, Sunday 18 March, 4pm (£9)

Angela Locke has run writing retreats on Iona for 20 years, a place that offers powerful inspiration. For Ian Hall it was the sale of Thorneythwaite Farm in Borrowdale, his childhood home, that prompted his extensive research into the farmstead’s 1,000-year history. They discuss how writing can be animated by a sense of place.

Thorneythwaite Farm, Borrowdale (Orchard House Books) & Whale Language: Songs of Iona (Indigo Dreams Publishing)

Homework for 22 March

persian-oak-wood-3064187__480

Write a non-fiction Nature Column in 300 words. This will involve your powers of observation over a period of time. It might prove to be a bit philosophical, and / or reflective / meditative, or simply observed fact. Use of your personal life-experience might call upon work-related experiences and so on.

The book The Long View (Somewhere-nowhere Press) was mentioned as a resource and inspiration. From the programme for Words by the Water, Tuesday 13 March at 4pm (£9)

What do trees witness? What do they mean to us? What is being done to protect them and increase tree cover? Writer Harriet Fraser and photographer Rob Fraser visited seven ordinary trees in extraordinary Cumbrian locations over two years in all weathers, night and day in the company of school children, ecologists, land managers and tree specialists.

 

SaveSave

Book this date: 21 April

Julie Carter is a hugely valued member of Mungrisdale Writers. Julie’s friends will be thrilled with the array of book recommendations to be found on the back cover of Running The Red Line, the front cover of which presents an outstandingly evocative painting by Vincent Alexander Booth. But the reflection that most rang bells with me is that from Professor Peter Wright, a psychologist from the University of Newcastle:

An extraordinary book in which the author takes you on a journey during which she offers you so much of herself that you feel at once privileged and grateful to be invited along.

This is the Julie Carter – doctor, psychologist and champion fell-runner – we know at Mungrisdale Writers, someone whose life and writing ‘offers you so much of herself …’

Saturday 21 April, 8pm, The Skiddaw Hotel in Keswick. This is a book I’ll be first in the queue for. I too feel ‘privileged and grateful to be invited along.’

I’ll hope to see you there!

Simon Marsh
Media & Publicity Secretary, MWG

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

Mr Feis

community-150124__480.png

Mr Feis has a kid at home, where he’s dad,
But he was at school then, when
He was with his other children.
He put his body between those children and a gun,
The last thing he could do,
To do his job.
The last thing he would ever do.

He stepped forward, arms outstretched,
Because sometimes the heart acts,
Before the head has time to think.
In his home there is now, a vacancy,
In another place,
There will be a welcome cry.

Lorraine Mackay

Then and now and will be

poppy-3137588_1280.jpg

And on the hillside
where we stood
elevated
the something that passed
between us
as though it were a
tidal current was already
as old and as new as the
Ancient of Days – in the
retrospect and in the
there and then and now
and in the prospect of
all eternity

That light, that current –
illumination and anticipation
launched a something that
is the everything
Immortal –
Yes, something to be
heard
like a song among the stars,
laughing and crying
held safe and aloft and
flying –
on that hillside
held and holding

Surprised
you and I encountered a
Divine Love and knew it to be
an Undying
in us, primarily
in those graced moments
but also in whomsoever –
and all are ultimately
capable of simply
letting go, and smiling and
then the final thankful sighing –
oh, little one, yes, you
great one

Elevated, celebrated: I love you

Simon Marsh – for JMT, 1960-2018, on the eve of her birthday

First love

soap-3123469_1280.jpg

We always took a short cut to school. We found that by climbing a wall, then scrambling across the corner of a garden to a second wall we could then climb onto that wall and then jump down into the school grounds. This cut quite a large corner off our walk. This adventure was usually punctuated by a little old lady, the owner of the wall and garden, who used to come out and shake her stick at us and shout loudly. Her dog always barked vigorously. But they never caught anyone. We were too quick for that.

Some years later when my mother came home one day she asked if I would be very kind and take a little dog Sammy for walks after school every day. His owner. Miss Pilgrim, was now too old to take the dog out I wasn’t sure. I didn’t really like taking our own dog, Mac, for walks. He was quite old now and although still very lovable he was very slow. But eventually I agreed. I was somewhat shocked when I discovered that Miss Pilgrim was the owner of the wall and garden we had climbed over and the dog was the one who had barked at us so much. I soon became very fond of Sammy and also of the old lady. Miss Pilgrim. I didn’t know whether she remembered our antics on the wall, but she was always extremely nice. Every day after school I took Sammy for his walk and then had a chat with Miss Pilgrim. She always seemed to appreciate my opinions and we got on very well. She treated me as an equal, as if I was an adult. She also gave me little presents like sweets or chocolates, which I wasn’t allowed at home because my mum said I was getting too fat. When Christmas came mum gave me a present to give her. I can’t really remember what I gave her but it was probably some soap and talcum powder, which was very popular in those days. I remember how pleased she was when I gave it to her. I expect she had other visitors but I never saw anyone else in the house. She gave me a book for Christmas. I still have it somewhere. I loved her and her dog. I suppose they were my first loves outside my own family. Taking Sammy for a walk was great fun. He could walk or run as fast as I could. He didn’t seem to get tired if we went a long way. At weekends I often took him across the fields. I enjoyed his company very much.

We went away for Christmas that year. When we arrived back I insisted on running round to Miss Pilgrim’s house. The plan was that I would take Sammy for his walk and thank her for her present. The house looked different when I got there. Something was wrong, Sammy was not barking. What had happened? A strange lady opened the door when I knocked. “Miss Pilgrim is dead”. She said. I was devastated. I ran home to tell my mother. She went round to the house to find out what had happened. Miss Pilgrim had died suddenly the day after I had seen her last She had a heart condition. I was heart broken and cried for ages. The lady was her niece who lived on a farm in Essex. Sammy was taken to Essex. Mum said we could visit him, when we went to see Uncle Maurice and Auntie Ethel who lived down there. We never did. The niece told Mum how grateful the family was that I took the dog out regularly and visited her aunt. I was thanked for being so loyal and going daily to take the dog out. I was upset about Miss Pilgrim’s death for a long time because it seemed like something very important and special had gone from my life.

Dorothy Crowther

Dear Molly

dictionary-698538_1280.jpg

Dear Molly

It’s that time of night when fear grows tumours. But it’s also when I find a mental clarity which often eludes me these days.

Before I woke I dreamt of the day we met. Once again I saw you, walking towards me through the mist, your face, unaware of watching eyes, wrapped in a dream. And just as it had all those years ago, the veil of your hair, dew-laden, shimmered as if with a thousand tiny pearls. As soon as I saw you, Mol, I swear – the minute I clapped eyes on you – I said to myself: That’s my girl; that’s my girl.

My heart was racing when I woke and there was an ache I’ve not felt for years.

So here I am, writing a letter I won’t send like an old fool. What happened, Mol? What went wrong between us? We were great at first, you can’t deny that. Those early days, when the bed was our universe, was that love?

Having written the word ‘love’, suddenly I’m not sure what it means. I read somewhere that Eskimos have over fifty words for ‘snow.’ If that’s true then ‘snow’ becomes a generality, the heading to a category, like ‘plant’ or ‘animal.’

Maybe ‘love’ is the same.

I’ve got down the thesaurus you got me that Christmas because you were sick of me saying that everything was ‘great.’

Here are some words for love: attraction, desire, passion, adoration. And yes, in those early days we ticked all those boxes. But what about later?

There are other words in that old thesaurus: affection, kindness, friendship, treasure.

It seems to me, Mol, that friendship and affection somehow got lost along the way. How did that happen? Was it laziness? I think on my part it was stupidity. I guess I thought that as we were a couple it was job sorted. I kind of stopped seeing you, if you know what I mean. You were just a necessary presence in my life, like air or water.

I know now you tried to pull me back. ‘Listen to me! Why don’t you LISTEN to me!’ God, how many times did you yell that at me? But why did I need to listen to what I’d already heard a thousand times or about something that didn’t interest me?

That’s the problem, I switched off sight and sound so what was left?

I’ve just thought of Dante’s Inferno. Didn’t he have different levels of Hell? Well maybe there are different levels of love and if you don’t move from one to another you get stuck in a groove until it becomes unbearable. Once kindness, affection and friendship have been worn out there’s nothing left but indifference and ritual.

I’ve heard that you met someone else and are doing just fine. I’m glad, you deserve it. I met someone too and, yes, I’m very happy. Because I learnt my lesson, Mol, I’ve moved to the next level, to the treasure at the heart’s core.

Kath Sunderland

The Parting

brittany-2428955_1280.jpg

It rained.
It rained again.
And then it rained some more.
The wind came howling from the West.
Waves pounding at the shore.
Spring tides, the highest of the year
combined with non-stop gales
destroyed the pier and breakwater
like matchwood swept away,
and along with them my memories
of summer nights upon that beach.
We were what is known as sweet sixteen,
heads full of foolish dreams.
We held each other in the dark
and whispered silly things
like we would not be parted.
We didn’t even last through Spring.
I carved for you a Cupid’s heart
on that breakwater’s underbelly,
just to find when you were gone
I was only one of many.
I put blisters on my hands for you
when I did that breakwater carving,
oh how I cheered above the storm
as I watched the timbers parting.

Colin Armstrong

And if

food-3075065_1280.png

And if I bathe your weary feet
and if I bring you bread to eat
and if I slake your thirst with wine
and then will you be mine?

And if I bring you meat of boar
and truffles from the forest floor
and blushing fruit fresh from the vine
and then will you be mine?

And if I make a feather bed
and feather pillow for your head
and if our bodies should entwine
and then will you be mine?

And if your seed begins to grow
and will you reap as you shall sow
and if I bear a son so fine
and then will you be mine?

Mary Younger

Homework for 8 March 2018

‘Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens’

Homework for 8 March

Make two columns: in the first, write a list of at least ten things that you love – things rather than people. In the second, write something more specific: eg Library | Mary Oliver or Garden | Weeping Willow.

Then turn the columns into a little piece of writing, poetry, prose or … song!

Homework for 22 Feb, with love x

desktop-background-3061483_1280
photo at pixabay
In the month of Valentine Angela’s homework for our next meeting on 22 February is to write up to a page about ‘Love.’ It can be a short play, prose or poetry about love. Angela said she would prefer it to be about romantic love although it could be ironic or about sibling love. Angela cited Shakespeare’s Sonnets on love as being good examples which are particularly ironic about love.

SaveSave

Homework for 11th January 2018

home-office-336377_1280

The homework set at the last meeting on the 23rd November was to do a blog entry.

Imagine you have a blog and create a blog piece about anything you want. Aim for ‘divine creativeness’. It could be something from your day or a recent event or just a random idea you want to share on your blog. Limit it to 200 words. Have it ready for the first meeting of 2018 on the 11th January.

To help you with this look at Kathleen Jones’ ‘A Writer’s Life‘ blog

The next meeting on the 14th December is a Read and Share starting at the normal time. It will finish a little early for the Christmas lunch at the Horse and Farrier, Threlkeld.

CD

SaveSave