Poems and Writings

This section includes different pieces of creative writing that have been produced through the workshops and in response to the Secret Grove environment throughout the project:


Workshop:
"Writing in a Circle"; Shan-shui Forms - Combining Japanese Renga forms with Chinese Wilderness Writings - 8th August

Thanks to Colin Will who led this session and shared this form that he has developed himself.

The writers include (some did not leave names):
Anna Wetherby, Peter Levedon, Pitt Pauly, John Kellas, Ashish Dharmadhikari, Anja Eskola, Colin Will

Plant-hunting in Japan
Books browsed, thumbed; memories, curiosity satisfied;
Bags considered, route devised, maps followed with horizon in mind.
Lush meets barren, an abundance of wild scent, colour
And chaotic elegant forms erupt. I am here.
Resting, for new challenges await.
As nature evolves, inner peace is attained.
Stabilised nature's sustained forces
Only as a step further to reach the sky.
Jutting rocks and crashing water;
Steadfast plants hold their own.
Travelling here and there
I know home is everywhere.
Like a banquet with many courses,
each tasting new, never feeling full.
Stay or go?
Hmmm. I think I'll do both.


------------------------


To China and Tibet
My heart is full of anticipation.
Music guides my heart.
My eyes are weary from the heat
But the colours shine like stars.
I follow the river to the sea,
Then follow the sea back to land.
Smells and spices, tastes.
Sit down: no need for haste.
The road is dark, the forest thick,
And then some light - a clearing.
Space and space and endless space,
Cold skies wide and clear.
Drink the juice of the rhododendron tree.
When we are free, will Tibet not be?
Strecth out your legs and sigh.
You've come from a place so high.
+++++++++++

Workshop: 
"Starting to Write" with Jane Alexander - 6th August

Collaboratively written, and led by Jane Alexandra.

chugga, chagga,
whistle, brustle,
  mmm…

the smoke still caked his lungs

and then two clacking sandals,
  come flapping and clacking and slapping along

clip-clop-clippity-clop-clip-clip
clippity-clop-clip-clop – – clip-clop
–––––––––––––––––––––sh - aaaa – dunk

bare feet
slapping on the paving

dry path crunching
small breeze shifting
fire bloom blazing
white flower calling
squirrel looping

as he hung there from the branches
busy bees humming noisily
fat bee nuzzling
the black goo choked his life

Oor Wullie sits 'n'  ponders
by a half-tent sort of thing
and Amy Tree …
                            well she…
   she's not doing anything

legs clamped together,
knees tight,
sitting beneath the fragmented heather

look I fittingly see the yurt
his arms - stretch - out stretch
– – the dirt
– – look as he's thinking now

–––––––––––––––––––KLAAAA BLUNK

tall grasses
swaying in the wind

even in this cleansing air
the rise and fall of people's voices, murmuring in the background

da
  daa

                   didi
  di

                            da

birds swooping – blown in the wind

no, I must step
ah, to hell with this song


Workshop:
"Starting to Write" with Jane Alexander - 13th August

Written by: Alexander Redden
 
1st exercise to get us writing: pen to paper without stopping

Clouds pass by, day after day, week after week, and month after month. The years pass by and still my shuttle has not been repaired. I am trapped on earth unable to return to the world of my birth. I miss the people of my own culture: the fertile fields, the waters, and the explorative universe that surrounds it. Yet so civilized on earth, we fail to have the technology that allows us to go beyond, to search; and so we are left to think about what could be. Well, I will not saunter into a pit of doom over this. I will rise above my spelling mistakes, seize the day, and soar beyond the clouds.
2nd exercise: choose a character
For this exercise, I chose a character from a song that was recorded by The Jam called 'Man in the Corner shop,' in the 1980s.  I was then to embellish the character with a number of personality traits, etc, from a flipchart, and from my imagination.

Johnnie wrapped the bag up in his calloused hand, turned from the counter, and leered from the shop. His face blushed as he reflected on his circumstances. He never spoke much to the man in the corner shop and never really would. He snarled with jealousy from the side of his mouth while a gust of wind messed up his receding hair. He whipped out his comb from the back pocket and brushed it forward.
The man in the corner shop was his own boss. Johnnie had to spend most of his days toiling in the factory, putting up with low wages, long hours, and a tyrant foreman. He would loved to have been his own boss, but it was too late. But why? Perhaps something had happened to him when he was young, after his mother died and he was forced to live with his aunt and uncle. Perhaps that was the day when his childhood ambitions were lost forever.
Nevermind, he still had a wife to order around, and maybe he would bet on the right horse one of these days.

3rd and 4th Exercises: character finds something then returns it to its owner.
Later on, after his mince and tatties, Johnnie decided to let the dog out. He opened the side door with the dog jumping up on him and then gushing out, tail wagging excited and barking. A cat flew out of the bushes and the dog raced after it until the wall got in the way. The dog then sniffed excitedly around the bushes and stopped. He started digging at the ground.
"What,s doing Tiber?" shouted Johnnie, stubbing out his fag and leering towards him.
The dog glanced back at him and continued scratching at twigs.
The light from the setting sun exposed a small chest. Johnnie crouched down and picked it up. He carried to the doorway.
"What's this then," he said.
His fingers clutched at the lid but it wouldn't open.
"Damn!"
He opened his tool shed and grabbed a claw hammer from the wall. He returned to the chest with a vengeance. He bashed with the claw to prize open the lid.
"Powder?"
"Bloody powder?"
Thoughts raced round his mind. He felt like a deflated balloon; all his hopes and aspirations of finding a few extra pounds, an antique, or even a piece of treasure expired in a second.
"Wait a minute, it's not powder?"
He slammed down the lid, picked up the chest, stormed through the house, out the front door, and chapped his neighbours door.
The door opened.
"Hi," said a young man with scruffy long hair in a pullover.
Johnnie pushed the chest into his arms. "Don't hide this shit in my garden again."

Workshop:
"Starting to Write" with Jane Alexander - 20th August

Written by: Alexander Redden 
Exercise 1: Write about work
An eight hour shift ahead, and it is a beautiful morning: the blaze of the sun is colouring the hill side. The mountains appear like hollow, crunchy blocks, dazzling. It's both a pleasure and a pain to depart from this environment beside the sea to work in a white tiled room, blazed with fluorescent light and fly catching machines. The poor flies. Everyone hates them. They have no value or worth in the world of hygiene. The poor flies. They can't help themselves. They fly into the light and die.
But, I can't have them on my sandwiches or Mis en place. And I certainly can't ever have them in my soups or stews.
 
Exercise 2: use some language associated with a particular work environment; add some specialist terms.
One hundred and sixty covers today, the heat is on and we will soon be in the thick of it. A new buzz will vibrate the white tiled walls. The voices of waiters, pastry chefs, sous chefs shouting orders, splashing down trays and orderves. It's noise all the time , but I don't hear it, I don't feel it, I am in the zone meeting the demand, rising to the challenge and delivering the culinary product. Now I must be prepared. I will need to plan my time carefully. 'Don't chop too many shallots and horseradishes, and limit the use of saffron.
 
Exercise 3: Go over it again, underline the work environment terms (as above), and introduce a character. I opted to use 3rd person narrative from this point
Jojo stutted past the white tiled walls towards the service area.
"How many?" He asked.
"About one hundred and sixty chef," said the tall waiter in a black and white uniform.
"Hundred and sixty covers for a Monday evening? That's not bad. Good work Ahmed."
"We'll be busy then?" Said the commis chef, while plumping a bundle of cucumbers and tomatoes onto a green chopping board.
"Aye you'll be busy," said Jojo, "I have a pile of paperwork to get through," said Jojo, winking to Ahmed.
"Paperwork?"
"That's right, paperwork: bills to get paid, wages to put through. What would you lot do without me, eh?"
"Aye chef," said the commis, slicing his knife through a tomato.
"The heat will be on around 7.30pm," said Ahmed, "This is when the pre-theatre people arrive, all at once."
"Good," said Jojo, "I'm sure that our young apprentice here will cope."
The commis chef rolled his eyes and bit his lip.
Jojo and Ahmed released a gaggle.
"Aye right chef."
Soon the white tiled walls would be soundproofing the voices of sous chefs and waiters barking out their orders, rattling pans, and splashing down trays and orderves. Not a bother, nae bother at all: culinary product, 160 covers, a doddle.
Jojo leaned on his desk, took off his white top hat and run his fingers through his orange, wiry hair. He looked over to one of his chefs, stood up and shouted, "Don't chop too many of those shallots and horseradishes... and go easy on the extra virgin and saffron."
"Aye chef."
Yes 160 covers was good for business, especially on a Monday night, but it was a surprise, unexpected. Sweat trickled from his brow and dribbled down his big nose.
Ahmed appeared at the door of the office.
"I haven't ordered enough Chicken, Bass, Monkfish, or Veg," said Jojo, "I'll need to make some calls."
That would be easier said than done. Jojo's meat and veg suppliers were understaffed, and he was little impressed by recent mishaps with deliveries.
Ahmed nodded his head, "Are you still having the team meeting?"
"In about half an hour," said Jojo.
 
Exercise 4: introduce a very different type of character and utilise the underlined terms again.
A man jumped down from the lorry and rolled a brand new wheelie bin up to the side of the kitchen door.
"Frank," called the other man from the cab.
"Aye?" Said Frank.
"Ye'll need tae tell them that we'll no be pickin' up next Monday."
"Aye? How dae a dae that?"
"Gown in and tell 'em."
"Thud," said Frank, rattling the wheelie bin into place and kicking down the brake.
He stood at the back door and peaked in, one step at a time.
He took off his big leather gloves and skip cap and knocked on a door, "Hello?".
Nothing.
He clomped into the kitchen. Some chopped shallots, horseradishes, peppers, tomatoes, grated cheese, and peppers decorated a number of bowls on a work top. Tempting aye.
"Hello?"
Still nobody, just his own reflection on the white, tiled walls. No voices of waiters and chefs shouting out their orders and splashing down trays and orderves.
He got as far as the hot plate and started scratching his hair.
On a black board read some writing: '160 covers, go easy on the extra virgin and saffron.'
The commis chef returned through the back door. His eyes bulged.
"Hello," he said, "I'm afraid you'll need to go back outside. You must have a chef's uniform to walk around here. Didn't you see the sign?"
"Urrgh, oh, sorry, no I never seen the sign, I just wanted to inform on somebody that there'll be nae pick next Monday."
"Pick up."
"Aye, the wheelie bin, Bank Holiday ye see."
"Okay the bins, well thanks, I'll let the chef know."
Frank scuppered back into the cab.
The driver gave him a smile, "did ye see them then?"
"Aye, but it'll no happen again ya crafty..."
"Whit?"