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.

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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

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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. 

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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

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

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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.

Live session 25/5/20 ~ Spring with Manley Hopkins and Burns

This morning's session can only be described as deeply nourishing. There is no shortage of poetry about spring but we settled on Spring     by Gerard Manley Hopkins
to start with. We used the line

weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush 

for our first prompt and went in many directions from there.

After a relaxing few minutes of mindfulness from the skilled Tara Dakini (thank you Tara) we visited the lesser known poem by Rabbie Burns:
O were my Love yon Lilac fair     by Robert Burns

From just two minutes of writing our Angie comes up with not one but TWO pieces like this:

selected line from poem - "And I a bird to shelter there"

Breath moves
with breast
to ear pressed
we rest
like lovebirds
sheltered in a nest


Angie Strachan ©­

LAPIDUS
If any of you are not members of Lapidus International yet
this is the page where you can join.

There is an annual fee but please be aware this membership is not prerequisite for Water Story. However it does give you a warm sense of belonging to an international creative writing body along with regular newsletters and resources - click the logo there to sample them.



It is Lapidus Scotland that makes all our Words Work Well for All projects possible; there are loads of free resources on this website (which is currently being revamped) and you can subscribe here to receive their newsletter.

LAPIDUS AGM (Zoom) - Thursday 25th June from 5:30pm

 Here’s how to book for the AGM 

LAPIDUS Webinar with Kim Stafford - Thursday 25th June from 7:00pm

Book for the webinar here.

GWL Poetry Slam

We're all rootin' for our facilitator Lesley O'Brien!

See her here at the GWL Poetry Slam

Lockdown with Wolves and Geese

Sandra Walls is one of our most prolific writers with a gift for effortless fiction. Here we have some unedited tastes of that and also feedback from her Quarantino diary that feels reflective of many ruminations we are sharing in Water Story as we approach the "unlocking"...


Quarantino Diary – Self Isolation Before – During – After?
by Sandra Walls

Stage 1 In and Under Duress
I’ve fallen deeply into a brick well.  Old shiny black stones cobbled up the deep dark circular wall. The bottom is filled with thick warm clay gripping my body and I sink into it.  Sounds frightening when I say it out loud, but I am surprisingly comforted by its depth and darkness.

Stage 2 Acceptance
I’m enveloped, right up over my ears, neck, chin and hairline. All that’s there is my oval, my front mask, forehead, eyes, nose and mouth.
I’m stuck.
But I think I like it
I can’t move.
It feels like being cocooned, surrounded, wrapped – like a newborn.
I can speak but I don’t – there’s no-one to listen
It’s so hard, too hard to be up top and out in the old world
I’m scared
It’s so cozy
In the dark
In here
Down here – in the deep
Down here – in the dark
Come down here with me
Down here I can hide
I am hiding from the rest
From the world
No-one misses me anyway
Why would they
I’m useless, I’m fat, I’m ugly, I’m stupid
I hate my reflection
In the mirror – I’m done
I’ve outlived my usefulness
I’m sick, I’m dying
In the end it would be best
The best for everyone

Stage 3 Reluctance
It’s all black, it’s dark, the clay that holds me is getting cold.  I don’t like this so much now
It’s a warning. If I stay down here, I will die.
I will die while in self isolation
I will die, die lonely and alone
Do I really want to die?
Alone
Do I really want to die at all?
Half says yes, the other half no.

Stage 4 Inner Resolution
Now I say no, no to dying. But it’s so dark
There’s a point, a pin dot of light
White brilliant light
It’s the light of life, light of hope, new beginnings
Yes.
But the dark said, you made your choice – “Cozy in the dark” remember
No hope, right? Let’s just die, right?
No!   … I can change my mind
I know now I need the light – I’m not cozy in the dark anymore
It’s not cozy, it’s cold and clingy
I need the light, the light of my life, my life’s light
That tiny pin sized light that’s looking for me
Searching, move, move! I stretch my head
My ears are out!
Sandra? … Mum…?

Stage 5 The Rescue
I’m here… I’m down here!
I can hear them
Sandra, I’m here with Grant
My man, my boy.
I can see his beautiful face.
Mum? Yes! “We’re coming”
They climb in
To my depth – the depth of my despair

Stage 6 Re-Freed
They talk me through my exit strategy
My escape from my binds, my bonds
They slide me out of the cold lagging clagging clay
I’m out, I’m exhausted, I’m crying, I’m relieved
I’m out.

Stage 7 The Revelation
Mum, we missed you, you were locked in
We were all calling for you, you couldn’t hear us
You were calling me?
Yes, Dad, me, Nanny, everyone
I never heard anything
It’s just because you were so far away, so far down
I knew you’d hear me.
Our bond, you told me when I was born you knew my cry.
Yes, I did
So, I knew you’d hear me.
I’m out?  Yes.
I’m finally out the other side, I’m exhausted, I’m scared, I’m loved, I’m relieved.
I’m loved, I’m hugged, I’m safe.
What happens now?

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Prompts from Mary Oliver:   
"Wild geese high in the clean blue air are heading home again."
Wild Geese
by Sandra Walls

The flock gathered on the brown lake and in the sparse branches of leaf-free trees; waiting for someone else to make the move. Never thought of birds having an alpha, but somehow, they must.
Geese noises, squawks, and bills wide, all saying something at the same time. Maybe something like - let's get a move on its getting too hot in these hot sticks.

A few take a run and flap deeply to get up and over the updraft of the heavy air of gravity.  Flapping noises waft through the flock and they all start following.  They’ve seen the first ones get up in the air, so the going must be good. They concentrate on getting up into the cooler atmosphere and winds that can now hold them up in glide mode.  This is when they can relax and watch everything below now the size of ants. The greener trees look like moss on the brown bush landscape, and they look forward to getting home to the cold but fresh days in Scotland.  The lakes are clear and pure, water is transparent, and they can see the fish slinking about under the skin of the water, just waiting to be picked at random.

"Welcome home girls" shouts the farmer, when he sees them settle on the banks and braes and on Cool Water Lake.


Poem: The Chance to love Everything
Prompt: "The dark heart of the story is all the reason for the telling"

In my little log cabin, the loggers are getting closer, sending the wildest of animals into populated areas.  Not populated like a city, but in the sense of land and farmers, poachers, and hunters, the blackest of hearts for greed, mostly bears, deer, wolves and beaver pelts - and all living close by in their own territories.

I am not a killer. I love nature and the trees and all things that breathe.  Who are we to decide who or what lives or dies?  I rescue bees from spiders’ webs.  They can take the midges. Bees are far too important for the world.  Everything feeds everything else.

In my little log cottage, with only the company of Molly, my Jack Russell; I hear things at night.
I write as writers do, in a journal of thoughts, feelings, the past, future, my imagination takes me to paradises and hells and back.  And sometimes I try to make sense of it. Mostly I don’t.  I heard a howl, the wolves were stirring, one was much more powerful, either the alpha or one in a trap.
I put on my jeans and leather chaps and boots, fur coat and hat. I see her in the brush, the alpha female, panting hard - not a good sign.  Her back paw caught in a hunter’s steel jaws left indiscriminately.  I have my gun and shoot it off into the black blue starry backdrop.  It did its job and the pack disperse.

She is pure white all bar the blood streaming from her crushed muscle.  She knows me, I have seen her hunting for her young, four cubs.  They will die.  I approach her slowly, she lets me. I get to her and give her a drink from my bottle.  I put a blanket over her and give her some pain relief and sedative.  I take the metal evil thing and prize it open. I carry her back to the cabin, with yellow pairs of eyes watching from the dark heart of the forest.  I give her antibiotics, shave her fur, clean the gaping wound with doused alcohol and sew her flesh as best I can, then rub tar over the wound to stop infection. She’s lying on my small mattress near the crackling fire still wrapped in the blanket, breathing well, I steal a stroke while I can, she is a beauty.

Eyes twitch, she comes around and I give her meat.  She eats lying down, backing off to sleep again, so I pull the blanket to prop her up. I open the door.  She’s dizzy but stands up and bears weight on her leg, shakes off the human touch and limps out. Away she goes, but she gives me a look back.  “Go on” I shout. Back to the pack and her babies.

The chorus of howling begins as I lie warm on the mattress, inside cosy golden walls reflected by the low flames, and I smile.