Wild Geese
Deeply thankful for the precious gift of Mary Oliver, who died today. This is exactly what we heard, in so many different ways, in our time together this morning.
Love and light, Angela
17 January 2019
poetry
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
Tongue
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
I AM
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
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
Homework for 24 May
(syllables 5 7 5)
Write Haiku and either a poem, or a 200 word prose poem to expand upon the theme of the Haiku with no use of adverbs (preferably) or adjectives. The work will evoke one of the four seasons.
Snow in Easter
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
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
Spring
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
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
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!
Seasons blur into one another
Seasons blur into one another
Gone the clear cut lines
Between autumn leaves and snow covered fells
Daffodils and warm scented roses
Nature cast adrift
Pushed by ever changing elements
To an unknown end.
Trees, flowers, grass, crops
In constant hesitation
Gardeners similarly so.
Michael Bohling
The Nursery
Last night in dreams I went again to my old house in Castle Lane
I climbed the stairs up to the top, by the nursery door I came to a stop
I turned the knob and the door opened wide, I looked all around then stepped inside
By the flickering firelight shadows danced upon the walls. They leapt and pranced
Tiny footprints led from the door to the tattered rug that lay on the floor
On the window ledge sat Barnabus Bear sadly looking the worse for wear
He’d been to the opera and I think had just had a little too much to drink
His speech was slurred, his breath was beery and he couldn’t see quite clearly
But he got to his feet and with a gesture grand, bowed and politely shook my hand
A pale moon shone on the window seat where Amelia Jane all prim and neat
Reposed sedately in her outdoor clothes, coat, hat, fur-muff and stocking hose
She smiled and beckoned and I sat down, she said she was going up to town
She’d like to offer me some tea but the car was coming at a quarter to three
She tidied her hair with a tortoiseshell comb and told me to make myself at home
A light shone under the cupboard door, then a rumbling noise made me stir
The door flew open, I fell on my back as the Flying Scotsman flew onto the track
With whistle screaming and puffing steam the headlights casting a ghostly beam
Twice round the track he hurtled full pelt then back through the door, but I still knelt
As memories stirred by the pungent smell of the old transformer I remembered well
A race between trains for a tuppence bet and the Flying Scotsman is racing yet
In yonder corner something moves. I hear the thunder of horses’ hooves
With a flick of his tail and a toss of his mane old Beaucephalis rides again
I jumped on his back and took up the reins, we galloped up mountains and down leafy lanes
With the wind in my hair and my hand on the crop we rode round the world till we rocked to a stop
Just then the tramp of marching feet made my poor heart miss a beat. I turned.
It was just as I thought, a hundred lead soldiers advanced from their fort
The armies lined up, English and French, I watched them do battle and choked on the stench of gun powder, smoke, the wounded and dying, I stood there transfixed and silently crying
The room grows silent. I feast my eyes for one last time ere the fire dies
The memory has faded, the dream it has fled. I wake in the chill morn alone in my bed
Mary Younger
Kendal Poetry Festival
Kim Moore writes
Dear Poets
I’m writing to you to let you know about Kendal Poetry Festival, which I’m the co-director of, along with Pauline Yarwood.
The festival will be taking place from the 16th-18th June 2017 at Abbot Hall Art Gallery and other venues in the market town of Kendal.
Last year was our first year of running the festival, and it was a complete sell-out, so we’re hoping to replicate this again this year.
We have a really exciting programme of events and poets coming from far and wide. Our Festival Poets this year are Hannah Lowe and William Letford, Inua Ellams and Chrissy Williams, Katrina Naomi and Malika Booker, Kathryn Maris and Tim Liardet and Ian Duhig and Linda Gregerson. We’ve got a series of workshops, discussions and open mics as well as readings and the full programme is now up on the website.
It would be lovely to see you in Kendal this year at the festival – there is some great bed and breakfast accommodation available in Kendal that is fairly cheap. The nearest train station is Oxenholme Lake District which is on the mainline and just a five minute taxi ride from the venue.
We believe our festival is unique in the UK in its programming of young poets alongside our invited guest poets. Last year people remarked on our friendly and welcoming atmosphere as well as the quality of the programming – please have a look at our programme, and if you’ve got any questions, you can email me here or at team@kendalpoetryfestival.co.uk
If you’d like to be added to the Kendal Poetry Festival email list, just let me know and I can put you on there.
Finally, any help you can give with spreading the word about the festival would be much appreciated. We don’t have a budget for marketing or even a marketing expert, so we rely on word of mouth to let people know about the festival.
Best wishes
Kim Moore and Pauline Yarwood
Festival Directors
Kendal Poetry Festival
On finding your joy
The swirl of a Mr Whippy 99 and the inviting sweep of the cliffs contrasted roundly with the dry square pointedness of my primary school classroom.
Padding along cliff paths, humming the tunes a handsome chap from the beach mission played on a glorious accordion, I was aware, even at five, that I learned more readily, lived more fully, when my own imagination was afforded space and acres of time in which to fly free, to be on pilgrimage, to wonder – or as students of Zen have long noted, simply, NOW, to BE.
The roar of cascading waves was for me so much less jarring than the stern calls to attend to multiplication tables, or incomprehensible, ill-experienced ‘comprehension’. The throwing of sticks for deliriously happy dogs – spaniel ears flying in the wind – was altogether more fulfilling than the jolt of the schoolmaster’s cane cracking the old mahogany desk – bouncing inkwells – or the chalky calves of his dark pin-striped three-piece suit.
Rock pools and small fishing boats taught me most about oxygen and marine life, hard work and skill, navigation and perseverance. The ancient church (in my case) at Pistyll, with its straw-strewn floor, spoke to me silently of the music of incomprehension, of all that may not be wholly apprehended, and of the bardic pilgrims who had come and gone before.
Colourful kites were my professors of aerodynamics. The aforementioned accordion my teacher of poetry, soundwaves, wind and joy.
Simon Marsh
Impossible possibilities
A camel passes through the eye of a needle
A haystack collapses, scatters on the winds
In Injebreck somebody dies of the truth
And I hear a butterfly flutter its wings
Mary Younger
To a Coy Bridegroom
To a Coy Bridegroom
Had we but world enough and time,
This quasi-courtship would be fine,
You’d break my heart with cruel words,
And hang around with other birds.
Nocturnal visits to my flat,
Your sudden loving, would be all that
I’d think about all day at work,
Then you’d turn round and be a berk.
I’d flatter you and praise your looks,
Then spurn you, like they do in books.
And none of this would really matter,
Just a game, the craik, the patter
We’d laugh, we’d cry, we’d fight, get better,
Then send each other “Dear John” letters.
Years would go by, and we’d mature
And trust, as soul mates, love so pure.
But dearest one, we have not time
To pussy foot, to think up rhyme,
The truth, the facts, the real brass tacks
Is that I cannot keep on waiting,
In this eternal grown up dating.
You really should have understood,
Your long foray in singlehood
Was over, finished long ago,
It’s only now I’ve let you know.
The marriage day is all arranged,
And you’ll find nothing’s really changed,
So while you’re tall and young and svelte,
Just do as you’re bloody well telt..
Lorraine Mackay
Templar Poetry Live
Templar Poetry Live @ Keats House | 2017
Templar Poetry is delighted to present a new series of Poetry Live readings at Keats House in 2017. We begin on Tuesday 31st January with the launch of The Penguin Diaries, a unique collection of sonnets by Chris James.
The Penguin Diaries is a 65-poem sonnet sequence about the British Antarctic Expedition (1910-1913), better known as the Terra Nova Expedition. There is a sonnet for each member of the party, from Captain Robert Falcon Scott and ‘Titus’ Oates, to figures, such as Francis Drake, the secretary and Dennis Lillie, one of the biologists.
The poems serve as elegies, telling the human story of a journey which continues to hold the public imagination, against the haunting backdrop of Antarctica itself.
Tuesday 31st January | ADMISSION FREE | from 7pm
Further info’ on The Penguin Diaries, here
Facebook Fake
What is a ‘like’ really?
Behind the lies, the ‘oh so nearly’,
Why does she always lie?
Being herself no one sees eye to eye,
Why does she make the bad seem good?
For ‘likes’ of course, I knew she would.
Why so many ‘likes’ on her pic?
Boobs and bum out, makes me sick!
What is the perfect picture profile?
A selfie taken, pout, don’t smile!
Don’t show my stomach or my thighs
I need them to believe my lies,
Is perfect being attractive to men?
Full make-up and ‘Photoshop’ it then,
Why confidence in this fantasy living?
Be careful or you’ll end up believing.
Jessie B Benjamin
for The Great British Write Off – The Power of the Pen
Going to the funeral
I first caught sight of you in my wing mirror
half way up the Sma’ Glen; high place, grey rock
smoothed and polished by four clean winds,
bog myrtle, sphagnum moss, bent over bushes
stunted, blunted down the years.
You were parked up in a layby,
about to get back in your old silver hatchback,
your kilt aswirl in the breeze.
Who knew we were going to the same place?
And when you stood later by the grave,
you and your fellow pipers resplendent
in black and red, the silver pins on your plaid shawls
glistening, the sharp point of Schiehallion poking the heavens behind,
I knew you’d filled your pipes with mountain air
for you blew all the wild wonder of the glen
into your pibroch lament.
Kirsty Hollings
Many congratulations to Kit who won 3rd prize at the 2016 Maryport LitFest – ‘Wild’ – for this evocative poem
– M&P
After the forecast
The first flakes of snow coldly kiss my cheek
Melt and are gone,
Replaced quickly again by others
But determinedly, head down, I still press on,
I know that snow is forecast
And quicken my stride up the fell.
I am checking and closing down my traps
Before the forecast wintry spell.
Three traps I am closing
While still the snow is light,
And in the grey of winter’s day
I strive to finish quickly
Before the onset of bleak night.
I am determined to complete the task
Before light fades away,
And lengthen my stride, collie by my side,
Constant as ever disregarding the weather
My ever faithful guide.
The task is simple. I reach with my stick
Put pressure on the treadle,
Give a firm push and the door swings shut
The trap is now disabled.
I repeat the procedure at each trap
Then Fly and I drop down the path
Through the swirling snow,
Both I am sure pleased with ourselves
As I start the van for home.
Colin Armstrong
Rites of passage (Departures)
CODE
School bus
The stone bus shelter smelling of urine, a punctured football under the bench
A laminated timetable and Man United graffiti on the noticeboard
Echoes of insults and taunts bounce around its walls
Like billiard balls looking for their targets
Transit lounge in Dubai airport during the Haj
Men in white robes sleep curled round their bags next to a clacking moving walkway
Trim bearded young men who ooze wealth from their pores
Fuss over wheezing wizened companions
Whilst prayers and announcements boom from a tannoy above their heads
Packing the car for university
A sandwich toaster perches on top of a printer still in its John Lewis delivery box
A clarinet case with its indecipherable grimy name tape rests on a sticker covered laptop
A camera captures teeth clenched in a fixed grin in front of the open car boot
While a Harry Potter duvet spills towards the damp gravel driveway
Cathy Johnson
A song and a prayer
When I find it hard to pray
My thoughts to music start to stray
Music soothes a need in me
It helps me form the words to say
That as a child slipped glibly off the tongue
But have been lost along the way
A life enriched with music brings
Compassion, love, a soul with wings
Music fills my heart with joy
And the power that it brings
Is more primitive than prayer
In the Valley of the Kings
A prayer at night, a prayer by day
Music everywhere
My parents’ gift to me was music
Their legacy is prayer
Mary Younger
Open Mic Prize Slam!
Spotlight | Friday 18th November | @ The Storey, Lancaster
Spotlight’s Open Mic Prize Slam!
Doors Open 7.00pm
(£5 / £3 students/unwaged/concessions )
• 1st PRIZE £60
• 2nd PRIZE £30
• 3rd PRIZE £15
Grab your three minutes at the mic’ and perform your
way to audience acclaim and a Cash Prize
Poetry, Prose, Stand-Up, Music – You’ve got just 180 seconds to
make an impact as a performer! Grab the mic’, wave your ego and charge!
PLACES are limited SO BOOK your slot NOW
e-mail spotlightclub@btinternet.com
Music – Bill Roberts | Compere – Simon Baker
Founded in December 1995 Lancaster Spotlight is funded by
Arts Council England and works in association with litfest
Art Exhibitions
A couple of quick plugs for great local art exhibitions
– in the case of C-Art at Rheged [#rheged] because time is running out fast and it’s absolutely worth a visit before it closes this coming Sunday 13th November 2016. Ray Ogden’s Fisher King (image at Ray Ogden) got a mention here – but there’s so much other inspirational art to whet a writer’s appetite too.
– and after you’ve been to Rheged and are wondering where else you could enjoy a fab teashop and take in a bit more art whilst you’re about it, our own Sylvia Stevens, gifted poet and painter, has an exhibition of some of her work at Thornthwaite Galleries [#thornthwaitegalleries] and Teashop.
– M&P
Moments
One
My eyes flicker over yours
I capture their ocean blue
Like a giggle. I save it for later,
So I can feel it billow
Watch it soar like a kite
Dancing on a day full of yellow.
Two
Rain weeps across the window
Creeping a diagonal path
A reminder that life is not straight
Or forward but meandering,
Slow; a sudden rush.
Faster falls the rap tap patter
Droplets dart and shuffle together
Race and slide, transparently
Slip over the edge to a life unseen;
Their fluid dance, a silent stream.
Tanya Laing
We will remember them
I cut my finger this morning
watched the drops red, red drip
I imagined the small scarlet mounds
of parachutes reddening on Flanders Fields
on many shirt fronts and coat lapels
these poppies bloom today
the crowds gawp at the screaming sky
as fireworks follow the sun going down
slowly the hordes full of candy floss
patiently surge across the acrid ground
as many, so many we have never met
nor will we remember them
morning sees the park strewn
with mangled detritus, flattened chips
time still ticks on as we grow old
we forget or never knew the brave
Sue Banister
Silence
Stillness, silence, listening
hearing what?
Bells in valleys, warm sun.
Light on mountain peaks, on snow.
The evening light pale crimson
heather, rock, water,
large trout swimming in pools.
Scent of pines after rain.
Listening to silence
Howgills, their summits,
peace, a quietness not heard elsewhere.
Silence and peace
listening to that small voice
God, man, earth,
past, present, future.
Listen to peace, to peace, to peace.
David Marshall
Good counsel on this snowy – and in some other ways momentous – morning.
– M&P
Peace
Peace
Alone I float upon a tideless ocean
There is no wind, no sound, nor any motion
Blissful in Summer haze I laze without emotion
Alone upon a tideless ocean
Sedated, satisfied, replete a Sleeping Beauty
Who has no cares, no conscience, and no moral duty
There is no winter here, no heat nor cold
No seasons change so none like me grow old
All is a perpetual Youth in a sunlit noon of gold
No time will pass and so no years will roll
Here I can smell the scented shores around
See hills where vaporous water falls without a sound
Furtive it glides among the leafy trees
Idling through sunny glades to soak the thirsty ground
Where Summer flowers fruit without disease
Where no lilies fester and the rose no petals leave
And in the gossamer grass the poppy nods at ease
It’s here I’ll dream within a hidden hollow
At peace and healed of every searing sorrow
The past does not exist. I fear no morrow
Hope I know not, so no despair can follow.
Peace? No, this is Hell I dream
My passions still burn fiercely my desire screams
Give me the storms, the battles, life’s extremes
Labour, suffering, pain. Yes let me weep
But save me O thou Unfathomable God
From a life of fantasy, of sleep.
Vi Taylor
please see also Remembering
Winter’s Dog Days
last month in winter’s dog days
when light was a miracle we blessed
buried somewhere deep in our hearts
we knew that skies would brighten
and rain no more pour down
that spring would come full blast
with clear skies and the power to shock
the sun will warm us with force
piercing the cold wet of the earth
stirring the unseen seeds of hope
into life with its full blown glory
dazzling our minds with the beauty
only nature can bring to fruition
Jill Faux
we knew … / that spring would come full blast
Now there’s a cheering thought on a chilly November night with talk of snow in the air!
– M&P
Mirehouse Poetry Prize 2016
Angela Locke’s poem After the Flood was Highly Commended in the 2016 Mirehouse Poetry Competition and can be seen along with some of the other entries here – which will also lead you inexorably onwards into the glorious depths of Mirehouse’s own website. Happy reading. Happy travels.
– M&P
YouTube inspires
The sharing of resources is part of our regular conversation at Mungrisdale Writers. Some of us spoke recently of the huge inspirational value we find in YouTube videos. Poets of every kind can be heard reciting or discussing their work – and our own Angela Locke is among these. So, type ‘Carol Ann Duffy’ or ‘Donald Hall’ or Ted Hughes, or ‘Angela Locke’ into YouTube’s search box and you’ll wile away a couple of happy hours before you know it. And then you could have a coffee and p-p-pick-up-a-pen …
– M&P
Sun chased
When I drove west, gladly
anticipating another
invigorating morning’s
contemplating, dreaming,
listening, and writing,
the sun chased a cloud
across the face of
gargantuan Blencathra –
quietly present and glorious
And it dawned on me that
that life-giving source
and chase would do precisely
the same in a little
community gathered around
creativity’s table,
equally gargantuan –
quietly present and glorious
Simon Marsh
Bay Horse Farm
Stardust
Stardust
The iron clouds shake out
their dust of stars, a galaxy
to feather-fall and form
in powder-patterns on the earth.
Slowly they pile in sleep-soft
pillows on the stones, rounding
the rocks, smoothing the
scars. Lazily they lie on
ledges and along the limbs
of trees; in the settling
silence as colour is covered.
The wind sweeps over the
whiteness, snaking the surface
in ripples and ribbons. Shifting
the spaces to reshape the
ridges. Sifting and circling the
spindrift – high…
to cover the sky.
The silver night crystals the
cloaks of the moon-glazed
mountains; shines in the
glass-cold hollow of a frozen
footprint, in the stillness
in the timeless indigo
under the gazeless glitter of the stars.
Sylvia Stevens
Mungrisdale Writers 