Seven swans a-swimming

Today is the 7th day of Christmas, and I find myself humming seven swans a swimming. So here's a poem about swans by Owen Sheers.

Advent Calendar Christmas Eve

Happy Christmas Eve! For the final day of the advent calendar I'm sharing the classic 'Twas the Night Before Christmas' and wishing everyone a very merry Christmas and a happy and peaceful New Year.

Advent Calendar 23

For day 23 we have a 'Letter to Santa Claus'

Advent Calendar day 22

It's only 3 days to go and Victoria Field's poem 'The Things They Said' is full of Christmas twinkle.

The Things They Said
The first star said
I’m a spark adrift
in the sea of night

The second
I burn with an icy light

The third star said
I’m an arrow pointing the way –
follow me, follow me into the day

The gold declaimed
I’m worth less
than the flowers in the field

The frankincense whispered
wash me away with the hair of a girl
when I’m gone I’m revealed

The myrrh asked
I’m beloved and bitter – it’s a birth
but has somebody died?

Said the gifts
you must give us
in our going, we’ll arrive

The old king cried
I need armies, chief priests and power
my hunger is hate and my anger is fear

The new king replied
nothing –
he’s asleep in the manger that’s also a bier

The love said
I’ll hurt you, one day I’ll go
that moment’s forever with each rising sun

Say the people, you’re crazy
Say the wise men, we know -
but that night for a moment
stars and earth become one.


Broadcast on Radio 4, Sunday Worship from Truro Cathedral, January 2007 and previously published in Poetry Cornwall

Advent Calendar day 21

To celebrate the Solstice we have a this wonderful offering from Bethany Rivers.

Solstice
There’s a song within you
that’s waiting to be heard.
The universe expands

the breath within your lungs.
The lake with no boats is still
anticipating the rise of the sun

and the season to open. Through
the thickets of winter, and the lattice
hedges of scribble, beyond

the luminescence of snow-berries
against a grey-billowing sky,
the buds are growing deeper

on the horse chestnut tree,
the ash is preparing for future keys,
we return to sing the re-birth of the sun.

Advent Calendar day 20

Not strictly poetry, but poetic, we have some tasty mouthfuls of mini sagas for your delight today.


Mornings
The frost on the car roof told her to brace herself as she closed the front door.
She buried her chin into her scarf, pushed her hands into her pockets and walked down the drive.
She hated leaving his warm bed.
And she hated going back to her empty one.
Julia

Ding Dong
The rattling lift told Jack the Warners were off to their son’s for Christmas. Jack turned down the heat on his soup, went to the window and sighed.
The lift opened on his floor and he jumped when his doorbell rang.
“Hello Dad. Get your coat. Christmas with us OK?”

Julia

Abandoned

After you departed that winter people fussed and fretted. I was numb. You, lost to me, now journeyed between bright pinpoints in space. Nothing will improve till I go. I chase your light. It feathers warmth on my skin. After paying the price of the resurrection, we’ll be together again.

Marian

Advent Calendar Day19

For day 19 we have some more performance poetry, this time from the very talented Sadie Davidson.

Advent Calendar day 18

On this dark and dingy Sunday, we have the beautiful 'Mystery' by Sarah Salway from her collection 'Digging up Paradise'.

Mystery
I told everyone I didn’t care,
so long as it’s healthy,
but sitting on a bus one day
watching mothers and daughters
in the street turn in to one another,
(how did I even know the relationship?)
I had to stroke my stomach,
every finger an appeal, and later,

when I held her through that first night,
tiny body settled in the crook of my arm,
I’d have turned myself inside out
so she could wear my skeleton as protection,
but we just carried on a conversation
begun long before either of us was born.
and though I wanted to tell every happy
ending, could only whisper, 'you',

into her shell-like ear, had to trust
her to find the tunnel that lead past
the talking wall to find the one wishing
shell, and on to the ray of light
falling like a perfect circle in her path,
and the fact that she didn’t know
how she’d got there, or even her purpose,
was her mystery to unravel, not mine.

Advent Calendar day 17

Today we get into the winter spirit with this beautiful offering from Nancy Gaffield.

The snow lantern
Heavy snow,
by midnight the lantern
stands up to its knees

in drift.
Except for bah
sheep go unnoticed

Bamboo bent low
but not quite
broken

My love, my love,
without you
I’m a blank page

Day so grey
only the snow lantern’s
luminous certainty

Wind rattles
the elder branches
old bones

Horse and rider hover
amongst grey ghosts
part of the woods now

Holly arrayed
for the bridal
words ride though me

Lolloping hare
I see where
you’ve been

Advent Calendar day 16

As it's the pantomime season (oh no it isn't! Oh yes it is!) Here's the brilliant Patience Agbabi with Rapunzel.

Advent Calendar day 15

Today's poetry delight comes from the talented Gill Laker.

Erlestoke Mummers

I must have been nearly nine
when the Green Man and good Saint George
visited our village

a gilded turk and terrifying horse
the doctor with his bottle and bag
and something very old
curled round the cassocks
slid between the pews

our vicar floated upwards
like a Chagall goat
lost all authority

the lectern eagle rustled its brass wings
and children ran between the stones
unrolling streamers
tying Fredrick George – beloved son –
to Martha Jane and Lady Ash

and drums and serpents
hurdy-gurdy groaned
beneath mad Percy’s face
now black as pitch

Advent Calendar day 14

Through window number 14 is a beautifully formed sonnet to delight all book lovers, by Lynne Rees.

Sonnet for The Book
Shall I compare you to a Kindle Fire?
You are more sensual: a tickle of pages,
the scent of a story captured in ink; you aspire
to intimacy like a lover who gauges
affection by patience not speed, by memories
of a palm pressed against a spine, not RAM
or dual core, or gigabytes or wire free.

Your heritage is animal – silk, vellum,
joints, head and tail. You breathe the air
we breathe; your margins bleed if badly cut.
You fade and crease, sometimes beyond repair,
but still we treasure you, each bump and dent,

your age, and how you gather dust and mark
the chapters of our lives. You nourish us.


Lynne Rees

Advent Calendar day 13

In honour of hearing that Roger McGough will be performing at the Wise Words festival this year, and because this poem makes me giggle, here's Roger McGough reading 'Mafia Cats'.

Advent Calendar day 12

And now for something completely different! Today I'm sharing some spoken word poetry by the eloquent Stefan Gambrell.

Advent Calendar day 11

In contrast to the beautiful sunshine outside today, day 11 is Robert Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.

Advent Calendar day 10

Today's offering is a poignant poem  from Maria McCarthy's collection Strange Fruits

Slipping down
Boxing Day, and when asked what you ate
for Christmas dinner you say,
‘I should remember’.

You are slumped in a high-backed chair,
covered with a name-labelled blanket:
someone else’s.

We are told that at the Christmas party
you boomed out the unerasable hymns,
rallied the others to sing.

Today you remember your daughter’s face,
not her name; and of your son you inquire,
‘Have we met?’

You search my face much longer than you
would have thought proper if you were not
as you are.

I am introduced, again, as ‘Rob’s friend.’
You scan from son to daughter,
and back again,

the half-formed thought refusing to set
like jelly made with too much water,
and you shout, ‘I’ll have to think about that.’

You’ve slipped further in your seat,
as your grandson does when watching TV.
Now it’s Roger Moore as James Bond and

the woman in the red sweater wanders
in front of the screen and demands,
‘Does anyone know what’s supposed to happen?’

Your hands are bony thin; your thumbnail
thickened like a split hoof; and as you slip further
your shirt breaks free from belted trousers.

I have seen old photos, tie and jacket,
dapper. A care worker says
‘We do put a tie on him,’

‘But there’s health and safety to consider.
Joggers, that’s what they need
when they get like that.’

Your skinny bottom changed by day
from too-loose pyjamas
to baby rompers.

Time to sit up for the latest snack: soup,
two triangles of bread and ham.
You are lifted by three tabarded women,

one at each arm, a third at your waist.
You growl as you are raised.
You want to be left to slip down.

Advent Calendar day 9

Behind door number 9 is the wonderful Mary Oliver reading Wild Geese.

Advent Calendar day 8

Today I'd like to share a poem by Maggie Harris, from her  collection Sixty Years of Loving, (Winner of the Guyana Prize for Literature 2014).


My Daughter, Age Sixteen
(for Angie)
My daughter, age sixteen, bought me a tree
and walked from Ramsgate to Broadstairs
her Pre-Raphaelite face between its branches
bearing me a birthday.
And I wondered at her beauty, brave
to wear a coronet of leaves
through urban streets where anyone from school
might have seen her. And I remembered
that Christingel, when the candles nearly
burnt her hair and the way she entered
pre-school at the age of four, no tears, no looking back.
To open your front door and see
your daughter’s lovely face shining
through a sea of green, and all their limbs
still growing, was better than any birthday cake.
What a moment we shared, planting it.

Advent Calendar day 7

For day 7, we have Billy Collins' 'Walking Across the Atlantic'

Advent Calendar day 6

Today I'm sharing a poem from Abegail Morley's wonderful collection, The Skin Diary.

Before you write-off your imaginary sister

remember how she didn’t take her blunt playschool scissors
to your Tiny Tears doll, didn’t lop off a curl,
how it didn’t make you cry for three nights in a row,
your only consolation, not inviting a mantra to your lips:
You are not my sister, you are not my sister.

Think of that night she wasn’t at the tap-end
of the bath, not blowing bubbles through her fingers,
not sloshing them over your face, how the water didn’t slop
over the bath’s rim, and how you didn’t slip
when your mother hugged you out in a towel.

Memorise how she didn’t cuddle close for those stories,
clap when they escaped the Gingerbread House. Learn how
she didn’t travel with you on the school bus, wasn’t there
when you rubbed your fingers over the invisible bruise
that couldn’t yellow on your thigh, wasn’t bashed by her bag.

Before you know it, she’s not at your wedding,
taking the posy from your nervous hands, doesn’t smile
when she doesn’t do it. Bear in mind she didn’t
have that look in her eyes when she didn’t hold your son
in her arms in amazement. Learn by heart those miles

she couldn’t take because you couldn’t call her at two am
thinking he might die from colic. Remember how
she doesn’t say, she loves you more now than ever, and how
desperate that cannot make you feel. And know now
all you can say is, I miss you, I miss you.

Winner of the Cinnamon Prize 2013

From The Skin Diary, Nine Arches Press, 2016

Advent calendar day 5

Today I'm sharing Carol Ann Duffy reading Mrs Midas. Another personal favourite of mine :)

Advent calendar day 4

Yesterday I had the pleasure of running a writing session for residents of a sheltered housing scheme, and we spent some time talking about pets and sharing those memories. So today I'm sharing Mary Oliver reading a poem from her collection 'Dog Songs'.

Advent calendar day 3

It's my pleasure to share this little gem from the wonderful Patricia Debney.

Passionflower

blue corona blooms
deeply lobed green leaves sometimes
rush up this bare fence



Patricia's latest collection can be found here.

Advent calendar day 2

And here's another great interpretation of one of my favourite poems, I hope you enjoy it :)

Happy Advent Calendar Day

Welcome to my poetry advent calendar, each day between now and Christmas I'll share something poetry related with you :)

Through the first window is a video created from one of my favourite poems. Diving into the Wreck by Adrienne Rich.

Cabinet of Curiosities

Earlier in the year, in my role at the council, I ran two creative writing projects for people living with, and affected by, dementia. One was called 'Cabinet of Curiosities' and included 8 weekly sessions at the Beaney in Canterbury for people living with dementia, their carers and some fabulous volunteers. We used the museum's exhibits as inspiration for our writing, sometimes wandering out into the galleries and sometimes handling objects in the room. This project was also a finalist in the Kent's Dementia Friendly Awards.

The other was called 'Day in the Life' and was held monthly at Blean Village Hall. This project was for people who had been affected by dementia in any way, maybe their husband or wife had a diagnosis, maybe it was their nan or grandad, or anyone. We were also supported by some great volunteers from the Word Out poets.

A selection of the work created during these projects was collated and a book produced, which was launched last Wednesday at the Beaney, where some of the participants came along and read aloud. The work they shared is moving, and funny, honest and heartfelt. One participant said to me 'I never dreamt I could write poetry' - this book goes to show that, given the chance, anyone can write, and everyone has something to say.

Hop Tales at Cranmer House

Last Saturday was the first of five creative writing sessions at Cranmer House in Canterbury. I’d met a few of the residents before, but it’s always exciting going into somewhere to meet a new group of people.

The residents had previously been working towards building a scarecrow for the Scarecrow trail at the Westgate Gardens, and they had created one on the theme of ‘Hopping Mad’ about the hop picking that happened locally. I decided it would be fun to link on to this for my first session with them.

We read poems about Hop Picking and also one written from a scarecrow’s point of view. The group spent some time imagining what it would be like to be a scarecrow and writing their own version of this poem. One writer told us how he thought his scarecrow would want to go for a pint!

This segued nicely into us reading a wonderful poem called ‘Get Drunk’ by Charles Baudelaire – after all, no workshop with the theme of ‘Hop Tales’ would be complete without talking about beer. After hearing about getting drunk, we wrote a group poem called ‘When I was naughty’ which had residents telling tales about punching brothers, stealing apples and cheating at exams!

All in all it was a great fun session full of recitations from Mary, wonderful poetry reading from Joan, fantastic cake baked by Fay’s mum and tea. What more could we ask for? I’m looking forward to the next one on 29 October on the theme of ‘Home’.

Write in a Yurt

The Quiet View is one of those places where you feel the tension leaving your body as you walk away from the car, and I knew it would be an ideal place for a writing for wellbeing workshop. A perfect place to stop, and breathe, and take time to reflect.

So last Saturday morning seven people (and a cat) joined me in the yurt at The Quiet View.

I’d taken inspiration from the beautiful location so we spent the morning exploring silence and sound, including reading some fantastic poems by Billy Collins, Michael Hofmann and Katherine Mansfield.

Our final writing activity involved sitting outside in the beautiful gardens to write about sound. This generated some beautiful, heartfelt writing including the sounds of the garden, memories brought back by the surroundings, jumpers, peace, and the importance of quietness.

As always I was touched by the honesty and the writing of everyone who came along, thank you for making it such a great morning. I'll keep everyone posted as to when the next one is :)

Finding Ella Harding

Last Tuesday was our first session at Brambles Care Home in Wye, where we introduced some of the residents to ‘Finding Ella Harding’  - which is a Heritage Lottery funded project being run by Jasper from Funder Films CIC.

Ella Harding was a teenager living in Wye during the First World War, and she kept a diary of the war by sticking newspaper clippings into exercise books, and writing accounts of what happened during the conflict. When she turned sixteen she volunteered at the aerodrome in the village where she spent her time mending planes.

I’m running four creative writing sessions with the residents to give them the opportunity to use the Ella’s diary as inspiration for writing, and to link some of the diary entries to their own lives.

During the war newspapers often published inspirational, patriotic poems, and Ella included some of these in her diaries. On Tuesday we read Big Boy Blue and War Girls by Jessie Pope.

War Girls talks about all the roles that women carried out during the war. It’s somehow comforting to think that despite the horrors of the war, something good came from it, as it was the first time women were able to take on roles that had traditionally been for men, and I wonder how different the world would be without that step forward.

A Tale of Two Labyrinths: Part 2

After our time at the UKC labyrinth we began the descent into town and out the other side to the CCCU labyrinth.

The Eliot path from the Uni led into a maze of alleys and pathways through town. I’ve lived relatively locally all my life and didn’t even know these green paths existed. Canterbury has well-hidden treasures. Half way, at the Beaney, we stopped for much needed refreshments, then continued our journey. Throughout the day I was reminded how much I really like walking when I have good company, and the people around me were all so interesting to talk and listen to.

We reached the CCCU labyrinth where I realised that labyrinths have their own personality, and can elicit different responses. This one was a classical labyrinth mown into the grass, and had a playful feel about it. Without even thinking about it, I took my shoes off so I could walk it barefoot, and noticed other people were doing the same.

Whereas the first labyrinth walk had been quiet and thoughtful, here people were running, dancing, talking and laughing their way around. The grass tickled my toes as I walked and I found I had a huge smile on my face. We ate our picnic lunch and chatted some more, about labyrinths, Canterbury, writing, life, the universe, and everything really.

Then began my third walk of the day.

I thought where my car was parked would be just round the corner, but googlemaps told me I was twenty minutes away. I planned a route and three of us began the trek.

At one point, we thought maps had lied, that this road was a dead end, and while we were deciding what to do we discovered the ‘St Augustine’s Conduit House’ –  a kind of 13th century mini-reservoir for St Augustine’s Abbey. It collected rainwater for the monks. This conduit was used right up until the 19th Century, although after the abbey was dissolved, it supplied a local brewery. Another hidden gem of Canterbury!

Maps hadn’t lied, it wasn’t a dead end – we followed an alley, climbed a metal stile (so wrong, stiles should be wooden!) then reached my car, and headed home for much needed tea. Physically exhausted, but mentally recharged. Thanks everyone :)

A Tale of Two Labyrinths: Part 1

Sunday morning arrived and I was faced with a dilemma before I’d even cleaned my teeth. It looked hot and sunny, but I don’t trust the Kentish weather. It often has a mind of its own, and I usually subscribe to the ‘layers’ strategy.

However, today I was doing a long walk, and carrying my lunch, so layers weren’t really an option – if it stayed as hot as it was now, I didn’t want to be lugging a cardi and coat around.

In the end, I decided to be brave, just took a hoody, and wore a summer dress to deal with the heat, but did pack a pair of leggings ‘just in case’.

So, after my very serious first world dilemma was sorted,  and after some jiggery pokery with travel and parking, I arrived at the labyrinth hidden away behind Eliot College.

Eleven of us had come together to walk the two labyrinths, it was gorgeous weather, and very peaceful on the hill up above Canterbury.

I stepped onto the stone path of the labyrinth, and took a breath, somewhat reassured by Jan Sellers reminder that you can’t do this wrong, just walk it as you feel is right. I’m a bit of a power walker and I expected to walk quickly, expected to find myself overtaking people.

But a strange thing happened, after the first few strides, I slowed right down, I started paying minute attention to the stone path, the pebbles and twigs, the leaves, the ants, the sun reflecting of parts of the path. I lost track of time while I was walking. It felt like I had permission to take my time, because what I was doing felt like it had a purpose.

The labyrinth walk was very quiet, people seemed focussed, and I became aware of a kind of labyrinth etiquette that stopped me waving and grinning to people as our paths converged. After walking, people sat quietly afterwards, some people wrote, and there was some murmured conversation.

Then we set off to reach Labyrinth Number 2, at CCCU’s Priory…

To be continued…

Farewell to Hut 136

On Sunday the sun set on Hut 136 at the end of a wonderful two weeks.

This time has given me space to breathe. The first week I had Swedish Quilt Artist Tamara Schultz with me for company, we spent lots of time throwing creative ideas backwards and forwards, diving into imaginative ‘what ifs?’ designing artists’ books, and chatting about the inconsequential everyday stuff that is actually very important. I also ran the ‘Write on the Beach’ workshop, which you can read about below.

The second week, after Tamara had gone, was more about quiet reflection and free writing. Staring out to sea, out towards that distant horizon, I could feel my brain begin to unwind and stretch into new directions. I spent time free writing, just scribbling without worrying about shaping things into ‘poetry’, and I now have a lot of raw material that maybe I can polish. It almost doesn’t matter, I can feel space in my head for ideas to grow and evolve, and that was what I really needed.

I’d like to say a huge thank you to People United for the use of their hut, it has been a truly treasured experience.

Write on the beach

I spent Thursday evening finishing planning for Write on the Beach on Friday morning, all the time looking anxiously at the sky and hoping the next day would be sunny. I'd looked at the size of Hut 136 and figured we could only fit everyone in with some serious lap sitting, and that wouldn't help with the writing.

But I needn't have worried, it was a gorgeous day, eight people came along to take part and we sat on the pebbles, listened to the sea and gulls, wrote poetry and drank tea.

There is always something magical about writing in groups, there's a certain energy that inspires creativity, and often pushes us to write in directions we wouldn't usually.  People produced beautiful, thoughtful writing, and hopefully have nuggets they can craft into finished poems.

The beach is my favourite place to write, there's something about the openness, the space, and the ever changing nature of the sea, that just inspires me. And sharing that with everyone yesterday was fantastic. 

So, thanks to everyone who came along to write, I'll try and do another one sometime soon.

Talking Trees - Tree trail launch

On Sunday I was lucky enough to take part in the launch of the Talking Trees tree trail at the Westgate Gardens. It was pretty cold and miserable when we arrived to set up, but later in the morning the sun came out and it turned into a gorgeous day.

The sunshine brought lots of people to the park, including residents from Cranmer House and a minibus full from AgeUK, many of whom explored the new tree trail and took part in the free workshops.

I had lots of fun seeing all ages of people create wonderful pebble poems. Parents read  words to small children, bigger children sounded out the words, grown-ups joined in, families worked together, and one little girl fitted as many pebbles into her frame as possible, a whole heap of words waiting to be spoken.

You can read more about the Talking Trees project here.

First visit to Ty Newydd

Last weekend I took part in a course at Ty Newydd. It’s the National Writing Centre of Wales, and it was the first time I’ve been there. It’s an amazing place, you can just feel the literary energy running through it.

I love Wales, especially the Snowdonia area, and it made my day when I saw that I could combine going there with doing a really great looking course. So we spent eight hours travelling, eight hours of traffic, motorways, accidents and encouraging my dogs to pee at service stations, then finally arriving. And then at the end of the course, the same in reverse to get home.

But it was worth it. The course was Poetry and Dementia, led by John Killick and Karen Hayes who are both inspirational and full of knowledge. They shared their expertise around working creatively with people living with dementia, and gave me loads of wonderful ideas and insights to use in my own work. 

The other people on the course were all so lovely, and I just have to use the word inspirational again, everyone was so passionate about what they do. And it was just such a treat to have the opportunity to talk so much about poetry, it so rarely happens in everyday life. I came away with new friends and a list of writers to explore more.

It’s reminded me how important these kinds of courses are, and how important it is to connect to other writers. I’m now trying to work out what I can do next.

The power of simply scribbling

Free writing seems to be shouting at me at the moment, and I’ve found myself almost evangelical about the benefits of it. I’ve been promoting it in the Wise Words for Well-being workshops I’m facilitating, and today at the journalling group in Water Lane the discussion came up again.

Free writing (or unconscious writing as some people call it) is where you literally keep writing, pretty much without thinking, without editing, and without considering an audience. Often you start with a prompt, and the main objective is to keep your pen moving, it doesn’t matter what you write. If you get stuck simply scribble the prompt over and over until something else spills from your pen.

I feel it’s just so good for so many reasons: it’s a way of exercising your writing muscles, both literally and metaphorically, it can help clear crap from your brain, we’re writing with no expectations therefore we can’t get it wrong (and writing with no expectations of anything ‘good’ is really good practice for writers especially, as it helps shush our internal critic)

Free writing also gives space for what we need to write to come out, very often the end of a piece of free writing will be nothing to do with the initial prompt, and we may have had some kind of realisation through the writing. And, sometimes, our unconscious can provide us with amazing raw material to use in our writing, and even unexpected and beautiful phrases, it can take our creativity in new directions.

Through the free writing I did today at the journalling group I realised that I’ve been using free writing since I was a teenager – even before I considered myself a ‘proper writer’ I was using free writing to process difficult things that happened in my life. So, today, my free writing today began with the prompt of a train, and ended with the power of free writing, and my own personal realisation. 

All I need to do now is hunt among my scribbles for a beautiful phrase and I’ve pretty much ticked all my free writing benefits. All in the space of fifteen minutes!