A Thirst

It has been a while since I jotted down anything which resembles a poem, and even longer since I managed to write anything I actually like. I feel thirsty - my mind dehydrated, shrivelling and shrinking. I imagine a slug caught on a salt trail - osmosis - the melting mess baking in English sun.

I know there are possible solutions - causes of action which may result in a different outcome - the "If you write all day you'll get into it, into your body, into your feelings, into your consciousness" ethos - but this always seems far easier to quote than to implement.

When you are really thirsty - in a literal sense - any palatable liquid will suffice. After long walks over Grizedale I've been delighted by the prospect of tent-warm bottled water - self-imposed coffee restriction (because of the expense) at Latitude has made the one-cup-a-day coffee the most satisfying I've tasted - a baobab fruit drink shack in the humid climes of The Eden Project's rainforest saw me downing a mysterious, milky concoction without a moment of suspicion or hesitation. In our Western society of convenience, thirst can be quickly quenched. But, while the dryness of tongue is easily resolved by a multitude of flavoured liquids, the rehydration of my mind seems to be a more complicated and less convenient process.

Reluctance - laziness - fear. That new pad of yellow paper with its fresh-start intention remains blank. The attempt to romanticise - digging out the old typewriter - fails to bring the love story it promised. Creativity and craft - plentiful on my bookshelves but suddenly empty once in my hands. A world which used to be rich with idea is now poor and quiet. A thirst that even the luxuries of Western society cannot quench.   

A Mortally Wounded Brigand Quenches His Thirst — Eugene Delacroix

Read More

In White Coats

For quite a while now I've been trying to work on a collection of poems which pick and unpick at the mental health system. Below is a fragment from said collection:

I

Through squares of reinforced glass

I notice her cumbersome frame, and awkward arms.

The short cut white hair and lined face

out of time with the age of her eyes.

Don't worry, a nurse tells me, That's just Lily.

Over the next few days, she takes a liking to me,

sweeping her large, heavy hand over my hair

as if I were a doll, and rearranging my bedside table

until everything is straight and facing forwards.

At night, I lie awake listening to the lullabies

she sings to herself

                                *             *             *

I remember her licking at a red lollipop

and holding hands with a nurse.

I'm going out for the day, she said.

When she returned a couple of hours later,

she was tied to a wheelchair - her eyes empty,

her mouth stuck open as a line of strawberry saliva

travelled down her chin.

That night, the words of long ago lullabies,

were never sung. 

Sometimes, when writing poetry, the difficulty isn't in finding the idea, but rather in finding the best way to represent it. The fragment of poem above needs work when it comes to the representation of the idea - it's too prosey, the tenses aren't quite right and I'm not sure about the way in which speech has been presented. But this is one of the great challenges and pleasures of poetry, the rewriting and editing, as if the idea were a muddy gemstone plucked from the ground simply waiting to be cleaned and polished by the writing process.

Thank you for reading,

Lara

Read More

Readdressing Creative Processes

At times I think it can be helpful to have several mediums in which to express creativity. That way, when one outlet fails or becomes too stressful, there is always another. For me, I quite like the rewards of baking, the extra spoonful of love that seems to be included with a handmade card, the sense of 'achievement' that comes with building an Andy Warhol Campbell's soup can on Minecraft, or taking a photograph which manages to capture how you see the world / feel about it. The latter is something I've always had a liking for, and yet is one I've never really taken beyond my 'click and point' camera.

Over the years, I've been absorbed and inspired by many wonderful photography exhibitions (one of the luxuries of having lived in London) and I enjoy flicking through books of photographs for those images that make me think 'wow'.

Anyway, as a result of my writing being slow (and slightly painful at times) I decided to make an effort to take more photographs. To learn more about the technical side of photography. To teach myself something new. To have a different creative hobby which might in turn release the poetry from my head. To take images without the pressure there seems to be to write a line or stanza.

Below is one of the photographs that resulted from an early morning Sunday walk on the beach...

...and below is the poem which resulted from the above photograph.

Re- Focus

I slowed the shutter speed, increased the ISO.

By the time the image appeared on the camera's display

there was nothing left - a world bleached into obscurity.

The receding tide, wet sand and resting gulls

now lost in a thick, glaring white.

A whiteness like that I imagine in death, in the middle ground,

in the space between this place and the next.

Later, when I downloaded the photographs, they looked like errors:

The missing subjects, the lack of colour and contrast.

But as I began to edit, dragging the 'brightness' slider

backwards into negative figures,

I watched as a faded grey structure pulled itself from the absence,

sharpening, gradually becoming darker - its iron legs

lifting from the fog, as if refusing to disappear.  

Thank you for reading,

Lara

Read More

First day at the blog-face

Let me introduce myself….I’m Sheilagh Dyson, your new Tuesday blogger. I was asked last week if I would cover for Lara whilst she completes her MA work. Having forced myself to say yes (why do I put myself through these things?) I now have to do it! First of all, good luck to Lara in her studies and thanks a lot for leaving me with such big shoes to fill!

My favourite blogging moment, my only blogging moment to date, is, er…..this one, as I haven’t written a blog before. As you don’t know much about me, it occurs that I can be anybody I want to be in this new role. I could craft a whole new persona for myself, be whoever I choose to be, pass myself off as somebody different every week, to keep you on your toes as you follow my machinations. Maybe a card-carrying tory, ϋber member of the establishment, defender of capitalism and its ‘freedom’. (I endeavour to be a creative writer, but I’m not that good.) A Preston supporter? (ditto) A member of some obscure fundamentalist religious sect? (quite tempting, just to enjoy the reaction) A bigoted racist with Neanderthal views on the role of women? (probably a step too far)  A proper writer? (never get away with that).

The truth is rather less controversial. I’ve just completed the first year of a degree in English Language, Literature and Writing at Blackpool and the Fylde College. A momentous year, in which I’ve returned to study after a 45 year gap and have written poetry, prose and for performance for the first time in my adult life. I’m a socialist (with no party to go to), a football enthusiast (Come On You ‘Pool), a real ale quaffer, a devoted Gran to Amelie, Eve and Harris, a fan of live performance (music, theatre, poetry) and a lifelong lover of reading and books.

Shortly after I started college in September I came along to Dead Good Poets for the first time, seeking to broaden my knowledge, and was immediately hooked by the creativity, humour, pathos, intelligence and camaraderie of what goes on there. I must confess that the aspect of creative writing that held the most terrors for me is poetry. I soon realised that poetry has been low down on my reading priorities and have taken the very good advice that, in order to write poetry, you need to read lots of it. When I scour second-hand book shops now, as I love doing, I head for the poetry shelves first and have discovered some gems to treasure.

The writing process I find tortuous, but ultimately rewarding and satisfying. (I already have a degree – in displacement activity, an impressive-sounding euphemism for doing something, anything else to avoid doing what you’re supposed to be doing!)  And writing to a deadline, as for college assignments, tends to bring out the worst prevarication, procrastination and sheer bloody-minded head-burying from my impressive tactical repertoire.

I’m going to finish with the wise and profound words of an eleven year old boy, faced with a poetry writing assignment and resentful of the pressure on him of writing to order.

INSPIRATION

A poem comes naturally,
Not forced, not assigned, not sought for.
A poem should be inspired,
Not under pressure, surely not, for,
A poem is spontaneous, creative. How?
It is the nature of the poem to slip out.
That’s what you must allow.
So sit back and relax
For you must be patient,
And of course, do not rush.
A poem comes naturally,
Here it comes,
Hush.

© Nathanael Chawkin
September 24, 1991

And so say all of us. There – that’s my favourite blogging moment at an end. It’s downhill all the way now!

Sheilagh

Read More