A Poetry Bubble, Pt 2

Necklace of Stars, poetry

Necklace of Stars participant Gill Ormond writes (below) about the experience of making visual poems, themed on the night sky. Gill has combined her art skills with poems that are part-image. In part 1 of her blog account, last week, she described writing her own poem and translating it into images. Here, she has remade two poems by the Scottish poet/artist Ian Hamilton Finlay in her own style, using loose hand-drawn letters and celebrating the fuzzy precision of pencils. Gill has moved Finlay’s crisp, clear graphics into a mystery space of haze and cobwebby lettering…

Gill Ormond homage to Sea Poppy by Ian Hamilton Finlay

Gill’s Project timeline

Week1 – Challenge – Go look at the stars and write, without looking at the paper, what they evoke in me.
Result – panic. That week no stars showed. Think creatively. Use their non-show to get my thoughts on paper. A poem emerged!
Week 2 –  Challenge – Fold and cut the written words in two. Move the lines up and down and see what emerges. 
Result –  as if by magic , a poem which distilled down with clarity to the heart of the experience.
Week3 – Move away from the typed words and draw them.
Result – illustrated poem with shooting stars and galaxies. With thanks to my Sister who coincidentally sent me her handmade star that I used as the basis for one of my illustrations.
Week 4 – Task Part 1 “Is it possible to imply starry sky without illustrating by stars?” / Task Part 2 – “Put your own take on visual poems by Ian Hamilton Finlay.” 
Result – here are my offerings…

Gill Ormond homage to Star/Steer by Ian Hamilton Finlay

A Necklace of Stars, working with older people in Derbyshire, is supported by Arts Council England, Arts DerbyshireDCC Public Health and Derbyshire County Council Home Library Service. This project is particularly aimed at countering isolation; during the pandemic we’ve been working using distance methods – post and phone conversations.

A Poetry Bubble, Pt 1

Necklace of Stars, poetry

Necklace of Stars participant Gill Ormond writes about the experience of making her visual poem Starsperience:

The air is light
 Bright on my skin
 The starsperience won't show
 The air is frisky
 My life shines
 Yet I stay huddled and small.

“This “Poetry Bubble” (appropriate for the times) of 1:1 phone tuition has allowed me to overcome fears that I would not meet the standard of other people’s work, of failure, of embarassing myself, of always striving to achieve rather than succeeding. I have been able to try my hand in a private way which I hadn’t realised the importance of until writing this piece. I am glad I hadn’t read anyone’s work on the blog til now. I may have run away! It is so moving and beautiful and I can begin to feel my way into its membership.

“I have amazed myself that I have been able to create these offerings. They have been developed following Phil’s suggestions. Another take I have on this statement is that I have been able to develop them using the creative framework Phil has offered. The latter feels empowering and I feel proud I have done so. The words are mine, the eventual designs are mine. However I would never have thought of presenting them in this creative way without skilled tuition…”

A Necklace of Stars, working with older people in Derbyshire, is supported by Arts Council England, Arts DerbyshireDCC Public Health and Derbyshire County Council Home Library Service. This project is particularly aimed at countering isolation; during the pandemic we’ve been working using distance methods – post and phone conversations.

If you go out in the woods tonight

Necklace of Stars

A tale of frustrated villainy by Richard Owen

The wood had awoken to its usual night activity. There were scurryings up and down trees, calls of owls, snuffling and rummaging in the undergrowth; but even on this night, when the full moon cast its light and shade into the less impenetrable corners, the living sources of these sounds remained unseen. Only the trees seemed to be visibly alive, their knotted eyes following every movement, guarding the secrets of the night, warning off the unwary.

Big Bad Wolf sniffed his way along the floor of the wood


Watched by cautious onlookers up in the branches, Big Bad Wolf sniffed his way along the floor of the wood. He had a lot on his mind, so he was oblivious of the rustling of rabbits darting across the clearings and badgers digging in the roots. He followed the same path every night, pausing for thought at the same places. Things were not the same any more, not since the predatory animals had suffered a series of humiliations. He would habitually stop at the clearing where the third little pig had built his house of brick, the place where his grandfather had gained entry down the chimney and been boiled in a pot. He moved on to the cottage where his great uncle had almost got the better of Little Red Riding Hood, only to be foiled at the last moment.


He would often muse on the fact that it wasn’t only the wolf pack that had suffered from the schemes of lesser beings. He would come to another clearing and the mouth of the cave where Goldilocks, porridge thief and squatter, had taken advantage of the hospitality of the absent Bear family, but at least they had managed to catch her in Baby Bear’s bed. How she managed to escape was a mystery to all the woodland.

The Troll slept fitfully, his snores mingling with the resounding croaking of hidden frogs


On this particular night the Wolf made his usual stop at the rickety bridge under which the Troll slept fitfully, his snores mingling with the resounding croaking of hidden frogs in the little stream. He still had nightmares about the amount of time he had had to consider the wisdom of challenging Big Billy Goat Gruff as he described an elegant arc over his rickety bridge.


So while the woodland creatures went about their routines in disembodied anonymity, Big Bad Wolf sat on the rickety bridge, musing on the smug mockery of the Billy Goats Gruff, the Three Little Pigs, Little Red Riding Hood, the Three Bears, not to mention various huntsmen and woodcutters; and he listened to the pathetic somnolent ramblings of the Troll, a plan began to form in his mind. Why should these fairytale upstarts always win?


As he sat looking at the rickety bridge in the moonlight he noticed it was on the point of collapse, concealing a future nasty accident. And he thought how the woods held many dangers for the unwary and unprepared. There were paths overhung by branches from which things could fall; the same paths were criss-crossed by roots and fallen vegetation; there were hidden holes dug out by foraging paws and noses, many of them hidden by fallen leaves.


Big Bad Wolf considered the hazards of the wood and how it might be possible to harness them to reassert the rightful hierarchy of woodland life. It was time to restore the natural order of things. He picked his way down the stony bank of the stream and crawled under the rickety bridge. He prodded the Troll who awoke noisily and bad temperedly.


“I thought we might pay a visit to Daddy Bear,” suggested Big Bad Wolf by way of apology.
“I’ve got one or two ideas I’d like to run past you both.”

A Necklace of Stars, working with older people in Derbyshire, is supported by Arts Council England, Arts DerbyshireDCC Public Health and Derbyshire County Council Home Library Service. This project is particularly aimed at countering isolation; during the pandemic we’ve been working using distance methods – post and phone conversations. Lorna’s poem started with one of these telephone discussions.

Moon

Necklace of Stars, poetry
 I’m a path of light across your room,
 up the wall, into the mirror and out again
 through the open window, into the garden

 now a negative, shadow on shadow on black.
 I’ll sit on a branch with the owl, show him
 the hummocking mole, slip in and out between trees -

 I’m a flitter, a flibbertigibbet, play hide-and-seek
 with your certainties. On the twenty-eighth day I’ll be gone,
 your world will turn black , you’ll walk into a door,

 stub your toe in the darkness, and the owl will call,
 a lunatic cry, from the asylum up on the hill,
 night after night. But if you look out, look up

 you’ll see my new crescent, delicate, small
 in the overall blackness, a fragile sign -
 and you’ll know I’m on my way back.

 Lorna Dexter 24.10.20

“This poem came out of a prompt from Philip, suggesting we write a lie
about some solid heavenly body – the sun, moon, stars, Milky Way, etc.
Although I love the sun, thrive on its heat, come alive in the summer, the
moon’s phases have always had a strong effect on me, altering my hormone
levels every month. At full moon I’m speedy and active and wakeful,
sometimes not sleeping at all. At the dark of the moon I’m dozy, depressed,
with no energy, bumping into things.

“In his prompt, Philip had used the word ‘flibbertigibbet’, which I love, for its
complexity, the music of its repetitions and its silliness. I looked up its history
and it means ‘foolish woman, talking nonsense’ – so I had to incorporate that !
Which probably led me to instinctively give the Moon that voice, talking to me.
Of course the moon’s changeability is not a lie exactly, it’s just the way the
relationship between the sun, moon and earth, three very solid ‘realities’, seems
to us from our shadowed position on earth, only one of several realities.

“So this poem includes all my feelings about the moon – its strange transforming
light at the full; its very real effect still on my body and mind, no longer a
menstruating woman; and her apparent changeability.

“I live in the country, and my bedroom looks out on the garden, with big pine
trees beyond the wall, where the owl sits and calls, and I have a wide view of
the night sky, so the scene in the poem is very real, not a lie at all!”

Lorna Dexter

A Necklace of Stars, working with older people in Derbyshire, is supported by Arts Council England, Arts DerbyshireDCC Public Health and Derbyshire County Council Home Library Service. This project is particularly aimed at countering isolation; during the pandemic we’ve been working using distance methods – post and phone conversations. Lorna’s poem started with one of these telephone discussions.

Reasons to be a Rebel. 1,2,3…

Necklace of Stars

Reflecting on life in my bunker away from the world during lockdown has allowed feelings and thoughts buried deep to come to the surface. Until now my life was one of conformity, politeness, working, paying taxes and being an upright member of society. Trying to be an accepted member of the community, listening to views but rarely voicing mine for fear of upsetting people.  I wonder if I have become a sheep, wanting to be liked at the cost of losing my identity?


Agitation stirs within and realisation dawns.  Feelings of rebellion bubble to the surface, time has come to break free from the constraints imposed voluntarily and be free.  Boring and safe need to be replaced by daring and living life to its full.  It’s time to be a rebel and stand out from the crowd, to fight for what I believe in and not be frightened to express my views. Rebelling will bring value to my life, breaking from routine, creating magic and excitement. All good reasons to be a rebel 123… 

Drink pepsi from a coke bottle.

Seven people meet in a house. 

Sit in a pub after 10.

Sing and dance inside a building. 

Walk the opposite way in a one-way supermarket.

Eat After 8 Mints before eight.

Touch what can’t be touched.

The short story Reasons to be a Rebel 123 is by Jo, from her series of written rebellions.

This whole project is called Necklace of Stars. For me the stars are treading the way forward, leading us out of despair. For people who are forgotten, if you demonstrate or rebel, then everyone else is reminded – you still exist.”

Jo: “These stories just come into my head. They describe the different ways people have reacted to this time of isolation and shielding and the politics behind it all. Each of us has a different idea of how we react to now and how we can rebel, if we choose. I’m trying to write about how this big situation affects each and every one of us as individuals. This whole project is called Necklace of Stars – for me the stars are treading the way forward, leading us out of despair. For people who are forgotten, if you demonstrate or rebel, then everyone else is reminded – you still exist.”

A Necklace of Stars, working with older people in Derbyshire, is supported by Arts Council England, Arts DerbyshireDCC Public Health and Derbyshire County Council Home Library Service. This project is particularly aimed at countering isolation; during the pandemic we’ve been working using safe distance methods – phone conversations and post. This project is an opportunity to explore creativity, playing with new approaches to art and breaking down boundaries. At a time when many people are isolated at home, the imagination is still free.

Close your tender eyes

Necklace of Stars, poetry, Projects
I was a child during a war
Bomb shelters and sirens
Go to bed ready dressed
And mum took me to the Anderson shelter
Go to sleep my baby
Close your tender eyes.
Lullaby singing.

Born 1934
I was five when it started
Wasn’t time for laughing
Dad worked in the steel
Mum in munitions
Wasn’t much time for
Stories and sitting on laps.
Jesus friend of little children
Dear friend to me.

Wondering after the next bomb 
Sirens call gives you a funny feel
Is your house still standing
Or not? Underground
Someone played the accordion
Baby, how I wish I was
Up above the bright blue sky.

Anon
Embroidered Stars, by Frances Cohen, for A Necklace of Stars quilt. (catch a falling star)

A Necklace of Stars, working with older people in Derbyshire, is supported by Arts Council England, Arts DerbyshireDCC Public Health and Derbyshire County Council Home Library Service. This project is particularly aimed at countering isolation; during the pandemic we’ve been working using distance methods – phone conversations and post.

For what it’s worth

Necklace of Stars, poetry

“Aha! Good afternoon. Very nice to talk! You’re the first voice I’ve heard today…”
(Participant)

Since the Spring, the Necklace of Stars project has reached out to older people in Derbyshire, using phone calls to write poems and make embroideries. Today I was struck again by the value of these calls to all involved, to me and to the people I speak with. In this time of restrictions, it is a wonderful luxury to spend time in the company of new people without worrying about masks and viruses.

Several people I spoke with today have been isolated since the beginning of the year. Their seclusion has continued for months, and for some it feels unending. This is no longer about simply contracting an illness, it’s about living in a new way, especially for older people. And this new way of living needs to take into account emotional lives as well as physical health.

Whether Forecast

I’m cooking up a kitchen storm, lighting a flare,
leaving the doldrums in the yellow chair.
I’m braving a peasouper, blithely unaware
of fusing blue sky thinking to navigate the dare.
And if I reap a whirlwind then I’ll take to the air.
It’s time to break through the heavy side layer.

Linda Goulden

Out of my seven calls on this day, three people told me they’d had very limited, or no, company since February.

Out of my seven calls on this day, three people told me they’d had very limited, or no, company since February. To be isolated for such a long time is akin to solitary confinement in a jail. That particular punishment is meted out because it is so psychologically devastating. If we have any hope of getting through to the other side of the pandemic without a great deal of damage to everyone’s mental health, then we need to deal with the urgent need people have for human connection.

And sometimes that’s a phone call to discuss that poem you wrote about your grandma wearing a polka dot bikini, or astrophysics and its relationship to God, or childhood journeys to adulthood, or an argument with your big sister when you were eight years old.

How much is a poem worth? Well, that’s a big question, as Hamlet would say…

The Way

I talked with me today
and we agree: the way
we say that we must be
must be the way to be.

Linda Goulden

A Necklace of Stars, working with older people in Derbyshire, is supported by Arts Council England, Arts DerbyshireDCC Public Health and Derbyshire County Council Home Library Service. This project is particularly aimed at countering isolation; during the pandemic we’ve been working using distance methods – phone conversations and post.

Sharing a sunset

Necklace of Stars, poetry, quilts

Necklace of Stars writer Tricia Clough:

These thoughts came into my head after my husband David took a beautiful sunset photo. I’d also had a day, a few weeks ago, of sorting through vast photo collections of people and places.  With a couple of clicks I was able to share them with FB friends some of whom shared their lives with us when they were foster children. Now that gave them – and me – such pleasure. 

Sipping through time (with Tequila Sunset delight)

Browsing a cocktail of memories from morning to night
Each sip held a memory - some bitter, most sweet
A pinch of love here and a punch of happiness there
And bubbles of laughter to tickle your nose
From the hops of the youngest 
To champagne as they’re grown
But the taste buds are changing as day alters to night
So I’ll end with hot chocolate as I bid you ‘Good night’

Tricia Clough
Sweet Lullaby

Come share my sweetest fantasy
The night is drawing in 
So share this special memory
Of love without within
No strawberry hugs tonight my love
It’s all a mystery
But we’ll defy the gravity
And float away in harmony
Away from all the poverty 
Now hush lush chocolate night
Now hush lush chocolate night
 
 Tricia Clough

A Necklace of Stars, working with older people in Derbyshire, is supported by Arts Council England, Arts DerbyshireDCC Public Health and Derbyshire County Council Home Library Service. This project is particularly aimed at countering isolation; during the pandemic we’ve been working using distance methods – phone conversations and post.

Writing in the Year of the Plague

Necklace of Stars, poetry

Tony Shelton, the author of our previous blog A-Z of Childhood, describes how to write yourself out of lockdown.

An inveterate and incurable itch for writing besets many and grows old with their sick hearts.
Juvenal, Satires.

Writing…is but a different name for conversation. 
Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy

Writing, I explained, was mainly an attempt to out argue one’s past; to present events in such a light
that lost in life as either won on paper or held to a draw. 
Jules Feiffer, Ackroyd.

All these quotes (from books I have never read, I’m afraid) have some truth in them for me.


Ever since the age of six or so, when I was praised by Miss Puttock for writing a piece about my electric train set and managed to spell ‘electricity’, I have written, mainly because I had to. For most of my life writing involved essays, exam answers, official reports and memos but I even enjoyed those (well, not the exams perhaps). It was the craft that appealed to me: of finding the rights words, putting them in the right order and editing them. Creative writing began at a time when work seemed to dominate my life and I developed an itch to write the ‘novel of the century’. I started with a WEA evening class in Leeds and in the latter stages of work began to jot down ideas during dull meetings. I wrote humorous articles for professional magazines. I managed to have two stories and a few short pieces read on the radio but it wasn’t until early retirement that writing really took off. I wrote my work memoirs, to get it all out of my head. I researched a local history book which sold out and discovered the huge kick of finding people enjoyed what I had written, fan letters and requests for signings, even!


Then, when my wife and I retired to Cumbria, we both joined a U3A creative writing group and, after a year or two, I found that I liked writing poetry, really playing with words and tweaking them to fit. She did, too, and for a few years we wrote separately but together, commenting on each other’s work and enjoying it. You could say she was my audience, my muse (and I hers). Now she has gone and for three years I have been trying to regain my
desire to write, to find a new motivation.


And then came the virus and the lockdown and my shielded isolation and an almost total absence of face-to-face conversation. I no longer have any of my old interest in drawing and painting, I am no good with my hands and my knees put me off long walks but my need to write is now acute and it is a need, almost an addiction. Bread and butter writing – emails, texts and so on – has been a kind of substitute and writing a diary of my life for a future
archive makes me write something every day but these do not require the craft of poetry or fiction or the intensity of concentration which keeps out sad memories and self-recrimination. It does not give me that kick – of making a reader or listener amused or moved. I have never written for myself: like a stand-up comic I need an audience, one person will do. And I sometimes need another kind of kick – the motivation to write, the suggestion, the deadline, the prospect of a reaction, no matter how critical, because I still want to learn, to improve.


The Necklace of Stars project has now provided all that for me and, once again, ideas are coming into my mind demanding to be jotted down on scraps of paper and in notebooks. Guided by a tutor, I am learning again and finding new ways of writing. The project has nudged me into writing down memories of the dull but strange world of my suburban London childhood and the increasingly odd members of my family. Many new or long-forgotten memories have emerged as if called to action.

I used to imagine my grandchildren coming up to me in the garden and asking: ‘Grandad, what was school like when you were a little boy?’ or ‘Tell me again about the time when you…’ They never have done. Maybe children don’t actually do that at all, maybe it’s an advertising fantasy dreamed up to sell Werther’s Originals. So, this memory project is a kind of substitute. More important, recording childhood memories has pushed to one side the darker memories of the last few years, of my wife’s decline and death. I did write about those years and my experience of caring for her, trying to set it all to rest, to prevent all the ‘what ifs’ going round and round to no purpose.


I am now convinced that writing can be therapeutic. But it should also be enjoyable and good for one’s mental wellbeing. If possible, it should provide a positive sense of identity, helping you to think ‘I am a writer’, even if you now know you will never write the novel of the century. Writing for the project is now helping with all those things. I am sure it has certainly helped my mental health. And writing, as I am now, about childhood memories is making me feel a little more ‘interesting’, helping me value my life more. It is helping me to start to understand about how my character was formed in my early years.

Writing is once again helping me get up in the morning (well, most mornings), and, in the most basic sense, filling the time like nothing else. I have plenty of time to fill.

Tony Shelton

A Necklace of Stars, working with older people in Derbyshire, is supported by Arts Council England, Arts DerbyshireDCC Public Health and Derbyshire County Council Home Library Service. This project is particularly aimed at countering isolation; during the pandemic we’ve been working using distance methods – phone conversations and post.

A-Z of Childhood

Necklace of Stars, poetry, quilts
A memory alphabet, by Tony Shelton

A for Aeroplanes. I drew hundreds, but only going from right to left.

Birds. I knew only blackbirds, sparrows, pigeons, robins on Christmas cards, and
the starlings which invaded to summer feast on next door’s overgrown cherry tree.
All the rest came much later. I was a city boy.

Class. What class are we? I asked my father as he read his Daily Telegraph. Working class,
he replied in a flash and turned to the Daily Mirror. It was good enough for me.

Death: When the old king died, I didn’t know what to feel. What was he to me? When my
father died, I didn’t know what to feel. He just never came home from hospital. I think I am
now ready to get to know my father.

11-plus. My first life hurdle. My first taste of anxiety, with the threat of failure and
condemnation to the notoriously rough Rowan Road secondary modern. And my first sweet
taste of success as I stop, halfway up the stairs, to tell my father that I have passed, and the
only memory I have of his praise.

Fire. Father should have known that stretching the Daily Telegraph across the newly laid
fire to encourage combustion was risky, since fire engines were a common sight in our road.

Games. Wednesday afternoons meant rugby, being crushed in mud at the bottom of a
heavy scrum, the acrid smell of the paint factory in the air, or cricket, suffering with the
streaming eyes of hay fever. The dread grew from Monday onwards.

Hard times. In 1947 my father and I trudged through the snow, pushing my old pram to
collect coke from the gas works, pausing on the way back for my reward, a brawn sandwich
in Sam’s Wonder Café.

Ignorance. When a tall, slim young woman called Freda came to stay with us in our
holiday caravan, I accepted it as normal until, years later, I saw the photograph of the four of
us and put two and two together: a ‘friend of your father’s’ mother would have said; if I had
asked.

Justice. I avoided Mr Bacon’s blackboard ruler, Miss Dooner’s slipper, the flying
woodwork tools of Mr Woodiwiss, the Head’s cane and the boot of blind Mr Judge but I was
once pulled up by my hair and slapped on the leg in the playground by Mrs Wilson and for a
moment, felt proud.

Knowledge. I knew things, I collected facts, swapped them, argued about them but I
never knew how to think.

Lino. We might not have had carpets but we had modernistic lino, light brown with lines
and squares, a Mondrian floor, a trendy choice of the young couple my parents must once
have been.

Mitcham Common. A paradise of long grasses, bushes, scattered trees and The Swamp,
where we waded in wellies, looking out for frogs and the boa constrictor, and became lost for
a timeless moment.

Nails: When Michael Naylor changed seats with his twin sister Anita so she could sit next
to me, she took my hand under the table and dug her sharp nails into my soft palm until she
saw the first tears. I didn’t know why. I still don’t. My first encounter with conspiracy.

Out. Out of doors, out with a friend, out on your own, looking, finding, watching, wandering,
wondering, out of contact, out of sight out of control, out of this world.

Posh Helen Bowdon lived in a posher-than-average house, had a queen voice to match
and was always picked to play the lead in the school play, until the year when the part went
to Yvonne Wilson who lived with her mum in a cottage and wore a gypsy ribbon in her hair.
Helen Bowden fled weeping, locked herself in the girls’ offices and wouldn’t come out. She
was still there when the bell rang and all the kids stood outside chanting La dee dah la dee
da, Come on out wherever you are until it was time for tea and she could creep home.

Quadratic Equations. Maths x 2 + Thursday mornings = fear + loathing.

Robin Hood. My Saturday evening Marxist hero with his band of men and own jolly sing-
along song.

Spheksophobia. I helped father dig the potatoes at the end of the garden until a painful
sting sent me crying indoors and caused a life-long fear of wasps.

Tooting. My Casablanca with its fabulous Moorish Granada and the exotic market, full of
large pieces of meat, strange things to buy and the echo of men shouting.

Underpants. Why do I have to wear pants? I asked. To stop you getting spotty, said my
father.

V-Bombers. Vulcan, Victor and Valiant roared over the air show runway, bringing father
and son closer in a communion of awe.

Winkle Pickers. At 15, I took the part of a teenager and bought impossibly pointed shoes
and yellow socks that glowed in the dark but no-one seemed to notice enough to
compensate for the pain.

X-ray Eyes. I always wanted the see-through vision of Superman but all I got was a
xylophone.

Ynot. It was an embarrassingly long time before I learned to write my name the right way
round. It now makes a memorable password element.

Zoo. Every child should remember a trip to the zoo. I don’t, though I know I was taken. I
have let my parents down.
Embroidery from The Great British Tea Ceremony, St Helens

A Necklace of Stars, working with older people in Derbyshire, is supported by Arts Council England, Arts DerbyshireDCC Public Health and Derbyshire County Council Home Library Service. This project is particularly aimed at countering isolation; during the pandemic we’ve been working using distance methods – phone conversations and post. The embroideries that illustrate this blog post are images from The Great British Tea Ceremony section of the arthur+martha book THE WARM /&/ THE COLD. They were made by the Four Acres community in St Helens.