Arboreal - A Wild Night

 

The Friendly Tree

I’ve found a place beside a friendly tree,
Where I’ll hide my face when the world hurts me,
For the tree will never hurt; I shall love it to the end;
It shall have a dear, dear name:
“My true and silent friend.”
                                                                    Annette Wynne

The weather had been pleasant for a few days. There was a hint of warmth in the weak sun when it crept between the clouds and the temperature was a constant 17 degrees centigrade. We set off for a short break in our caravan, to an unfamiliar site just north of Garstang. Rural and surrounded by trees was the main appeal, besides the practical requirement for us, fully serviced pitches. A pub with restaurant was only a five minute drive away. Handy for dinner. Luckily, we’d finished setting everything up before the rain came, the weather breaking as we expected. By nightfall the wind had increased. The trees took on a loud wildness, branches swaying, leaves rustling. Psithurism. Almost stormy, certainly scary. Tucked up in my sleeping bag, worrying about the possibility of being crushed by a falling tree, something brought to mind stories from my childhood, in my Enid Blyton era. The Enchanted Wood, The Magic Faraway Tree and all of those books which captured my imagination. I wanted to live in one of those tiny houses at the top of the tree. I think I still do. By morning, the wind had lessened to a breeze and the rain continued. We didn’t get to sit outside, but it was a nice break.

Galloway Forest Park is perfect for a stroll or a drive, with lots of woodland wildlife, hidden from view. Some areas are dense with pine trees. It is interesting to go off track and just listen to nature. It’s somewhere we like to visit on our regular trips, though we need to stay on the road and in the car these days. I’ve never seen a red squirrel, but live in hope.

Lots of grey squirrels live in my neighbourhood. There’s a regular, well-fed visitor to my garden and I’ll often find buried monkey nuts, which I try not to disturb too much. I think they come from tree-lined East Park Drive, or the trees on the local field.

I love this poem,

Poplar Trees are Happiest

Poplar trees are laughing trees,
With lilting silver call.
Willow trees droop weepingly
And never laugh at all.
Maple trees are gorgeous trees
In crimson silks and gold;
Pine trees are but sober trees,
Aloof and very old.
Black-oak trees walk sturdily,
And live oaks eager run;
The sycamores stand lazily
Beneath the summer sun.
But poplar trees are laughing trees
Wherever they may grow –
The poplar trees are happiest
Of all the trees I know.

                                  John Russell McCarthy.


Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Struggle

Epimetheus and Pandora

“The name Epimetheus comes from the Greek god (or titan) Epimetheus (or hindsight) who was the brother of Prometheus (foresight). Together, they represented humanity.”

I read The Iliad and The Odyssey a long time ago but I would struggle to remember much Greek mythology now. Maybe worth a re-read, just to master the challenging names, even though I found lots of it scary.  Stephen Fry’s Mythos is on the shelf, looking more appealing. I’ll see. There is a reason for this.

I’m a reading volunteer at the local primary school. Actually, I’m not doing the reading, I’m listening, encouraging, praising and offering help where needed to Year 4 children, which is the 8 to 9 age group. I’m learning a lot. They don’t mind telling me what they think of reading. It’s a love or hate thing. I do my best to promote a positive love of books, stories developed by imagination and the joy of disappearing into the world created by a good author. It is lovely to meet a child who reads for pleasure. There are some struggles for me to overcome.

“I read in my head, Miss,” says the child with an open book half under the table.

“I’m sure you do, and that’s excellent, but you need to read aloud to me just for a couple of minutes while I check your progress. Pop it up on the table so I can see the words.”

Seeing the words would be good. The better the reader, the smaller the print, it seems. My glasses are the correct prescription but I struggle to see some pages and it’s hard to follow the text with a child who has a tiny voice. Then there was the stumbling over an unfamiliar name.

“Epi, Epi, Epim,” a pleading look for help. We sound it out together.

“Epimetheus. Well done!” I hoped I’d confirmed the correct pronunciation. The story was an age appropriate  Pandora’s Box. Other children also had Greek mythology stories. I’d better brush up before next time. Personally, I prefer the Amelia Fang stories by Laura Ellen Anderson.

One of my favourite poets, although he’s so much more, including writer, broadcaster and until recently, Chancellor of the University of Manchester, is Lemn Sissay, OBE, FRSL. Reading his autobiography was heart-breaking, tears on every page, a childhood full of struggle and adversity with situations which made me furious. I am in awe of him, the life he has made for himself and everything he does for the benefit of others. Out of many, I chose this poem,

 Let There Be Peace

By Lemn Sissay

 

Let there be peace
So frowns fly away like albatross
And skeletons foxtrot from cupboards,
So war correspondants become travel show presenters
And magpies bring back lost property,
Children, engagement rings, broken things.

Let there be peace
So storms can go out to sea to be
Angry and return to me calm,
So the broken can rise up and dance in the hospitals.
Let the aged Ethiopian man in the grey block of flats
Peer through his window and see Addis before him,
So his thrilled outstretched arms become frames
For his dreams.

Let there be peace
Let tears evaporate to form clouds, cleanse themselves
And fall into reservoirs of drinking water.
Let harsh memories burst into fireworks that melt
In the dark pupils of a child’s eyes
And disappear like shoals of silver darting fish,
And let the waves reach the shore with a
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

A Favourite Painting - Matilda's Trees

 

Trying to choose a favourite painting, like a favourite book or piece of music is so hard it is almost impossible. I like the work of lots of artists. Yesterday, travelling home from an adventure, the journey, thanks to the sat nav, took us over the Pennines and through Mottram in Longendale where the artist,  L.S.Lowry used to live. I love all of his work. I remember feeling quite emotional when I saw his paintings for the first time. This was in Salford, long before the gallery bearing his name was built.  His painting ‘Going to the Match’ was in the news last year when it was purchased and saved for the Lowry collection. Going to the match is what I plan to be doing later, so the painting might have been a good choice, but instead,  I’ve picked ‘The Cripples’.

Lowry painted ‘The Cripples’ in 1949. It’s one of my favourites of his work. I have a print and a fridge magnet and it always makes me smile. I’m slightly worried that my admission to being amused by it makes me a bad person. I am amused by Lowry’s humour in the painting. I’m not mocking the subjects.  Apparently, there’s controversy about the content and the title and I’m a bit shocked about that. I’ve got disability issues, so does my husband. The painting isn’t about us or anyone else. Cripple is not a term in use these days when we refer to people with disabilities but I’m not sure if it should be considered offensive.  I feel sure that Lowry didn’t paint anything with the purpose of upsetting anyone. As a Christian should I be upset by paintings of Christ’s crucifixion reminding me of His suffering? I will admire the work of the artist.

Steven Robert Bruce is a local artist who has produced excellent paintings. He has a website showing a collection of his work. One of my favourites is his painting of Ian Holloway celebrating Blackpool FC’s victory at Wembley, going into the Premier League. I don’t know where the actual painting is. I wish it was at the stadium.

My favourite painting of this week – it might be replaced before weekend if we’re looking after her – is the latest work of art by our youngest grandchild, four year old Matilda.  She was painting, freestyle, and created a fabulous tree scene from her own imagination. I’m amazed and enchanted as I often am by my grandchildren.

My poem, from the archives,

Salford

Industrial landscapes
Where nobody escapes
From human desolation.
Salford, grey and worn-out
Drab people hang about
Seeking some consolation,
Painted as matchstick men
Back in the decades when
Lowry found inspiration.

Shelagh’s taste of honey,
Tony Wilson’s money
Invested in the city.
High-rise in Broughton Park
Poems of Cooper-Clarke
So sharp and smart and witty.
A gentle, summer breeze
Wafts around Salford Quays
Modern style simplicity.

Pamela Winning 2015

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Essence - A Lifetime's Fragrance

There is a perfume that I used to call ‘The Essence of Me’. Of course, it has a real name, Dioressence by Christian Dior. I can’t remember my first introduction to it, but it was possibly in a batch of perfume sample phials my father brought back from a trip to France, late 1970s, early ‘80s. There was another one I really liked but never knew the name. Anyway, I adored Dioressence for its light, subtle fragrance. I don’t like strong perfume that takes over a room or announces an arrival before the wearer is in sight. It was my only fragrance for many years. I had the matching soap and talcum powder, eau de toilette and perfume. Expensive, but long-lasting and I always used it sparingly. It suited my personality, along with my collection of Laura Ashley summer dresses and hippy style embroidered jeans worn with floaty tops.

Sometime in 2004 I lost my sense of smell and it hasn’t come back. I put the blame on chemotherapy, radiotherapy or the illness. A small price to pay for survival but how I miss all the familiar smells, not just my favourite perfume but everyday things, like the house smelling clean and fresh, home baking and the pleasant aroma of appetising cooking going on. Occasionally I think I get a waft of something very slight and not for long, or it might be my imagination. I continued to wear Dioressence. I couldn’t smell it myself, but it wasn’t lost on others and it was still very much a part of me. It disappeared for a while and now it can be hard to find. Other Dior fragrances have pushed it out of vogue, like J’Adore, but I have no way of telling if I would like it, if it would suit me. For now, I treasure my remaining tiny drop of Dioressence and hope to find more soon.

The Laura Ashley frocks have made way for M&S long skirts and tailored trousers. Jeans are a staple wardrobe item, but plain and functional without embellishments, yes, boring even, and worn with tee-shirts or jumpers. If I remember, I’ll wear some beads but I usually forget.

My Haiku poem,

I Miss My Dioressence.

It was a scent of
Individuality
And it became my

Signature fragrance
Subtle, light and delicate
Ev’ry day and night,

For so many years
In my Laura Ashley frocks
Or embroidered jeans,

A hint of jasmine,
With a spicy bergamot
Accompanied me.


PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Fragrance - In Memoriam

The mornings, a time for toast and cereal, checking homework is in satchel, P E kit if required then sending children off to school. Next would be allocating jobs to the household staff and bar staff, rotating the tasks as fairly as possible and getting stuck in herself where she was needed.

My mum, hair scraped back from her naked face, comfy flat shoes, navy slacks, fine-knit pale blue jumper with the sleeves pushed up. I remember her being busy, hands on, making sandwiches to sell at lunch time and how quickly she could butter the bread; two loaves worth of grated cheese and onion, a favourite of the regular customers.  Our pubs were ale houses, before breweries franchised into eating establishments and takings became target based. Any snacks or lunch-time sandwiches provided by my parents was separate to pub takings and the income it fetched was their own.

Later, after tea and into the early evening, my mother would transform herself into the smart, glamorous, attractive woman she was. She styled her brown hair into soft curls lifted off her face and shaped neatly over her ears. Lipstick, a hint of mascara, a dress and high heeled shoes, finished off with a subtle application of Estee Lauder Youth Dew or Chanel No5. This is how I like to remember her, looking lovely, accompanying my father downstairs in the pub, leaving a waft of her favourite fragrance behind.

She died young. For years I kept an almost empty bottle of her Estee Lauder for the comfort her fragrance gave me. Eventually, what was left completely evaporated and the bottle was discarded. I still have a box of talcum powder, not that I can smell it, if it should have any scent left at all, after all these years.

My sense of smell vanished after chemo and radiotherapy. All the fabulous fragrances are lost on me now. Perfume, lilies, home-made baking, the aroma is all left to memory and imagination. I still wear my Christian Dior which I used to love, and why not? I might be wafting memories around those who care.

I found this poem,

Fragrance

The fragrance of
Love and care

The fragrance that
Repair

The fragrance which
Always reminds of welfare

The fragrance with
The power of flare

The fragrance of mother
Is the fragrance of prayer.  

 

By Gemini Girl on All Poetry

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

What Really Scares Me - It's The Dark!

What really scares me? Well, apart from mundane worries about growing old, having enough money to live on and what the future holds for the next generations, I have to say it is ‘the dark’ and horrors from my own imagination.

I remember feeling very scared of the darkness at the top of the stairs in my great-grandmother’s house, and waking up into pitch black when we stayed overnight there. My mother soothed me, put a light on and settled down beside me.  My great-grandmother passed away sixty years ago but the memory remains and so does my fear of the dark.

There was the time when I got locked in at work. It was a cold, wet, winter tea time, a long time ago, decades before mobile phones. I was upstairs in the office of a small department store, just gathering my things and getting ready to go when the low buzzing of fluorescent strips ceased and I was plunged into silent darkness. The last person to leave would turn off the lights with the main power switch, situated next to the door. No chance to shout, not that I would have been heard on the ground floor anyway, but I was literally frozen to the spot with fear. I had keys, but I couldn’t bring myself to try to negotiate my way out of the office and through racks and rails of clothing and merchandise that filled the top floor. As my eyes adjusted to a small glow of street-light coming through the tiny window, I could see the telephone. Luckily, I knew the home number of the person who had locked me in. With a trembling finger I managed to feel my way round the dial and sob my dilemma to his wife, who knew me well and kept me company on the phone until her husband got home then set off straight back to release me. No harm done, but it was very scary at the time.

Then there was the last ghost hunt my friend and I went on, and oh my, I was so scared that we haven’t been on any others, up to now. This was at the Spanish Hall in the Winter Gardens, something we had looked forward to for ages, after the fun we’d had at the Grand Theatre. It was semi-dark, but we had torches and we were in a group, though everyone had spread out into different rooms and areas. I was coping with the dark and with the odd things we kept hearing. We had a medium with us a lot of the time, though I confess, I don’t believe everything I’m told, I like to work things out for myself.  My friend and I went into a dressing room somewhere back-stage in the Spanish Hall theatre.  We sat down, my friend on my right. I felt something at my left, but no one was there. The presence became strong, so strong that I was too scared to look, but many times since, I wish I had.

I’m used to staying at the lodge we go to in Dumfries & Galloway, but the first time we went, the darkness, or rather, my imagination outside late at night, scared the life out of me. I was taking our dog out on my own for his last little walk before bed. I had my torch, a dim outside light on the lodge veranda and a sky full of stars. I was shining the torch on my dog and the path immediately in front of me when my mind started giving me horrors. I was sure I’d see the feet of someone facing me. I didn’t dare to shine it on the trees, terrified by what might be hanging there. I worked myself into a blind panic rushed back to the safety of the lodge, only a few steps away, before anyone could grab me. These days, confident that our dog won’t venture any further than the first tree, we watch from the veranda and let him go by himself. Maybe seeing ‘The Abominable Snowman’ when I was eleven has affected me for life.

 

 

This is my own poem,

 

 

A Ghost Tour in the Spanish Hall

 

An evening in the Spanish Hall

Fun-time promised for one and all.

Exciting times for you and me,

Paranormal activity!

Hopes and desires, all are risen,

Someone’s speaking, we must listen.

“Enter the rooms with open mind,

And be prepared for what you find.”

The semi-darkness of torch-light,

Anticipation of the night;

Wondering what there might be here

To chill us with delight or fear.

We heard a strange and weird sound,

Quiet growling from underground.

Distant laughter, joyful patter,

Ghostly party fun and chatter.

Chink of glasses, bell-like tinkle,

Passing orb gives us a twinkle.

We crept across the ballroom floor

To where we hadn’t been before.

A woman beckoned from her chair.

As we approached, she wasn’t there,

Just vanished, like she’d never been

But we both knew what we had seen.

And later, on the wide stair case

I froze as something touched my face.

I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t shout;

Someone was with me, there’s no doubt.

When we sat in the back-stage room

We both smelt dated perfume

Like musky lavender and rose

Stagnant, lingering in repose.

And that mirror! I dared not see

The presence sitting next to me.

I felt their breath upon my cheek

And could not move, too scared to speak!

I must now be most explicit,

Show respect to restless spirits.

Never ridicule, tease or taunt.

It might be you they’ll come to haunt.

 

                                                                                            PMW 2012

Happy Hallowe'en, everyone. Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Noises in the night

As dusk falls there is always a shift change of creatures. Day-walkers settle down to sleep and nocturnal beasts emerge for their nightly patrols. The atmosphere changes, leaving the hustle and bustle, amplifying smaller noises which would go normally go unnoticed. Unless you work nights, these sounds are unfamiliar, leading to the imagination running wild. It is where our best horror, thriller and ghost stories come from. I've never been into horror stories/movies, I'm too much of a scaredy cat for that sort of thing, but I can just about manage a good thriller. 

This weeks' theme took me back to my childhood, when the odd occasion arose where I couldn't sleep or woke in the night and heard those chilling creaks and cracks. The hair would stand on the back of my neck, fear would engulf me and I would hide beneath the sheets thinking that I would be safe under there. Really? I mean, how much protection could blankets really offer if you were going to be attacked in your bed? Silly isn't it? Our imagination can sometimes be our worst enemy.

I have resurrected an old poem this week which has been edited since first being written.


Harken to the night:

Cold beads of sweat
crawl across my brow.
Senses heightened,
breath shallow and rapid.
Every shadow,
every creak,
amplified, sinister,
creeping closer.
Moonlight streaks
through curtain chinks,
casting silver searchlights,
making the dark
inkier still.
Shadows camouflaged,
lurking unseen
'til slightest movement
betrays their position.
Eyes frantically stare
attempting to see
beyond the blanket
of deepest black.
A floorboard cracks,
closer than before.
Heart hammering
trying to escape
the burdensome confines
of its cage.
Gut wrenching,
seemingly to wring
other organs out,
pushing through the skin.
Skin pricking
like a million needles,
hair standing
at the nape of my neck.
Coldest fear
claws at my brain,
gnawing at common sense
for an early breakfast.


Thanks for reading.  ;-) x

P.S. Don't forget to join the Lancashire Dead Good Poets' tonight at Silantro Cafe, Wood St, St Annes, for our Open Mic night. There's no theme for this one, so why not come and share some of your poetry, or if your not feeling that brave, you are always welcome to come and listen to others. It begins at 6pm. Don't miss it!  ;-)

Read More

Bumbling by day...

...leaping by night.

Hello language lovers.  It's been a while since I wrote for the blog and I am, as usual, writing under the influence of too little sleep.  I think my subconscious prefers it that way.  I suspect that when I'm tired and closer to sleep it finds it easier to whisper to my bumbling consicous mind, making the obscure connections which some call creativity.

The theme this week is Mad Hatter.  It's a leap, appropriately, from the 'mad as a March hare' phrase to the Mad Hatter from Lewis Carroll's Alice stories.  It's that leap from one element of language to another that I think ties poetry to its original culture and means that poems in translation must be reinterpreted rather than simply translated word for word. 

These leaps are also the foundations of figurative language.  If we're thinking in colour we might leap from the word hatter to the bright orange hair of Tim Burton's Hatter in his film adaptation.  If we're thinking in sound we could leap from hatter to tatters, smatters and batter.  If I think personally, hatter makes me think of tea cups and songs, a large nose and a bit of paper with a price in old money.  It also makes me think of tailors/Taylors and coopers/Coopers and dyers/Dyer whose names recall old and current trades. 

In Carroll's fantastical linguistic, mathamatical novels, his Hatter is an enigmatic, eccentric fellow who sits alongside similary incomprehensible friends.  These characters seem as confused as our dreams, speaking in rhyme and riddle:

`If you knew Time as well as I do,' said the Hatter, `you wouldn't talk about wasting IT. It's HIM.'
`I don't know what you mean,' said Alice.
`Of course you don't!' the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously. `I dare say you never even spoke to Time!'
`Perhaps not,' Alice cautiously replied: `but I know I have to beat time when I learn music.'
`Ah! that accounts for it,' said the Hatter. `He won't stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!' 

I think that when we make creative leaps in our poetry, we are not only trying to communicate as fresh an image as possible, we also emulating the strange associations that our dreams and subconscious mind throw at us when our conscious mind isn't looking.  The conscious mind can only understand the huge web of experience in terms and images that it can recall.  When a poet creates a series of images strung together that ring true to us, and the degree of recognition surely must differ for each one of us,they seem to be speaking to us in the language of the subconsious, that larger, smarter part of ourselves which controls much of our actions but which we do not control.

With that thought looming in the in your ridiculously facile conscious mind, here is a snippet of a poem which speaks to my own creative leaps.  It's an excerpt from Poor Fish by V A Sola Smith which can be found in the Sculpted: Poetry of the North West anthology, edited by Lindsey Holland and Angela Topping:

...a whisper

between the isles of bargain basement food stuff stores,
stealing from the ginnells and cobbled snickets, the not-yet
ghouls, tripping unseen about their fate like the helter
                                                                            skelter
fun house stairs, we rode along the promenade as kids,

waiting for the night to tear across the shore line, faceless
and fearless and one against the jetstream of the whole
                                                                               North
Atlantic...


If you want to buy Sculpted, it's available direct from the website.

Read More

Photo Writing Exercise

Writing poetry is a real pleasure in my life, something that I enjoy as more of a hobby than in the hope of ever completing a book. Although if that should happen in the future then it's a real bonus.  Since being a part of the Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society, I have had the honour of 4 of my poems being included in their publications: "A Poets' Guide To Blackpool", "Haunted Blackpool" and 2 poems in "Pelts to Petticoats" which was written to celebrate "Vintage Poulton" for their upcoming Gala.

I left School at the age of 16 with a double "C" Grade for English (Language and Literature) and didn't further my education beyond studying for an NVQ.  My only experience with any kind of Writing Exercise came when the latter book was being compiled.  I had already written an entry for the book but wanted some feedback on it, so I attended the Poetry Workshop hosted by Vicky Ellis dedicated to this book.  It was an excellent experience to receive said feedback, but Vicky also asked us to complete the exercise attached to the workshop too.

From memory, it consisted of:

• Selecting a photo associated with Poulton-Le-Fylde from one of the books about the Town and taking in all the elements that could be seen. I chose an old black and white photo of the Thatched Tavern Pub. Write down those elements.
• Place yourself outside the viewpoint of the photo and make an imaginary situation of what you were doing on that day when the photo was taken and write it down.
• Imagine the colours that could be seen.  I had to use my imagination here. Write those down alongside what they pertain to. 
• Write down what other things those colours could also be associated with such as:  Brown Soil could also be a Brown Horse, Brown Suit etc.
• Imagine another Character that cannot be seen on the photo.  Write down who they are, what they look like, how they are dressed and what they are doing.
• What happens next after the photo has been taken?

Following these guidelines this is what I ended up with:

Thatched Tavern Photo

  

As I walk to the Churchyard to tend loved one graves

With the Sky so overcast, grey and dull

Colour is injected by a green and gold sign

Brown suits stand by the Tavern, the call of Ale such a pull.

A Photographer stands with equipment poised 

To capture this picturesque sight

Chins up, chests out, hands rested on pocket watches

Masculine dignity and pride show their might.

A girl watches on out of sight and mind

Observing her playmate standing so still

Her flaxen hair shines like the Sun's rays on the Thatch

Keen to re-join prior pastimes, such a thrill.

The Photo now taken, the people adjourn

To tend to livestock or natter over a Beer

Business back to usual behind those whitewash walls

Of The Thatched Tavern bringing merriment and cheer.

It was a very unusual approach for me to take and I must admit I struggled at first, but it opened my eyes what could be done should I ever suffer with writers block.  It would come in very handy indeed.  It not only offers an opportunity to challenge yourself by doing something you may never have tried before, but also the chance to try writing in different styles.  Give it a go.  You may just surprise yourself!

Why not have a look at the Shop tab at the top of this page?  ;-)

Thanks for reading.

P.S. Apologies to Vicky if I have inadvertently missed out any of the steps of this exercise.

Read More

Splintered Snow

“A writer needs three things, experience, observation, and imagination.”
― William Faulkner

Not wanting to emulate a certain poetic cuckoo (meta-emulation?), I will credit David Riley with the idea for this exercise.  He put me on to the Faulkner quote and I believe he was inspired by a workshop he had himself attended.  Good ideas are like the rabbits of the metaphysical world.

This exercise is intended to help you to turn your observations into kick ass poetry.  If you follow the steps with due diligence you are sure to end up with some shiny words.  

1) Choose an object.  This can be anything you can see with your eyes at this moment, e.g. the Sun, a yoghurt pot, a train, a painting, your left hand.

2) Observe the object as it is right now.  Make note of the following:

• colour, detail - texture, shape
• setting, surroundings
• season, time, light/shadow
• movement or action
• sound

3) Consider your experiences of this object. What do you recognise?  What does it remind you of?  What is it similar to?  
4) Imagine.  What might happen to the object? What is it thinking? What might you do to the object?

5) Shape the words.  Let's write renga!  Using the table below, create a poem in the Japanese renga style.

Subject	Syllables/sound units
Observation – e.g. colour, shape	5
Observation – e.g. setting, time	7
Observation – e.g. light, sound	5
Experience	7
Imagination	7

Here is my attempt:



Pencil Shaving


Torn sycamore fan 
Sleeps in desk's twilight clutter 
White screen, hum of fan

Shrinking tree-snake's rough skin sloughed 
Blown away like splintered snow

OK - take it away poets.  Write me some renga!

Read More