Estuary - Walking on Wyre

Several years ago Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society were fortunate to receive funding from Arts Council England for a project to create a poetry map of the area along the River Wyre.  We took groups of writers on walks along shortish sections of The Wyre Way, a public footpath that meanders along the river bank from Scorton to Fleetwood, detouring in land and passing through Cleveleys at the coast.

We recruited the expertise of several established poets to conduct writing workshops at six strategic stages along the route. Several weeks later, the map was published and  participants invited to perform their work at both the launch event and another event during Blackpool's Wordpool festival.

We are very proud of the project, named Walking on Wyre, and the map which is still available on request. It was a memorable experience, many of those published had never before seen their work in print. 

The first writing workshop, at Stanah on the Wyre Estuary, was hosted by the wonderful Sarah Hymas who lives close to the Lune estuary and has written extensively about this ever-changing geographic feature.  She was commissioned to write her own poem for the publication.  The poem that follows was my own contribution to this interesting and constructive part of the journey. 

Sampher

Full-bodied women 

               pickled, ankle-deep in brine,

enticed by salty succulents,

                along the tide line.

 

Red-legged terns

punctuate pale terracotta

searching for crustaceans,

            sand dancing,

reflected in mirror pools.

 

Keepers of the drowning flats,

they rise to sky

with soulful cries 

as sea kissed river returns .

Thanks for reading. Adele

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Years from now...

Good Afternoon folks.

This week's theme is Sci-Fi which, I'll admit, has been a struggle. Not only was I up at 5.30am today trying to write something- I realised about an hour before work that I promised you all a poem.

Until that point I had drawn a picture of the pope shooting a bazooka into the sky (with a cross and swastika on his tunic) and made a surreal news feed idea about him shooting down an American satellite. This all came from a piece I read the other day about the Church of England threatening to cut their huge investment stakes in our internet providers. In the wake of the Jo Yeates murder trial- this made the headlines in some papers and it got me thinking- do they really believe censorship is going to change people's behaviour. In the wake of all the troubles we have in the world, can they not see that there may be slightly more outside influences on us than extreme porn and some propoganda. Anyway, I thought maybe the nightmare dream of a future in which the Church calls on its power to rule was worrying enough- and the idea for my promised poem eventually surfaced.

Influenced

A poll commissioned for TV

with texts all charged at 20p

sent shudders through the soul of me

The thought of Intervention.

Was it this dystopian dream

that shook me as I slept, or screen

after screen of trailed gun fire

on an unwatched streaming news.

How paranoid must the Church be

to invest in our ISPs

to block our viewing on TV

in case we do discover,

that what goes on behind our backs

the endless terrorist attacks

are not about who's white or black

but through misinformation.

So those who claim a right divine

and see the other ivory shrines

collapse under the weight of minds

in Middle East uprisings

they seek to censor truth rebuked

to deny nudity from youth

to confiscate and take away

then masturbate upon it.

We make decisions every day

on what to hear and what to say

the violence will not go away

if we don't see more pictures.

The blind man plays no violent games

reads no news feeds of children maimed

but still won't call out Jesus' name

for fear of dark inside him.

He sees the things we do not see

and looks inside for sanctity

believes in what he knows to be

and with that feels empowered.

Thanks for reading guys. A little rushed but I couldn't let you all down- a slightly more polished version of this will be read on Friday at the event. Speak soon, S.

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The Blog's First Collaborative Poem

by Lindsay, Jo, Lisa, Ash, Christo, Vicky, Ste, Neil, Sheilagh, Shaun, and two ‘anons’.

On Tuesday, I set readers of the blog the task of writing an unwritten poem. I’m pleased to say that people’s response to the idea, and their general involvement was fantastic . I’d been slightly concerned that the comments section would be left blank, I’d look a little stupid, and there would be no post for Sunday (today). Thankfully none of my fears materialised; there were plenty of brilliant and poetic lines, and there is no need for me to say that a cat (Roo seems to have become a minor celebrity on our blog) has eaten another Sunday blogger.

I’d like to thank the twelve readers/writers who participated in the ‘interactive poem’, producing the poem that now follows:

The Ghost of Ms. Credland

A cheerful house-front says no need to fear it,
But belies the darkness within.
Hints of scent betray her spirit:
A mixture of brandy and gin.

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

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

See, the eye of this fishwife hag
If piqued will flay you to the bone.
While unkempt Mr. Credland
Quivers to hear her moan.

Taps run cold, the loo self-flushes
Curtains twitch to unheard vaudeville,
And mirrors run red with reflected blushes
Of young couples caught coupling by she, who still...
Eyes greedily with that thirst that can never be slaked.

Her stumbling, lurching, grabbing gait and slimy breath
Of ideas half-baked, will haunt the first she reaches...
And she reaches into his breeches.
And with the bloody thirst of leeches,
Dines to the sound of screeches
As the ghostly squall from nearby beaches
Echoes eerily round the dingy room...

The cat hides beneath the cushion,
Its ears twitching with each scream
And we’re left here in this Blackpool guesthouse
To wonder if it was all a bad dream.

*The poem will be performed on Fringe Friday (11^th November) at the No. 5 Cafe by the inimitable Ashley Lister. Further details of this event can be found on our Facebook page(available here)

Thank you for your continued commitment to the Dead Good Blog
Lar

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Favourite Poems

The arrival of October brings with it a familiar set of emotions for me as a writer. I remember the cold night nearly two years ago, when a quiet Lara spent an evening nudging me in an audacious attempt to flirt. I also remember being hooked on the idea of poetry, properly hooked.

That memorable evening was, I have to say, all thanks to WordPool. I have tried to be involved with this more than once, offered up suggestions and been conveniently shelved twice. I’ll brush over any positive mentions of Blackpool Council then- forget them, fools, it can’t be done here!

That though, is exactly what gets my goat. I always liked poetry. I never thought I would write it. It was this group, or an association with it, that got me in that night. I remember turning up at The Brick Theatre, reading some drivel I’d written to respond to ‘A Favourite Poem’ and going on to the Grand later. A great day, looking back.

That was National Poetry Day, 2009. I remember responding to something from Felix Dennis’ Homeless in My Heart (a book primarily bought for the wonderful pictures that accompany the writing), having a stab at responding to Heaney’s Digging (everyone’s favourite poem from my class at school- it was taught really well) and, later in the week, getting really drunk and attempting a response to Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky, complete with swishing sword actions and arm waving.

They were my favourite poems back then. They are still some of my favourites now, amongst a bookshelf of others, though thinking on, I don’t recall reading these three gems for a well over a year. I hear them all the time- their rhythmic lines etched into my head somewhere down the line- and for that, I love poetry.

I could never recite a few lines of my favourite novels for someone. Ask about a bit of poetry though and I’m sure something would pop into my head. I can keep my favourite poems with me wherever I go and have even found myself acting in their advice before now (‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’ coming to mind more than once in the company of women).

Really though, it is always an emotional hook that drags me in. It is not always a masterpiece, not always a snappy rhyme and not always a name I’d previously heard. I like the way you can be hooked on a moment though- and that the thought will stay with you for hours. If I had to name something as an absolute favourite- the most memorable poem, the one that made me cry, the one I stumbled across in an Anthology... Ian McMillan’s wonderful response to William Carlos Williams’ ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’. Have a read of this, I can see no better ending.

The Green Wheelbarrow (scroll down a little)

Thanks for reading, S.

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