SATURDAY 12TH JULY 2024
2 - 5pm
BRIDGNORTH LIBRARY
WORKSHOP LEADER - IRENA SZIRTES
TOPIC - IS THERE POETRY IN ALL OF US?
SATURDAY 12TH JULY 2024
2 - 5pm
BRIDGNORTH LIBRARY
WORKSHOP LEADER - IRENA SZIRTES
TOPIC - IS THERE POETRY IN ALL OF US?
Let a wild hare run through your dreams
In his March madness it seems
He will dance for you.
Let a unicorn stand by your bed
He’ll drive off the nightmares you dread
He’ll stand guard for you
There’s a nightingale out in the tree
Drift off to sleep and maybe
He will sing for you
All of these blessings I wish on your sleep
And over it all I promise to keep
A loving watch over you.
Let an owl stand at your bed head
For his wisdom it’s said will see you through.
Let a black cat sleep at your side
For your luck and his warmth he will bide
He will purr for you.
See there’s a man in the moon
Close your eyes and then soon
He will smile for you.
All of these blessings I wish on your sleep
And over it all I promise to keep
A loving watch over you.
On an eagle’s wings you could soar
Over hills or a steep valley floor
He would fly for you
On a gentle horse you could ride
By a peaceful water side
He would carry you
Or perhaps you would like to be
With the dolphins far out to sea
They would swim with you.
All of these blessings I wish on your sleep
And over it all I promise to keep
A loving watch over you.
Into your dreams you could sail
On a warm and pleasant gale
It would blow for you
You can fill your every desire
On a cold day a warm open fire
It would glow for you
Take what you will for the night
To see you through to the light
And a day that’s new.
All of these blessings I wish on your sleep
And over it all I promise to keep
A loving watch over you .
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British Ironworks - Oswestry |
High Town Writers’ Workshop
Meeting: 7pm 24 June 2025
Venue: The Spirit Room, Peepo’s High Street Bridgnorth
Present: Jennie (Chair), Adam, Suzi, Irena, Anne, John, Ruth
Apologies: Liz, Sue, Stuart
Minutes
Jennie thanked Liz (not present) for continuing the public HTW blog (hightownwriters.blogspot.com) and thanked Suzi for her blog which she explained is private and can only be accessed by the password from Suzi. Suzi says it is successful and it is there for any member of HTW to use. The idea of the private blog is to receive feedback from any member on writing /parts of writing, posted.
HTW Workshop: Saturday 12 July 2pm led by Irena
Subject: IS THERE POETRY IN ALL OF US?
Cost: participants to share the £42 room hire between them
Kay’s Poetry evening: Theme Summer; Wednesday 16 July
Venue: 7.30pm Presteigne Memorial Hall
Cost: £7.50
Contact: hightownwriters@gmail.com if you wish to go. If you are able to take anyone who has no car or isn’t able to drive that would be helpful.
Suzi and Ruth are judging poetry already submitted but prose/poetry can be taken to read out if selected randomly on the night.
Stuart’s summer party for HTW: date to be fixed at next meeting
We are proud to hear that Irena is to study for an MA in Creative Writing
We also wish to congratulate Anne on reaching 3 score years and 10 on 27th July.
Two great achievements!
Note: Former member Alex Honeybourne asked for donations to dog-appeal but the link is not to be circulated as it is not writing- related.
Workshop
Subject: A Promise
Jennie spoke again about ‘Hooks’ brought initially to her attention by Irena. A ‘Hook’ is an opening sentence (or more) that draws you into a piece of prose, a short story, poem or novel, making you want to find out more. Jennie read a few examples and the group then created their own Hooks based on ‘A Promise’ leading into a paragraph which introduced and developed a character or something abstract. Each then wrote a further paragraph to show the development of that character towards the end of the work. Jennie said that those who prefer to write poetry could use the same approach writing first a key Hook and then a first and last verse describing a character or, if preferred, something abstract.
In a very short time, everyone produced interesting and exciting Hooks followed by paragraphs with extremely well- developed characters.
Next month’s homework: to fill out the story, prose or poem on A Promise, incorporating the Hook and paragraphs already written. The group should feel free to change and improve their original work!
Last month’s homework: ‘Sleep’. Those members of HTW who had written work on this subject set by Liz, read out their varied and fascinating writing. Adam wrote an acrostic based on Tywyn Wales. Ruth and Irena read their beautiful poems and John A-S read a weird and wonderful poem he had rushed off that afternoon Suzi read a Haiku and a poem she had written, both excellent, then had to go. Anne brought her guitar and played and sang her own song. She had written both words and music and it was lovely.
Tributes: for Suzi, Ruth and John who have recently had work either published or credited. John’s work went into the publication, ‘West of the Clee’
Next meeting: Tuesday 22 July 2025
Chair: tbd
Next meeting : Tuesday 24th June from 7pm
in Peepo's Spirit Room
Chair: Jennie
Writing task is: Sleep - something inspired by this Travelodge survey:
*Uhtceare (plural) is an old English (Anglo-Saxon) word for pre-dawn (uht) cares and anxieties (ceare (plural) or caru (singular).
Trouble sleeping is clearly not a modern thing.
In our May meeting for the warm-up task, we took this ancient word to explore some of the things we might write about for the June writing task on sleep.
Hearing the blackbird lead the dawn chorus
Tumbling out tunes that dissolve the night's grip - but
Cares then seep silently into my mind
Edging out beauty - that birdsong sublime
Aches of old age and stiffness of joints
Remind me I'm mortal and full of weak points and then
Every mistake made and all my fears re-emerge and amplify.
*Uhtceare (plural) is an old English (Anglo-Saxon) word for pre-dawn (uht) cares and anxieties (ceare (plural) or caru (singular).
Trouble sleeping is clearly not a modern thing.
In our May meeting for the warm-up task, we took this ancient word to explore some of the things we might write about for the June writing task on sleep.
HEAR MY HEARTBEAT
TIME STANDS STILL AS I STARE INTO DARKNESS
CREATURES LURK IN THE DOORWAY
EVERYWHERE SHADOWS MOVE
A SUDDEN JOLT AS I
REMEMBER
EVERYONE LAUGHING
*Uhtceare (plural) is an old English (Anglo-Saxon) word for pre-dawn (uht) cares and anxieties (ceare (plural) or caru (singular).
Trouble sleeping is clearly not a modern thing.
In our May meeting for the warm-up task, we took this ancient word to explore some of the things we might write about for the June writing task on sleep.
Ey, I haven’t had a bath in ages
And sometimes I wish that I could
‘Cos soaking in lovely warm soap-suds
Would surely do me good
So, here we are at this posh hotel
With a lovely big bath ‘en-suite’
I thought I’d take advantage
And give meself a treat
Well, I managed to climb in alright
Sitting down was a bit of a struggle
Don’t know how I’ll ever get out
I’m in a bit of a muddle!
‘Cos I can’t reach to turn the
taps on
And the water’s getting cold
I’m starting to panic just a little
I could be here till I’m old!
So with one almighty effort
I launch meself to standing
There’s me, and water all over the place
It’s running out onto the landing!
Oh, me legs ache, me back hurts, me neck’s stiff
I shan’t try that any more
I’ll stick to me shower in future
The aching hole in my life
Has filled with
So many people.
As if they were waiting
For a sign
To let them in.
I was holding them
At arms length,
Not sure how
To approach the subject
Of our greater intimacy.
Now I am raw,
They see a way in.
They enfold me with
A warm hug
An unexpected smile.
And I surrender.
It's my birthday today and my sister bought me this set of "Haikubes" - essentially, role the dice, pick your words, et voila!
The red words give your direction and theme (these are 2 dice), the rest are words.
A great tool for writer's block or just something to spark imagination.
Anyhoo, here's today's roll/cube pick:
Between dreaming, a
precious moonlight quickly calls
into which she rides
Not sure where she got them from but found a place that sells them if you wanted to read more about them.
She was a nun on a bike wearing habit and veil
No satin or lace or red leather
A ‘sit-up-and-beg’ bike with handlebars high
But in black to protect her whatever the weather!
Her knees had an angle of ninety degrees
From her limbs to ensure a firm grip
Her crucifix swayed as the pedals she turned
She didn’t fall off not a tumble or slip!
She had a wild look as she ploughed through the traffic
She swayed too and fro as she took the fast lane
She pinged on the bell and her dazzling cross dangled
Her speed was excessive she looked quite insane!
The road made a dip as with vigour she pedaled
She ceased to hold on and free-wheeled for a while
We stood on the kerb mesmerised for a moment
By her manic expression then Unexpected Smile!
A further encounter with God in his glory
Was a priest in a cassock who sauntered along
On the Mall on a Sunday in May in the morning
And the message he carried was heart-achingly strong.
He held an umbrella wide-open announcing
Wise words to the crowds who watched for a while
As all over the brolly was inscribed ‘God is Gorgeous’
And each tourist in turn gave an Unexpected Smile!
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credit Gencraft |
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Nightime at the Hay Festival |
7pm Tuesday 27th May in the Spirit Room of Peepo's
Present: Liz (chair), Adam, Michelle, Stuart, John, Jennie, Ruth, Suzie, Louise, Irena
Apologies: Fiona, Marie, Kath, Andy, Ann, Emma, Sue
We started the meeting with notices:
Choose one of these findings to inspire a piece of writing (poetry, prose or drama):
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credit: Adam Rutter |
‘Look’, began Ryan. ‘That one is covered in the Union Jack flag’, he continued, pointing at the nearest balloon floating towards them.
‘I can see people inside the basket’, said Paul.
‘They’re waving at us’, said Philip.
They pulled their berets off their heads, and waved fervently at the passengers as the balloon flew over them. The passengers whooped and cheered. The burner seethed, blowing flames through the open canopy like a flame thrower. The balloon descended the slope-side of the hill, dipping towards flat terrain. The airmen plonked their hats back on their heads. They watched the rest of the balloons rising and sinking, growing larger, filling the azure-blue sky with red, white, yellow and dark blue gargantuan above. The huge floats drifted by like Chinese lanterns. The hiss of the burners rose, and dropped, giving way to a gloomy silence.
Church bells rang the tune, ‘White Cliffs of Dover’, which swelled, and faded in the wind. The airmen stood at ease. Philip had his hands behind his back. David looked down at a village. Tears welled up in his eyes; tears of grief and sadness.
‘Gran and Grandad will be celebrating this proud day’, said Ryan.
‘I wish my Grandad were here celebrating’, said David, sobbing.
‘Your Grandad would’ve been proud if he saw you standing here today’.
In the distance, there was a low hum. Five dark figures appeared above the horizon. The hum grew heavier, and thunderous. The figures became wider and more recognisable as they drew closer. Their distinctive shapes were unmistakably aircrafts. The aircraft in the middle was the biggest: the Lancaster Bomber, escorted by four spitfires.
‘Cadets’, began Philip. ‘Attention!’
The five aircrafts whined overhead. The airmen saluted.
What if Polish soldiers rescued a captive Syrian bear cub during WW2? What if the bear became playmate, protector, confidant and comrade in battle? Sometimes the strangest “what ifs” are true. Wojtek (pronounced Voytek) was real; you can read about him in the book “Wojtek the Bear” by Aileen Orr. The following relates how I first heard about the soldier bear:
My sister spied them from the landing
window: great coats and helmets tramping the lane, forever seeking Dad and now
his tiny daughters, for he was Polish, they were not. Boots on the stair,
blanket snatched away, barrel of a sub-machine gun; and as they squeezed the
trigger, I awoke.
I didn’t tell my parents, or run to their
room; I cradled myself in Yorkshire dark, let River Rawthey’s song wash fear away.
My sole encounters with WW2 were Dad’s army
coat, spread across my blankets, and his eagle cap badge, gracing the photo
frame between our bedroom doors. Yet I shared echoes of his post-traumatic
stress, unseen and unnamed in the 1950s. I can’t explain how Nazi uniforms stalked
my sleep, how terror at being the Hunted infiltrated my subconscious. I had no
idea Dad’s own dreams were relentless circles of escape and pursuit. It was as
if I shared shards of his memories.
Shards were all I knew in the waking world, too.
He hid WW2 from his smallest daughter, like the shrapnel in his knee, except
the story of Wojtek.
“We had a bear in the Polish Army,” Dad told me, as we drank hot milk in robust
firelight, “a big brown bear called Wojtek. His name means ‘Happy Warrior.’”
“A bear? How
did you get him?”
“He was a
little cub, and the soldiers felt sorry for him. His owners were cruel and wanted
to make him dance. So they swapped some food to get Wojtek.”
I snuggled to Dad’s heartbeat, slid sticky fingers
round our terrier Judy’s ears, as she settled
on his lap.
“What did
Wojtek do? Did he grow big?”
“Oh yes, he
grew very big. He loved to play. He wrestled with the men and drank beer. Just like naughty bears in
stories, he sometimes helped himself to jam and honey. One day he stole the
lady-soldiers’ washing, in fact he stole the line as well.”
My mind jumped
to Mum hanging out our smalls, fielding Judy’s attempts to drop her muddy ball
into the basket.
“Did he
steal... their knickers?”
“He stole
all their knickers, wrapped the line around his head!”
“Knickers on
his hea-ead, knickers on his head!”
Dad was eager
party to my giggles and squeals. Our exclusive moments of naughtiness always
felt special.
“But the
best thing,” he went on, as we recovered ourselves, “was that if a soldier felt
sad, Wojtek knew, and would go and sit beside him.”
I pictured this, fingering the shirt cuff that
often escaped Dad’s jumper, recalling Judy's interest in my grazed knees and salty
tears.
“ Like our
little Judy?”
“Like our
little Judy and lots of dogs, like lots of animals. They are all very clever,
you know. And Wojtek would have stayed in the army if...”
The sadness that sometimes lingered behind
his smile settled, and instinct shook its head at my asking more. I watched
sputtering flames spit sparks as charred logs snapped, and Dad offered Judy the
remaining milk from his cup. She lapped it up before turning her attention to
my busy fingers. Nightmares were far
away. I felt safe in my childhood world, too young to comprehend how Dad’s had
been swept away a few short years
before.
Shrapnel hid quietly in Dad's knee until he
was eighty, when it moved and he underwent surgery. Facing anaesthetic caused a
shift of memory shards too. There was no doubt Dad swore the Resistance pledge with
his whole heart, that love for Poland embroidered his being. But after he
returned from hospital, he confessed he’d saved two enemy lives. One had been a
wounded officer struggling under fire, the other, a soldier Dad encountered during his flight to
the Polish Second Corps. He was ashamed. He was afraid we too, would be ashamed
of a man who'd had compassion on his enemy.
“What was in
your mind on the battlefield?” I asked.
“I didn’t
see an enemy. All I could see was
another human being.”
“ And the soldier?”
“ He was young
like me, said he’d been taught Poles were ugly, like pigs, sub-human. He was
surprised my German was so good. I’d suggested
we stop trying to kill or capture each other, agree to let each other
go.”
I told my
father I felt no shame. I was proud, far
prouder than if he’d watched a man die in agony, or mown a boy down.
“How did the
young soldier respond?”
“He was afraid, and he agreed with me. And so I
got to the Polish Army in the end.”
“And to
Wojtek,” I added, seeking to keep him from memories so sharp, he would not
permit me to follow. “Tell me about the time he stole the ladies washing! I
want the full version – you know - how he ran off with the line on his head, how
scared the ladies were, how they softened when the men took Wojtek to meet them
afterwards.”
We laughed,
raised our glasses to Wojtek, remembering how I first heard his story over hot milk in flickering firelight.
“You never
get tired of hearing that one, do you?”
“Too right, I never do! And you can bet I never will!”
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Read more about Wojtek |