'In the Water'-Kristian Wightwick

Kristian's poem for Ghana (based on painting on previous post):

‘In The Water’ By Kristian Wightwick

Rain on the mother,
Give her the secrets of water,
Let her image be reflected in its
Mirror top. Run the silky water,
Down her arm, down to her toes,
Like soft fingers massaging her scalp.

Sooth her hot flesh.

Let her know when it is safe
To cross the Wadi, when it is fine
To wade in the river, when it is time
Sing to the village, to catch a smell of spice,
A sound of children playing, the reply of
Another singing.

Let her love the sparse grass,
The chirp of nearby crickets
And the slow croak of frogs.

Let her cut colours on the horizon: purple, red; bits of orange and blue.
Let her breathe the smoke of fire and dance into the night.
Let her children learn and know
That tomorrow, she’ll be there again

In the rain, in the water,
In the sun, in the water,
In the earth, in the water.

Poems for Ghana by Corfe Hills Laureates

Jess, Gina, Heather, Kat and Beth met to write a poem for Ghana and it was sent with Mrs Borley on her visit. We can't wait to hear how it was recieved.

We were inspired by this painting:

Rippling water,
Clashing pots,
Singing to herself.
She catches a smell
Of the village,
Out of sight,
Cooking smoke.

Taste of heat, dust of a hundred dry days
Light dances on the water

Sparse grass thrusting from sun-baked ground.

Children run free, singing songs in the wind.
New river in the Wadi.

Writers Group Haikus (with pictures from my new camera!!)

Friday Night's Alright

HAIKU SESSION

Winter frosts the lake

Winter whispers through the trees

Winter kills the weak.

Emily King Underwood

Winter, kigo done,

now here is my kireji:

Haikus are limited.

Katie Thackeray

The fall of discards

Debris from my coat pocket

Once forgot: now dreamt.

by The Well (AKA Kristian Wightwick)

And more pictures...

Young(er) Poetic Champions Compose

WE WROTE THIS TOGETHER!!

The Second Season

Daisies, like splashes of white paint on a green canvas.
The daffodil bulb opens slowly, like a timid baby rabbit
venturing out for the first time.
A rose blossoming like a child learning to walk,
A multi-coloured carpet of wild flowers covering the
countryside.
Fresh blossom, as delicate as gossamer, and tiny
curled up leaves on saplings, start off the year like a new
born lamb finding it's feet.
Trees picking up leaves like they are objects in an end-
of-season sale.
Spring itself is a newborn lamb, frolicking playfully into view,
Inspiring, rolling down grassy banks, ending up in fields of gold.
The comma in a sentence, a pause in the year.

By Alex Quill, Beth Davis, Vicky Lindsay, Ben Custard and Emily Price

Alex then skipped with no probs at all from creative democracy to this expression of singularity:

I am......

I am the stranger standing on the sidewalk,

I am the seat supporting my friends,

I am the smile slowly spreading across your face,

I am the silent ghost gliding through the corridors,

I am the face you always forget,

I am the the rumour on everyone's lips,

I am the secret that shouldn't be told,

I am the person you love to hate,

And hate to love,

I am,

The person some love,

some hate,

some don't know,

some don't want to know,

I am like,

The best friend from long ago,

the daughter you never had,

the long lost sister,

the heart broken girlfriend,

I am me....

by Alex Quill

The Ways of Winter

The light shining, reflecting off the snow,

Snow white blanket,

Falling like salt on chips,

Sky like a whitewashed wall,

The snowflakes, falling down like little stars.

Conor Sandells

Palpitations/ Peaks and Troughs

Kristian writing (up). Amelia writing (down).

‘Love Poem to Palpitations’ By Kristian Wightwick

We, us locals, sit
On individual stools, one apart.
Each time the door opens, we turn
Our heads.
Expectant.
Resigned, we retreat—just another local.

I shuffle on the cushion and lock my legs.
I cup my pint and unstuck my elbows from the bar top.
I let the condensation from the glass
Mask my sweaty palms.

The stale air heavies my nose
And muffles the synth and drum of
Amateur post-punk; the sound track of
Casiotone for the helplessly alone.
Beat, off sync with my rhythm:
An increasing thudding
Of palpable fluttering –
The churning of concrete,
Prisoner to my naval. Perhaps the drink?
The door—I snap to face it. Expectant.
Just another local and back to the
Barman, “same again, please”.

Stranded on my stool, surrounded
By the fresh smell of stale ale,
The drone of casiotone, clashing with
My pulse.
I could make for the door, end it all.
Forget this place and take control.
I could text you and say, “another night?”
Let you down and cut the palpitations.
But I’d lose that drive,

That off-beat pulse,
Organic to its very nervous cell, its control.
I’d lose the part of me that waits for you.

On this solitary stool, I endure the surrounding decay,
The sticky side and dodgy drink
Because, right now, I live and feel
The blood that churns in me.

So, it’s worth the sinking feeling
Each time I hear the door and return to the
Barman, “same again, please”.

Across it are peaks and troughs
Of illuminated pink sheets, beckoning me beneath them
And amidst the swirling mass, is you

Underneath, hazy darkness.
Hot breath against my face.
Your fingertips pressing the fibres of my clothes
Against my skin.

We transform into a world were flight
Is possible –
I soar effortlessly against gold and blue
Freedom caressing my face. And you.
Caressing my face.
I crash back. Come up for some air.
And there’s a you shaped space
Beside me.
The only word to describe it is
Cold.

Clichés.

Even two gentle hums from each far corner,
Those furry contented breaths
Replacing your delicate presence cannot console me.

No longer freedom tenderly lingering about my face
But cold air crashing around my ears
Icy exhalation replacing yours.

I stuff a pillow into my aching arms
Glacial against my skin
I dream of you, of heat,
Completeness.

Your metallic scent lingers
Where your lips met my neck
Your shirt brushed my hand
Your eyes burnt into mine
And stretching out empty fingers
I trace the outline of your face
On my pillow.

Across it are peaks and troughs
Of lacklustre pink sheets
Stretching for miles before me
And within the eternity
You’re missing.

Amelia Gibson

Writer's Group Workshop 15th December: Advice for Poets/'A Love Poem to Recession'-Kat Qill

Thanks to Imogen and Sophie for leaving a reminder me of Jacob's poetry formula on their feedback sheet: CREATE CRAFT COMMUNICATE.

I've only just rubbed this off the board- also from Jacob:

1. Striking First Line
2. Cliches (Kill Them!)
3. Cut Unnecessary Words
4. Striking Resolution
5. Form/ Structure

Our Writer's Group really got down to business. We discussed a work entitled 'Love Poem to Fear' by Catherine Pierce. A few simple steps later...

A Love Poem To Recession-Kat Quill

Carbon Monoxide clouds billow

around me. The cold evening

air enhancing the sweet

concoction of nicotine and

coffee.

Coppers rattle on the table top

Measly change from a

magnificent meal. Waitresses

my sole companion while my

coffee

gently steams...

Writer's Group receiving inspiration from Jacob Sam La Rose 15th December

Here's the second poem written during Jacob's Writer's Group workshop and inspired by Catherine Pierce's 'Love Poem To Hate'.

Love poem to the sea


Mid-summer nights, above the cove,
In which, hours before, was sand,
I watch you embrace the rock.

You respire in a low rumble,
Snoring softly in lento,
Along with my heartbeat.

Salty air makes me, look thirstily down,
Into many people’s watery grave,
Oh, how you can sweet talk us.

As the horizon leaks into orange,
You draw yourself away from the cove,
Leaving your sandy chamber.

Sophie Nicholson

I think this is brilliant. I asked Sophie about two words I wasn't sure of. She says:

'Lento' is slower than adagio, its a music speed, and 'respire' I thought instead of breathing because, I'm personifying the sea it sort of makes it more human if I use respire, so it sounds living.