Tuesday, 25 October 2011

A Missing Poem...

Before I begin my actual post, I’d like to mention Lancaster Litfest. I attended their Great Poetry Day on Saturday: eight poets and over four hours of poetry. It was like being transported back to the poetry tent at Latitude, except there were padded chairs and no-one’s shoes were caked in mud. However, the line-up was as eclectic and as inspiring as the poetry that I listened to during July. It moved me, inspired me, made me consider, and lingered in my mind like the smell of freshly baked bread. It made you crave another warm slice, Vitalite melting into its aerated structure. It is moreish – the language teases the insula – and leaves you wanting more line breaks, an additional stanza, and just one more helping of poetry. The afternoon began with the youth of Helen Mort and Paul Batchelor before moving to the poetry of Jen Hadfield and Kei Miller, infused with island culture and tradition; there was something to satisfy any hungry mind. The later performances saw Jacob Polley (who graduated with an MA in Creative Writing from Lancaster University in 1997) and Phillip Gross sharing new and unpublished work. Jean McNeil took us to the Antarctic with a multi-media reading, while the charming and witty Peter Sansom provided the perfect conclusion to a fully enjoyable day.

This week’s theme is ‘Ghost Stories’. I had hoped for something that would allow me to discuss Litfest in a less heavy-handed way, but Halloween is approaching like a zombie on speed. It’s preventing Christmas from dominating our supermarket aisles, as crooked noses and fake blood compete against mince pies and selection boxes. So I’m happy to embrace this week’s theme – anything that has the capability to stem the splurge of Christmas can only be a good thing in my opinion.

For those of you that don’t know, I live in a building which is in fact holiday accommodation for Blackpool’s loyal tourists. It’s a fairly old building, dating back to 1880, and was originally listed as a residential property before becoming a guesthouse in the late 1890s. After inheriting the business from her father (Joe Credland), Eva Credland ran the business until she died (sometime before 1940) – and some still believe that she continues to roam the corridors. I’m not one of these people, but we have a few guests who are convinced they’ve either seen her, heard her, or woken in the morning to find that objects have been mysteriously moved during the night. Unfortunately, I cannot offer an explanation to these strange occurrences – but I’m sure it has nothing to do with empty wine bottles...

Anyway, whether you believe or not, I thought it might make for an interesting, dark and haunting poem. But (and it is a rather significant ‘but’) I’ve not written it. This is deliberate, rather than an act of laziness, because I’d like you (the reader and now writer) to collectively contribute to the formation of the poem. The finished poem will then be posted this Sunday, and all that participate will be acknowledged on Sunday’s blog post.

The idea is simple: Write two lines of poetry in the comment box below, then add your name. If others have already left lines, please read them so that there is some degree of cohesion.

Thank you for reading – and happy writing.
Lar.

Reactions:

16 comments:

Lara Clayton said...

Title: The Ghost of Ms. Credland

Lindsay said...

Hints of scent betray her spirit
A mixture of brandy and gin

Lindsay

Jo said...

A cheerful house-front says no need to fear it,
but belies the darkness within.

Jo

MoonJumpingCow said...

Watch the sheets with your dirty fag
Your room's not on CCTV -

Anonymous said...

Watch yourself on the stair at night
When you think you're all alone.

Ash

MoonJumpingCow said...

see the eye of this fishwife hag
if piqued, will flay you to the bone

Lisa

Christopher James Heyworth said...

While unkempt Mr. Cridland
Quivers to hear her moan

Christo

vicky ellis said...

Taps run cold, the loo self-flushes
Curtains twitch to unheard vaudeville

Ste said...

And mirrors run red with reflected blushes
Of young couples caught coupling by she, who still...

Anonymous said...

eyes greedily with that thirst that can never be slaked.

Anonymous said...

Her stumbling,lurching,grabbing gait and slimy breath of ideas half-baked, will haunt the first she reaches...

Neil

Ste said...

And she reaches into his breeches...

Ste said...

and with the bloody thirst of leeches...

Ste said...

dines to the sound of screeches...

Anonymous said...

as the ghostly squall from nearby beaches
echoes eerily round the dingy room.

Sheilagh

J said...

The cat hides beneath the cushion,
its ears twitching with each scream