Solstice 2020

The pen rests horizontal on the desk 

while thoughts fly, 

defy capture among page lines. 

Ill-defined intention washes over 

my lightening happy heart, 

flooded at last with hopeful inspiration. 

Oyez oyez hear ye

the young ones yet might save the way 

we live and love our world but, 

before we curl to sleep away 

in abject irresponsibility, 

let’s grasp their giggling shoulders, 

turn towards today’s astonishing star, 

sing hurrah! 

How wondrous we are!

The world and our hope, a loving song goes on… 

… if only we pick up the pen dear friends, 

that I nearly left lying today.

 

Friday 11th December Gerry Loose Water Story

 Water Story was delighted to have guest author Gerry Loose zooming in for this session this 

"Without Words"

was the title of the session and he certainly gave the industrious Water Story writers a good crafting workout before heading off Eswatini for a gathering of southern African poets. Here's the link via facebook for that session if you'd like to hear it (you need to click the link on the same device that you have facebook connected to...).

Seeing Gerry puts me in mind of a wording duel that Gerry began with me in 2012 when I moored up next to their residential narrow boat in Bowling. 

I was embarking on my Clyde to Caledonia Odyssey and had those words attached to the side of the barge in giant magnetic letters. Of course this was more of challenge than Gerry could bear and the next day I discovered his new anagram of moved letters:

led on a city dale co

There ensued a scrabbling duel with Gerry and I taking turns and the standard of anagram stepping up daily. 

Did I ever tell him what a fine distraction this was from the terror of the imminent journey and the agony of waiting for just the right weather and tide to take a canal boat to sea.... not that this proved to be a brilliant idea...

Many thanks to Kate Lindsay for the following contributions:

Water Story 11 Dec 2020 – Gerry Loose Workshop

Prompt: I as she who …

 

I am she who dances

alone  in the kitchen

I am she who dances

with weans as well as  wolves

I am she who dances

in the morning to greet the day

I am she who dances

whether …. or not …. folk are watching

I am she who dances

without sequins and sparkle

I am she who dances

while she can

 

 

Kate Lindsay

Water Story

11 December 2020

Workshop with Gerry Loose

Prompt: an encounter with someone or something that meant a lot but did not involve words

 

Small Encounters

The hand on my elbow as we make our way along the corridor

The glance of understanding as we wait

The step aside in recognition that to go on unhindered is easier than beginning again

The nod of acknowledgement to experiences shared 

The arm across my shoulders while emotion abates

The cold air on my face as I open the door

The sight of the red breast of the robin

 

 

Water Story Xmas Perty ~ 27th November 2020

What a time we had at the Xmas Perty - all dressed up with a "wee refreshement" and plenty of cheer. Not quite as Diane remembers in her exquisite painting (hidden talents Diane!) or Sheila with her less than flattering photo of the inebriated captain!

Pat started us off in stitches with her take on TS Elliot's Journey of the Magi

The Journey of the Lifebelters

by Pat Sutherland

A cold Christmas we had of it
Just the time of year
for going arse over tit on the ice
and doing battle in the supermarket
for the last loaf.
There were times we regretted
ever getting involved
in all that tinsel tawdriness
and the highway robbery of Festive Menus
full of reconstituted turkey
and khaki knackered sprouts.
Still we soldiered on,
to the soundtrack of Slade
with the voices singing in our ears, saying
that this was all mince.

The on-board Christmas party brought relief, however,
Captain Bev pouring libations topped with Cointreau,
Aileen impersonating The Laughing Policeman
And Pat setting fire to the mince pies
And the barge rocking to our tuneless singing.
Then came January and hacking coughs
And we all learned the word ‘pandemic’
But there was no information, though Boris said
It would all blow over, which it did, from Glasgow Cross to 
Auchtermuchty and beyond.

New rules followed; we washed our hands 
And closed our doors, but set down 
This set down 
This: Bev and Larry
Saved us from ourselves
Not a moment too soon,
Finding Zoom, (a cloud-based video communications app that allows you to set up virtual video and audio.)

Meetings had a new dimension: 
Can you hear me?
No, Put your face up to the screen! Where’s Kay gone?
I’m stuck out here in the ether; get me back! 
My screen’s gone blank, no, I can see your feet!
What’s a screen shot? Fuck’s sake! Pat can’t find the link AGAIN…

All this has carried on to the present,
And we’ll be glad when it’s over
but set down 
This set down 
This
out of Covid new poets have sprung,
Lifebelters have written their way through 
House arrest and endless grey days
Prizes were won and pieces published
Lesley has woven magic words and music
Kay has walked through four pairs of boots 
And we have kept each other afloat
In our lifebelts.

Here’s tae us!

*************************

The event fell short of authentic Water Story festive spirit, simply because our atmospheres were not suffused with the smoke of Pat's culinary responsibilities... it just isn't the same if Pat isn't setting fire to sausage rolls, croissants or mince pies. 

The festivities came to a natural halt and this wayward captain realised that yes, even in the midst of this hilarity, there was writing to be done. And so it was. I'm still waiting for contributions from the crew but here is one from your captain. 

Merry Christmas all x 

The Thirteenth Day of Christmas   

by Pat Sutherland (Apologies to Dave Calder)

Whit you aw aboot?

A should be gratefu’??  

A’ll gie ye grateful

a partridge ye say, aye right

bit a perr tree an aw?

It’s oot on the sterr heid 

wi the bunker

cannae squeeze it in the door

thae turtle doves huv shat 

big wallopers oan ma laminate

the hens are roostin oan the duvet

an the geese are bowfin,

layin eggs oan the sofa an honkin 

thae drummers are gein it welly 

in the scullery wi the ladies

dancin tae the pipers pipin

an mad mental lords a-

leapin aff the sterrs

knockin the maids a milkin

aff their stools

the cludgie’s flooded from the swans

flappin in the bath –

it’s a pure stramash

aye, A’ll grant the five gold rings 

did nae herm but

the partridge ett thaim

an the perr tree’s deid

wi the coal dust

so thanks a bunch

Cheeery Me!

A salute from Cap’n Bev (hic)

Cheery me!

My penpals all are here

in party plumed regalia 

and Christmas paraphernalia

How I love this scribbling crew!

How the sailoring sense of waterway muse 

is hoisted aloft as writers gather on screen

to sail our sea of words.

Just for a while we forget the beloved green and wet 

of loch and canal, zoom into the cheering plasma glow

knowing the welcome that waits.

Was it ever the water, the boat, the ben 

as much as the soaring souls 

of these writers I’ve come to love and know?

Epilogue from Pat:  

Lines for a Christmas Card  by Hilaire Belloc

May all my enemies go to hell,

Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel

Friday 13th November with Cap'n Bev

The usual incisive converstion started the session with no depth too deep to plumb and now foundations too solid too challenge; Socrates would smile at our Water Story exploration.

As soon as I could drag my unruly crew to literary attention we dived into David Whyte's 

Everything is Waiting for You

and wrote for 7 minutes on the question

"What is your life conversation?"... right now.

Sandra Birnie nailed it - here is her piece:

Life Conversation

by Sandra Birnie

Take a look around and touch the

timber, cloth and textured wool of it.

Your space has weft and warp

shade and stripe.

Notice the piercing sun slice centre stage on carpet.

There is drama here.

Blinds angling to be drawn.

Windows where spider nests are safe at least until the spring.

Ticking, whirring clock and laptop motor overture your day that mounts to

full crescendo of crashing and boiling cleaning machines.

Breathe.

Sit.

Take it in.

There’s a lot going on. 

30th October Live Session with Lesley O'Brien

The blog simply has to start with a hoorah for another two Water Story writer successes, congratulations for:

Another publication on Dear Damsels for Giovanna McKenna, "Perhaps"

A win for  Louise Terry's poem "In the beginning" that was selected by the RSPB for their monthly competition.

How happy is your captain? : )  : )  : )  

Now here, lest we forget Water Story's connection with boats here's a view of the poorly Waverley in Glasgow city centre this week along with the Queen Mary paddle steamer that is permanently berthed in King George V dock.

Lesley O'Brien and her Leprechauns

What a treat of a session we had on the 30th October with the marvellous storyteller Lesley O'Brien who took us for a singing walk seeking leprechauns and  berries for our bucket with this piece:

Hey Little Leprechaun

Hey little leprechaun where have you gone?

I am still looking for my pot of gold

I tied a ribbon to a treasure tree

If I turn my back, you will try to fool me

 

Please don’t take my gold

‘cause I know your little heart can be cold

 

One for the bucket and one for me

Two for the bucket and two for me,

Three for the bucket and three for me

Four for the bucket and four for me

 

Granny told me all about you

With a beard the colour of Irn Bru

Please don’t take my gold

‘cause the end of the rainbow has been sold

 

Hey little leprechaun where have you gone?

Into the hillside you have run

Oh, for a year and a day

Now I must wait and pray

 

One for the bucket and one for me

Two for the bucket and two for me,

Three for the bucket and three for me

Four for the bucket and four for me

As always some stunning writing came out of the session - here's a taste:

Rations

by Catrice Greer

("I kept the lyrics and credited to Lesley properly but, I've changed the delivery to an early 40's jazz standard delivery when sung so I won't come off as a marauding thief in the night of her beautiful brilliance.")

“Please don’t take my gold * 

because the end of the rainbow has been sold

we’re told.” 

Is there an amber dewdrop left for me,

the honey-sweet nectar, 

a tear of agape? 

Where did you hide it in these brambles, tumbleweeds? 

Under the brush where no one can see?

In between the double-talk, 

the words of silver-tongued politicians 

recklessly carved in trees, signposts to destruction  

or paving the way forward? 

We are at the fork in the road

that feels more like the knife that cuts us 

out of Eden’s fecund well-nested garden 

Get in!  We are chasing rainbows, hurricanes, and tornados 

funneled by their own grinding compass

unhinged un-screwed 

at least they have some direction

follow a path Mother naturally carved 

in the dust tracked footsteps 

leveling sleepy towns so we can see plain

Taste the manna, sip the dew 

on unfurled petals and leaves

we’ll eat our daily bread, nibble our cud 

from delicate seedlings sown 

Here, I’ll give you one, and you give to me*

“One for the bucket and one for me *

  Two for the bucket and two for me” 

“Please don’t take my gold *

because the end of the rainbow has been sold,

we’re told.” 

* Inspired by the lovely dramatic work/song  “Hey Little Leprechaun” by Lesley O. Rutherglen

  

Here's one from Cap'n Bev for a change!

Filling my Belly or Filling the Bucket?

by Bev Schofield

How full need my belly be till I begin to fill the bucket?

 How big a bucket do I snatch from the bucket hanging rail?

Should I take a tiny one, quickly filled, job easily done, 

then I can skip and guzzle, love the living sun-filled 

lazy days. But the world needs me to do my part…

so much need… I should take the largest bucket

 and pick and pick and pick, though I know it

 will never be filled, till I collapse in

 exhausted starvation, letting all

 the berries in the bucket spill.

I must find the right size bucket.

Am  I  the  bucket?

Or is the bucket me?

Our Helen, a teacher, has been much busier than the rest of us through lockdown but has found time to submit a piece of prose quite apt for Water Story... thanks Helen!

Lifejacket

 by Helen Elsley

The smallest and most recent swimmer, I was the only one who had to wear a lifejacket. I slipped it off whenever their backs were turned, walked sure-footed and free over the roof of the barge, stepped off at bridges and trailed along the towpath half-drunk on head-high meadowsweet.

My mother fell in first. Pushing off from a mooring, she made the rookie error of leaving her feet on the bank. “Frank,” she snapped, “Frank. Do something!” Her body slowly went horizontal between towpath and departing boat, before she had to step inevitably off into cold wildfowl-scattering water up to her waist.

Next, my brothers. Given free rein in an inflatable dinghy, they paddled blithely under the run-off from a lock and were swamped, slowly sinking side by side until only their crew cuts were visible, dark and fair among the foam.

My big sister, schlepping along the side wearing the last word in seventies Swedish clogs, slipped wooden-soled into the industrial waters of Birmingham at the back of a sanitary-ware factory. A row of toilet bowls along the edge of the yard looked down on her floundering as the buoyant clogs bobbed to the surface.

My father seemed safe enough, feet planted, hand on tiller, pirate king for a week. But spectacularly, impossibly, he managed to steer into a flooded field and waded off to fetch a farmer with a tractor and a towrope. I surely cannot remember this, and yet I do, and he is not here to ask. I remember him humming, tuneless as the 4-mile-an-hour engine, happy.  At the swing bridge where he had hung about to help as an evacuee, his own long-ago canal summer was close enough to touch in the handle on the winding mechanism.

Lifejacket spurned, I stayed bone-dry and told-you-so triumphant.

2 October Live session with Lynnda Wardle ~ "Write around the Room"

Lynnda's theme today took inspiration from the classic 'Journey Around my Room’ 1794 by Xavier de Maistre (a soldier confined to his quarters for 6 weeks because he was caught in an illegal duel) we will explore our own surroundings to uncover material for intense, focused writing.

"Walk around the edges of your kitchen keeping you back to the wall. Notice everything. Touch the surfaces, notice how the surface feel. Notice what you see, both ordinary and anything you haven’t noticed before. Look at how things are arranged against the wall. What is in the middle of the room?  Spend a few moments looking up at the ceiling what do you notice?"

"Imagine the room is a landscape. Think of the floor: is it a forest floor, a desert, the sea, a bog? Describe this imagined floor. 

Thinking of the furniture: what kind of shapes do they form? Mountains? Icebergs? Giant trees etc?

Tall objects like cupboards or the fridge? What form do they take? Cliffs? Etc

Ceiling? What kind of covering? Sky? Or something else?

Now take these elements and thread them together as a short piece of writing in any form. Include your souvenir object. What is its function? What could it be used for in this new landscape? Does it have a story of its own?

Catrice's found object was this poem she wrote at the age of ten:

You can see some of Lynnda Wardle's writing here

Fire in The Void 

by Catrice Greer

Be functional. 

Pack it here. 

Tuck it there. 

Small and compact hovel in the dark

an unnatural void  

everything lined against the walls of it 

caverned in 

unhinged photos leaning 

on each other for support 

conspicuously bare walls say 

I am not sure I want to be here 

half in half out

building the storied wall 

dripping with packed stacks 

like stalactite stalagmite 

stacks from the floor 

minerals that have fed me 

in the years of starvation

bibliophile, these bookish gems 

sparkle-encrusted with bits and bobs 

telling the stories of my life 

with no room no more room to share

Yet so many stories

wainscoted sealed in the ceiling of this cave 

a craggy space 

this feline, green glass-eyed partner 

slinking here and there,

we are squeezed in 

safe 

this workstation piled, peppered 

with delicate pressed wood pulp stacks

styluses for stoking 

a fire pit glowing in the center

churning the lighted mind 

the electric of every thought 

lightening 'round the voided space

I find myself 

set up to live 

hoveled in the dark 

A fire bearer

Loch Lomond! 18th September 2020

Huge thanks to Cruise Loch Lomond who donated a morning aboard their splendid vessel on Loch Lomond today. Pat and Sheila here have been shielding since early March, and the effect of the fresh air and actually spending time with real people? Well in all honesty, the pens nestled undisturbed at the bottom of our bags for the duration of the splendid, sunny sail.

As we neared the end of the cruise we blew whistles... usually an alarm call on water (we did warn the nearby vessels it was not a call for help). This was a blasting of Coronavirus from out of our tidy morning.... a furious vent at the frustrations of the past months.

Aileen brought a painting she's done of Giovanna's cat, but it matched the boat so well we think it might need to stay on board the Lomond Prince...

Live Session 4th September ~ Forgetfulness

Loving Lou's doodle date... such a cheerful flower! Now I arrived slightly disheveled at the meeting today having been brought stuttering to my desk by an insistent poem after my morning graveyard cycle. It simply had to be written... here it is:

Lazy Ghosts

by Bev Schofield

The lazy spirits linger long

in leafy graveyards left,

wait for copulating couples

whose weekend drunken dalliance

does drop their guard.

Among the raunchy groans,

ghostly whispers weave unheeded.

Weeds and trees wave warning

as the dead ones slip among their breath,

reincarnate as children of whom people say

how strange… how unlike their mum or dad…

The wiser ones remain as trees that take no heed

of huff and grunt, of drunken fornication.

Up, up, up they grow, for lover take instead the breeze

to hear the air of nearby seas, 

occasionally shake heir autumn leaves 

on a world gone mad.

Would one not happier be as one of these?

the name of the author is  first to go

Inspiration for our first writing prompt came from the Bill Collins poem "Forgetfulness"

Stunning pieces as ever and these have been promised an airing on the blog .... soon... meanwhile here are some new Msasas that were being picutured in Zimbabwe on the very same day we were discussing them in Water Story:

Our second piece of writing took prompt from Ezra Pound's piece:

And the days are not full enough

And the nights are not full enough

And life slips by like a field mouse

Not shaking the grass

These days

by Giovanna MacKenna (*after Ezra Pound)

Sometimes I long for the quiet days

to be the mouse moving silently

invisible through the roar around it

There is so much noise now, so

many warriors shaking the grass

raising their spears, wide mouths

raging words down on those below

There are so many wars being fought

with little thought and much fervour

I long to slip through the tall golden

stems, without a rustle or a squeak

Live Session 21st August ~ What matter?

 

These sessions have become a haven of incisive and sensible conversation in a new reality that saps our creative resources. We're having to reinvent ourselves, while all too many institutions insist on reiterating the processes of the old. Giovanna's example summed it up, her kids school insisting on the children wearing tie and blazer when these items are not easily washable, therefore presenting an ideal virus vector.

Our writing prompt came from the Kay Ryan poem Galápago that you'll find in her anthology "The Best of It". I'm afraid I haven't managed to find a copy of it online but you can enjoy some of her poems at this link.

Lou recommended a heartening project called Teach the Future

LOCH LOMOND AHOY!

Yes Water Story writers, at last we are getting OUT! Onto the water... email Bev if you'd like to be added to the list for this trip and arrangements will follow. For social distancing reasons you must please make your own arrangements for getting to Tarbet; be aware there will be stringent measures in place to protect some of our more vulnerable writers.

Live session 10th August ~ Slim Boat, look the other way

 

Such conversations were had today, different perspectives on the world changes we are witnessing as we creep out of lockdown. Come out? Stay at home? Like shared guilty secrets we discovered that most of us actually like peace and control of our secluded lives... with this piece Sheila took us swimming in Loch Ard - I don't have a pic so here is the Firth of Clyde:

I stand looking across the still surface

by Sheila Buchanan

I stand looking across the still surface

I feel I can walk on the water

It is so smooth and untroubled

No ripples or splash.

But better to enter the medium

Feel the shock of the cold

See the sunshine enter from above.

As I slipstream face down

The light is split into shards

Vectors pointing to the apex below

I assume the nature of a slim boat

Crossing the boundaries of natures’ curves

Balance is all.

Our writing prompt today was an attempt to maintain calm, avoid inhaling others' germs, sidestep suffering, find another route....

look the other way

Lou reckoned she'd been looking the other way for so long she has a crick in her neck!

Sheila Buchanan's "Look the other way"

Look the other way and 

Don’t reflect what used to be;

Note what people are doing well

Not the lack of reponsibility.

Let the sunshine in to a spotless mind

No thunder clouds to a trouble a fevered cranium.

Pragmatism and a mindful approach are the tools of the trade.

Keep in touch but don’t touch

Share and air your concerns to absolve your anxiety.

A day at a time 

Don’t let the anxiety be worse that the virus

Look at what an amazing person you are

Life is always blurred at the edges.

To finish we drew various prompts from Cathie Sandstrom's poem

Standing Up in a Slim Boat 

which is, after all, what life feels like at the moment...

In the slim boat of each day

by Giovanna MacKenna

In the slim boat of each day

I travel the lengths of my life

Finding the going rough and tiring,

I forget I am fortunate to be carried

Around my craft splash others, those

who retch salt water from their throats

NB Water Story...

Sessions are moving back to Fridays, starting next Friday 21st August

Keep an eye on the Water Story Schedule page

Live session 27th July ~ Auden, silently and very fast

Sheila's been making blankets for the homeless... this is her 4th! We are still not getting out though we had a touch of canal nostalgia with this shot of Peccadillo in their programme opener:

Our writing prompt today came from a W.H. Auden poem - The Fall of Rome

silently and very fast

However Lou found a much better Auden poem that more closely echoes the societal angst of the covid paradigm... here it is:

September 1, 1939

W. H. Auden

I sit in one of the dives

On Fifty-second Street

Uncertain and afraid

As the clever hopes expire

Of a low dishonest decade:

Waves of anger and fear

Circulate over the bright

And darkened lands of the earth,

Obsessing our private lives;

The unmentionable odour of death

Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can

Unearth the whole offence

From Luther until now

That has driven a culture mad,

Find what occurred at Linz,

What huge imago made

A psychopathic god:

I and the public know

What all schoolchildren learn,

Those to whom evil is done

Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew

All that a speech can say

About Democracy,

And what dictators do,

The elderly rubbish they talk

To an apathetic grave;

Analysed all in his book,

The enlightenment driven away,

The habit-forming pain,

Mismanagement and grief:

We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air

Where blind skyscrapers use

Their full height to proclaim

The strength of Collective Man,

Each language pours its vain

Competitive excuse:

But who can live for long

In an euphoric dream;

Out of the mirror they stare,

Imperialism's face

And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar

Cling to their average day:

The lights must never go out,

The music must always play,

All the conventions conspire

To make this fort assume

The furniture of home;

Lest we should see where we are,

Lost in a haunted wood,

Children afraid of the night

Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash

Important Persons shout

Is not so crude as our wish:

What mad Nijinsky wrote

About Diaghilev

Is true of the normal heart;

For the error bred in the bone

Of each woman and each man

Craves what it cannot have,

Not universal love

But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark

Into the ethical life

The dense commuters come,

Repeating their morning vow;

"I will be true to the wife,

I'll concentrate more on my work,"

And helpless governors wake

To resume their compulsory game:

Who can release them now,

Who can reach the deaf,

Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice

To undo the folded lie,

The romantic lie in the brain

Of the sensual man-in-the-street

And the lie of Authority

Whose buildings grope the sky:

There is no such thing as the State

And no one exists alone;

Hunger allows no choice

To the citizen or the police;

We must love one another or die.

Defenceless under the night

Our world in stupor lies;

Yet, dotted everywhere,

Ironic points of light

Flash out wherever the Just

Exchange their messages:

May I, composed like them

Of Eros and of dust,

Beleaguered by the same

Negation and despair,

Show an affirming flame.

Silently and very fast

by Sheila Buchanan

Silently I enter the loch with little splash.  I see the water ripple about me marking my entry spot.  I take on the eyes of a water fly and see everything at water level.  The vista is silent but rich in detail.  Alongside me are other swimmers and we set off slow and deliberate feeling the water slide over our skin as we move further and further across the loch stopping occasionally for the silent view.

The other joy in my life has been cycling steadily along the canal tow paths passing by the clusters of lilies and the sedate flotilla of swans. their increasingly large cygnet nursery having an afternoon nap beak under wings and under the watchful eye of their attentive parents.  My joy is watching the water flow silently along reflecting an open sky.  At the lock entry the water falls fast and causes some waves on the canal which drifts silently along.  A lasting picture is of the heron sheltering under the leafy branches watching my world as I watch his. 

My life is enriched by my indulgence of being in and beside the water. The water is the mirror of my soul.  

Live Session 20th July ~ Grrrrrrrout!

Inspiration for today's session came from a predictive text error Lou had, get out being changed to grout. How appropriate - getting out but somehow still holding the tiles together. Our writing prompt was taken from neil Astley's second anthology, Being Alive, which all too pertinently follows Staying Alive. And this is where we find ourselves, needing to be alive now we've stayed alive... but we really need to grrrout!

Great conversations were had as always, one topic been the difficulty for deaf people that face masks present - several of us have realised that most of us use a measure of lip reading to follow conversation. Lou has discovered these SMILE MASKS that are very much in demand.

grout

by Kay Ritchie

grrrrr!

gir outta ma way

gir outta ma face

gir out’n’about

gir outta the house

 

stay alive   be alive

but stay away from me

keep your distance

your 2 metres

stop sneaking up

scudding past

making me

nervy   tetchy   jittery  

‘cause I’ve been

wrapped up like a parcel &

don’t feel ready to

peel off the paper   undo the knots

I’ve been curled & coiled & cloaked &

don’t want to be unbuttoned or

tangled in your hair

I’m feeling feral   ferocious  

so beware

grrrrr!

gir outta ma way

ok?

Live Session 13th July ~ Greta Thunberg & Yowann Byghan

Easdale Island was the host location for our session today in which we discovered the extraordinary Cornish poet Yowann Byghann who lives on Seil Island. We drew inspiration from his poem:

The Black Isle (click the link to visit his website - this and several poems here )

Conversations and feelings were deep this morning and Yowann's words wash about me still with the remarkable writing that was shared after our timed writing prompts. We started the day with the prompt

world crisis 

inspired by a BBC radio airing of a "Seriously..." episode:

Summer with Greta

Greta Thunberg, a moving radio reading of her trip across america. She is stunned to discover the world's alacrity in dealing with pandemic when the global warming crisis is killing so many more people, but our focus was more on this teenager's discovery of her unassailable vocation in life. Calmly unaffected by fame or threat, she brings the plight of our planet into shocking focus with her unique personality. We can but dream of finding the steady kind of paths of our own that manifest out own gifts and personalities so completely.

Live session 6th July ~ Tangle o' the Isles

What a hoot - we actually had a sing song this morning, singing along very badly to Andy Stewart's version of the Road to the Isles

Try it, I dare you. You will not get that song out of your head for a week but with it comes the smell of the heather and the taste of the malt and the sound of the sea birds... remember?

Road to the Isles or Tangle o' the Isles

A far croonin' is pullin' me away

As take I wi' my cromack to the road.

The far Coolins are puttin' love on me.

As step I wi' the sunlight for my load.

Sure by Tummel and Loch Rannoch and Lochaber I will go

By heather tracks wi' heaven in their wiles.

If it's thinkin' in your inner heart the braggart's in my step.

You've never smelled the tangle o' the Isles.

The far Coolins are puttin' love on me.

As step I wi' my cromack to the Isles.

It's by Shiel water the track is to the west.

By Aillort and by Morar to the sea.

The cool cresses I am thinkin' of for pluck.

And bracken for a wink on Mother knee.

Sure by Tummel and Loch Rannoch and Lochaber I will go

By heather tracks wi' heaven in their wiles.

If it's thinkin' in your inner heart the braggart's in my step.

You've never smelled the tangle o' the Isles.

Oh the far Coolins are puttin' love on me.

As step I wi' my cromack to the Isles.

Oh the blue islands are pullin' me away.

Their laughter puts the leap upon the lame.

The blue islands from the Skerries to the Lewis.

Wi' heather honey taste upon each name.

Sure by Tummel and Loch Rannoch and Lochaber I will go

By heather tracks wi' heaven in their wiles.

If it's thinkin' in your inner heart the braggart's in my step.

You've never smelled the tangle o' the Isles.

Oh the far Coolins are puttin' love on me.

As step I wi' my cromack to the Isles.

Our two writing prompts today were both taken from the song:

you've never smelled the tangle o' the Isles

and

laughter puts the leap upon the lame

Live Session 22nd June ~ Solstice with Kenneth Steven

Today's session was a life masterclass on the craft of writing... for which Cap'n Bev claims little credit but the facilitation. The process of writing, the timeline between inspiration and groundwork of building a piece up to the best it can be,  this is generally a lonely journey, but we all found validation in the sharing of our writing journeys this morning. I have permission from the author to quote:

If there's a chance for something to get out, it does.

by Giovanna McKenna

The curious observation of the morning was the list of obstructions to writing that might be considered "successful" ... and I am heartened to discover that we perceive that success to be more than publishing or praise... that these writers KNOW when it's a good piece. As writers we can be hindered by criticism, cruelty, self censorship, mental health compromises or just plain lack of time.

There's a random rhododendron since they're pretty stunning at the moment. Our inspiration for writing this morning came from the breathtaking poetry of Kenneth Steven: Island

the sun never died completely in the night

And if lockdown is getting to you, take an audio trip to the islands of the west of Scotland by listening to a five part series from BBC Radio 3's Essay series:

Poet Kenneth Steven reflects on Scottish island life

Mindfulness and Writing

Thanks to a piece of funding from Foundation Scotland we have an 8 week project starting on Friday 26th June - click the link above for more information. 

Live Session 15th June 2020 ~ Dark & Light with Kim Stafford

You could  all but smell the Water Story coffee in this morning's session as the conversation grappled with the Black Lives Matter events of the past week or two. 
In fact our writing prompt

dark and light together

came from a piece called Pandemic Coffee restoration Ritual  that you can read here among Pandemic Poems by Kim Stafford

Once you've had a look at that, treat yourself to the audio visual delights of a further collection: Poems for the Pandemic from the Oregonian

Kim Stafford is the guest speaker at the Lapidus webinar after the AGM on Thursday 25th June; if you haven't booked your tickets for those events then scroll down the page - I've pasted links again at the end of this post.

**************************

SUBMISSION TIME
Many thanks Kay for the following links - come on writers, I'm hoping we will find you in these competitions, hmmm? Hmmmm? Hmmmmmm?


University of Aberdeen's Lockdown Lore Collection Project

Pendemic
this from University College Dublin

**************************

Today I'm happy to be sharing a poem from John Young who we haven't seen in a wee while; his powerful piece here gives us an idea why that might be:


And the ball keeps bouncing
by John Young
We watched you exhale the final time; we screamed soundlessly. 
And the ball keeps bouncing. 

The world has set itself on fire; burned out homes, ravaged streets.
And the ball keeps  bouncing. 

Monsoons drown the screaming, and the klansmen keep on lynching.
And the ball keeps bouncing. 

The virus sweeps the world; parks, shops, all stand still.
And the ball keeps bouncing. 

Fear and loathing stain our conscience. 
And the ball keeps bouncing. 

The trees keep growing; the fish keep swimming; the rivers keep running; the birds keep singing. 


And the ball keeps bouncing. 

**************************

TICKETS MUST BE BOOKED (free) FOR 
LAPIDUS AGM & WEBINAR:

LAPIDUS AGM (Zoom) - Thursday 25th June from 5:30pm
Book for the AGM 
LAPIDUS Webinar with Kim Stafford - Thursday 25th June from 7:00pm

Book for the webinar here.

Live Session 8th June ~ Unrest wtih Maya Angelou

There was a curious and unexpected protest on deck this morning with menopause being the conversation... and the cause of subjugation. One and all agreed that this topic is hopelessly under represented in life's general conversation, impacting half the population on a scale that ranges from mild to utterly devastating. We have put our minds to the task of opening such conversations here on this platform.... but "m" is the second letter of hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... so in truth, will we get around to that?

Meanwhile the theme of the day brought our minds and pens to worldwide unrest in the wake of the death of George Floyd, the Black Lives Matter movement.


Still I Rise  Maya Angelou's poem, was where I went for contemplation and this is where our prompt of the day comes from:

I am the dream and the hope of the slave

Many thanks to Pat Sutherland who has shared her hugging thoughts from last week:

Hug

On occasion hugging poses awkward questions: ‘Do I know this person well enough?’ ‘Will a hug seem presumptuous?’  ‘Does this person even like being hugged?’  ‘Must I hug this person?’  ‘Is this person never going to let go?’

After three hugless months, however, I have lost my scruples.  I have discovered how much I need and miss human contact of the physical kind.  The delivery man at my door today narrowly missed being folded in my embrace and given half a chance I’d hug the cat next door, though she has always observed discreet social distancing.

I will not be responsible for my conduct when hugging becomes permissible, when the suit at the podium produces a graph delineating the ratio of safe hugging in relation to area and the legal maximum participants in a group hug.  When it happens I will spend all the birthday hugs I’ve been saving; I will go to the gate and hug passers- by;  I will get behind the wheel and drive south to hug my grandsons until they wriggle free; I will be a mug for hugging.

Live session ~ HUGS

Many of us tentatively but gratefully met with family this weekend but the absence of hugging was unbearable for most of us. This led me to the shortest prompt of the century:

HUGS

Some delightful Water Story writing came out of the prompt (watch this space for posts to come) which is more than can be said for my google search for relevant poems. Try it yourself... a deluge of perhaps the worst poetry imaginable has been precipitated by an act that we all agreed was utterly fundamental to our human expression. In desperation I shifted the search to TOUCH, skirting the sexier poems I landed at last on this deeply moving poem called The Touch by Anne Sexton. What a journey this takes you on; well worth several reads.

Sharing today is a rich collection from Kay Ritchie, inspired by our Gerard Manley Hopkins session about Spring last week; thanks Kay!

Portrait of Kay Ritchie by Susie Taylor

After Manley Hopkins
by Kay Ritchie

wheels -  whirring whirling birling skirling
water wheels  spinning wheels  ferris wheels
bicycle wheels  wheels on prams   wheels on cars
wheelchairs & wheelbarrows
wooden ones and metal ones and plastic ones &
William Carlos William’s red one &
Paul Durcan’s Copacabana one &
the squeaky one Kate pushed last week
one wheel trundling down our street
its barrow brimming
purples  oranges  reds and pinks
rhododendrons bundled in its wooden sink
a glorious gift from her garden &
it brought back happy memories of that one
obtained for work at our hut at Carbeth
its rusty rumbly/rattly/rolling
negotiating lumpy bumpy land
to carry soil dug up by David
(stones and wiggly worms and waggly weeds)
my job to dump and return
to help plant the herbs that would feed
feed family and friends,
feed butterflies and bees
feed our senses
the purple lavender
the pink echinacea
the white camomile
the blue borage
the parsley sage rosemary and thyme
the mint and chives and fennel and dill
the basil on our window sill
all made possible by
that one world weary wheel

Let's get stuff submitted!

Calling all writers but ESPECIALLY the Water Story crew who have produced some excellent work during lockdown. Congratulations to Giovanna who has been published at DEAR DAMSELS

***************

There are just a couple of days left to submit to PENGUIN'S WRITE NOW initiative - 31st May!

***************

Angie Strachan has also been marvelously busy and is recommending we some destinations for your writing:
"I have been recording poetry for Radio V for Volunteer Scotland.  They are looking for people to submit their poetry, art, stories, art, etc, for their website.  It's to celebrate Volunteers and Volunteering on Volunteer Week from the 1st to 7th of June.  Perhaps some of our wee group might be interested.  I have also written some hints and tips to get people started with poetry on their website.  This is the link.


If anyone is interested in hearing my poetry for Volunteer radio it is on Spotify, Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter under Radio V.  I was also interviewed while at Stanza for Irish radio's RTE poetry program and they recorded my "Stressed" poem.  This is the link for that and the link for my Seagull poem that is on at the beginning of the Loud Poets, Loudcast.  "

Come on people, let's get publishing!

Cap'n Bev

Drookit Doo 

"Please find below the poem about the pigeon.  It's written with some interesting Ayrshire words."

"Angie Strachan ©

Geordie takes a donner doon the concrete slabs,

Pookin at the grass frae the cracks

Watter, hingin from his beak, like a dewdrip snotter

Wearing his feathers like a puffa jaiket,

eyes closed, hen toed, glaikit -

Drookit, foonert and scunnert

The doo hut is shut - it's oot o commission

it's pure pishin,

the pigeons are wishin,

they were roastin like a chicken

The trees have nae leaves, to sit unner n dry oot,

So Geordie stoats aboot, soakin wet, gettin droont

Also, this is my Lockdown Hairdoo poem that I filmed and I hope to be filming my "Fashion In A Crisis" poem this week.