Category Archives: Writing Prompt

Had I not been lonely …writing prompt

Matthew Sweeney, 2006


When I saw a post by ‘Albert’ on Twitter with this quote by L S Lowry: Had I not been lonely I would not have seen what I did, it reminded me of this poem by Matthew Sweeney. A fine ekphrastic poem that moves beyond description, as it enters into dialogue with the artist about their work.

I have a few ekphrastic poems that need expanding in some way, so I’m going to do some research and explore how I could incorporate the artist’s own words into those poem. Is this something you might do with your own writing? If you’re a painter, photographer, sculptor, do poems inspire you?


Here are the two parts of Matthew Sweeney’s poem Dialogue with an Artist

Matthew died in 2018, his poems are still with us.

Dialogue with an Artist

THE LONELY
Incorporating the words of L.S. Lowry

I used to paint the sea, but never a shore,
and nobody was sailing on it. It wasn’t even
the sea, it was just my own loneliness.

It’s all there, you know. It’s all in the sea.
The battle is there, the inevitability of it all,
the purpose. When I switched to people

they were all lonely. Crowds are the
loneliest thing of all, I say. Every individual
in them is a stranger to everyone else.

I would stand for hours in one spot
and scores of little kids who hadn’t had
a wash for weeks would group round me.

Had I not been lonely, none of my work
would have happened. I should not have
done what I’ve done, or seen what I’ve seen.

There’s something grotesque in me and I
can’t help it. I’m drawn to others who are
like that. They’re very real people. It’s just

I’m attracted to sadness and there are some
very sad things. These people are ghostly
figures. They’re my mood, they’re myself.

Lately, I started a big self-portrait. I thought
I won’t want this thing, no one will, so
I went and turned it into a grotesque head.

MEMO TO LOWRY

You’re right, there are grotesques who shine
a dark light that lures us like how the sirens
tried to lure Odysseus, and yes, maybe we
ourselves are among the grotesques, but
there are also the beautiful who, if we’re
lucky, save us from ourselves, and validate
the sun’s light, and maybe also the moon’s.

as if thrown by a boy – guest poet

Here is the second selection of poems by Judy Kendall, our June guest poet. She lived and worked in Japan for almost seven years. Cinnamon Press published four collections of her haiku and ‘mainstream’ poems. You can find her biography below her writing.

Poems:


The First Fountain Ever Placed In A Japanese Garden

for my mother

more than half
is the sound of it
as it splashes on the stone rim

this is the part
the thousands of photographs
will never reach

their takers stop
to make a frieze
and then move on

no chance of hearing
the other half
clapping its moving shadow in the trees

the shudder
when the leaves
follow the foam

which drops, unmoved
as if thrown by a boy
to fall through air

diluting
dissolving
into parts


Note:
The first fountain in a Japanese garden was built in Kenroku en, Kanazawa, in 1861


Driving To Noto

Men are better says Toshi I know
no they are not says I (I also know)
and so we argue to the tip of Noto

To Suzu where the wood huts slump in shock
plopped suddenly in frocks of snow
and the sea is whipped to icicles of frenzy

Over a nabe pot of fish and cabbage
(Toshi warns me not to call it cabbage
for it is the vastly superior hakusai)
our host asks me my age

Taken aback
(I`m older than he thought
more single), he inquires
don’t you like men?

So I assure him
only frequent country-moving
has prevented me from choosing
one of them

The returning road is white, wide as a field
the ditches spread themselves with frosting
and the windscreen blanks out like a blizzard

Toshi scrapes at the iced-up wipers singing
to himself, waving me in

Midwinter hangs in the boughs

The pine trees are bent nearly in two
laden with second helpings

(earlier version published in Ambit)

Short poem, haiku and tanka from The Drier The Brighter (Cinnamon Press, 2007):

Poem:

5 am

these cold skies
cheating the dawn,

these bits of tree,
blocks of houses too close to houses,
shrouded people, shrinking in the weather.

Haiku:

too much autumn
the reds are almost scorching now
a mouth brimming with leaves

tanka:

leaving.

not one stick of furniture
in the room.
in the heart,

no tears.

(previously published in Presence)

Biography:

Judy Kendall worked as an English lecturer at Kanazawa University in Japan for nearly seven years. When she first went to Japan she was a practicing playwright but she soon began to focus on poetry and haiku, kickstarted by an invitation to to participate in a collaborative translation of Miyaiki Eiko’s haiku. This became the bilingual publication Suiko /The Water Jar. Since then she has been writing haiku and haibun along with other poetic and prose forms. The haiku mode has informed her four Cinnamon Press poetry collections, particularly Joy Change – composed while she was in Japan. She has won several poetry awards, recently receiving a 2019 Genjuan International Haibun An Cottage prize, and is the essays and bilingual translations editor for Presence haiku journal. She has also run the Yorkshire/Lancashire haiku group.

She is Reader in English and Creative Writing at Salford University, and aside from haiku and haibun, works as a poet, poetry translator and visual text exponent. She has published several articles and books on the translation and creative process, including ‘Jo Ha Kyu and Fu Bi Xing; Reading|Viewing Haiku’ in Juxtapositions, 1 (2). She is currently putting the finishing touches to a monograph for Edinburgh University Press on Where Language Thickens (focusing on the threshold between articulation and inarticulation in language – a threshold in which haiku itself is surely situated).

The special table cloth

Credit: Bismillah via Pixabay

The day before my birthday storm Poly (Beaufort 11) raged at speeds of 140 kms an hour: overhead lines and trees came down. The day after my birthday the Dutch government fell.

On my birthday I treated family to lunch. It was a joyous occasion. My uncle (born 17 years after my mother) turned 85 in June. He has only recently given up playing volleyball: too much for his shoulders. He’s taken up Jeu de Boules instead.

Here are two verses from an extended sequence titled Briefly a small brown eye.

Primary school demolished,
protestant church a community centre.
Our old house extended.
Forty years on no reason to visit
this town other than the old uncle.

Lunchtime, my aunt brings out
the special table cloth.
She has embroidered signatures,
some in Arabic, some in Cyrillic.
I’m looking for mine.

Birthday

This coming week it’s my birthday. I’m taking family out to lunch near where I was born: a lovely bistro near the water. Here is a poem that I wrote on an excellent workshop with the poet Kei Miller.

My name

Even in the Netherlands my name is rare.
It comes from the Northern provinces,
a bleak windy place near the sea, near Germany.

People of the North grow tall to stand up to gales
that whistle, across bare fields, into your face.
A name so rare it’s not in the book of names.

I inherited this name from a grandmother
who was often ill to spite her husband.
I heard him shout behind the shop in a town

named after the beaver. Beavers on the façade
of the vegetable canning factory, the foundry roof.
My name means strong like the teeth of a beaver.

No, it doesn’t. I wish it did. Most children born
just after the war had bad teeth because
of the hunger winter: eating tulip bulbs to survive.

I wish I was named after the beaver, or the giraffe,
an animal strong enough to shatter a lion’s skull
with a single blow of its hooves.

In Dutch my name means people, folk or even
battle folk. My grandmother died at 55.
I’m beyond that age. I am an animal after all.

Photograph with a Very Small Moon – guest poet

A year ago this month, Gina Wilson died. The two of us met just over a decade ago on the Writing School run by Ann and Peter Sansom of The Poetry Business. We were both psychotherapists, working in private practice.

Gina was published first as a children’s writer – novels (Faber), poetry (Cape), picture books (Walker Books). Her adult poems are ‘complex, though deceptively simple’ and ‘tough and compelling, no verbiage, no sentimentality’ (Kate Clanchy).


Gina’s poems ‘lure you into thinking you’re on safe, possibly domestic territory. Then they catch you unawares, taking off at an unexpected, often surreal tangent.’


I am grateful to her family for permission to share three poems from Gina’s poetry pamphlets (Scissors Paper Stone, HappenStance, 2010; It Was And It Wasn’t, Mariscat Press, 2017.

First Shoes

I must label, swaddle, cradle them
at just the right temperature.
Their linings are cracking already.

The step of childhood ought to be
weightless, all skipping and dancing
but they look haggard, misshapen

as if old age has worn them.
Polish can’t cover their knocks.

I showed them once at a meeting.
Bring something you’ve kept we were told,
a sign, maybe something you’ve made.

I took the shoes. Nobody spoke.
Because of the way you looked someone said.
As if you were bringing a grief, not a pride.

Photograph with a Very Small Moon

It was still day, the end of a summer one
that people had been happy in;
I wanted its tiny white moon, not quite spherical or certain
to stay.

I wanted to catch it, lacy, fine, almost dissolving
in almond-blossom clouds, so I tilted the camera
upward. Otherwise I might have filmed

little barefoot girls setting up their lantern
with the glass door and tealight,
friends round the warped table, wine;

not the moon, but moths, and slugs
oiling the flagstones. I might have caught
a wind getting up, or the edge in low voices that moment
when darkness plummets.

Still Horses

He said he heard her
one night, about a week
after she died,
her Scots ‘r’
and no-nonsense tone
that carried without being
a shout.

He got out of bed,
found his balance in the dark
and took his time,
checking upstairs first (once a hayloft),
then down stone steps
to where it seemed
there were still horses
and a night-time smell
of straw and soft new dung.

She wasn’t there. Just a shawl
left draped because it was winter.
He opened the door to stars
and mild small moon
in a blur of frost.
Cold held him fast.

When Sunday is not a day of rest

Photo Anton van Daal

A poem that has two fathers in it, with a photo of the actual building.

When Sunday is not a day of rest

Two narrow wooden benches form the arena.
Both gladiators enter through the main left door.
The one with the brown perm has an entourage:
three boys (one with red hair), a girl with braces,
and the eldest son with glasses, the creepy smile
inherited from his father, a businessman with butter
in his mouth who happens to be our uncle.
As church elder, he’ll collect in the interval,
holds out a long wooden pole with black velvet bag.
Both gladiators buy at Stoutebeek,
the town’s upmarket department store.

Our gladiator has better legs, better posture,
a striking hat, which makes up for just three of us.
She is a semi-professional singer.
Our gladiator chose to marry the controller
of church proceedings – the organist.
Outside, afterwards, the light ammunition
of smiles, air kisses and compliments.

Writing prompt

‘Sundays could feel very threadbare’ (Claire Keegan, Small things like these).

What is Sunday for you? A day you look forward to; a day you wish would pass quickly?

Is there another day that has special meaning to you – positive or negative?

The best years of our lives – guest poet

To celebrate my friend Kathleen Kummer’s 94th birthday, here is a poem from her debut collection Living below sea level. Poems from the book have featured on the blog before. The cover image is by Shirley Smith, Society of Wood Engravers.

Kathleen’s father was a coal miner. She went to Cambridge to study Modern Languages. She met and married a Dutchman. For several years Kathleen taught French and German at an International School in The Netherlands.

Happy Birthday, Kathleen: Van harte gefeliciteerd met je verjaardag.

The best years of our lives

Passing under the neo-Gothic
redbrick arch, the original bluestockings?
Not quite, but close enough to be given
the run of the Fellows’ drawing room
to sip our pre-prandial sherry, held
in hands we remembered curled for warmth
round mugs of cocoa. The cold tiles loud
with echoes, we followed the murky passage
to Hall, the swimming-pool’s proximity
still worrying, potent with the imagined
smell of bleach. The dinner was,
as expected, reassuringly bad;
the rooms were bleak, the unfamiliar
duvets thin, cot-sized; resilience
was needed for the nocturnal trek to the bathroom.
But none of this detracted one jot
from the utter, heartfelt certainty
that those had been the best years of our lives.

Exhibitions

I’ve just renewed my annual Museum pass. With a typical entry fee of 15 Euros, it’s well worth it: over 400 Dutch museums take part. There is usually a top-up fee for major exhibitions. I wrote the prose poem on a recent workshop.

Exhibitions

You can’t just wake up and decide to visit an exhibition. Not a major show. You must book a ticket online beforehand and choose a time slot. I managed to get one, Saturday lunchtime, for the Manhattan Masters. Rembrandt, aged 52, poster boy.

I was way too early (I’d gone with Astrid to collect her prize from the Xmas competition and have our photo taken) so I ended up buying books in all three bookshops near the Mauritshuis. Manhattan Masters, ten paintings over from New York while the Frick is being refurbished. The Fricks went to Europe to buy, do the grand tour. They were booked to travel back on the Titanic. She sprained her ankle and they postponed.

I won’t even tell you about the Vermeer at the Rijksmuseum, the coloured lines on the floor, everyone taking photos, the horse-tooth woman who needed to be in the photo with the painting. I gave up after 30 minutes. I think it’s well-known that the exhibitions of prehistoric art take place in replica caves with fake bones and spotlights on those red hand prints and bison on the walls. I’ll give it a miss. I’ll order the catalogue and a pack of six postcards from the museum shop online.

Britain, once more … guest poet

Nuri Rosegg had seen publicity about my online reading for Writers in the Bath, Sheffield. This led them to my website. Nuri loves the UK and, pre-Brexit, used to visit often. Nuri’s website can be found below her poem. There are also three poems on the Visual Verse website.

Below is Nuri’s poem, inspired by my poem Britain, from the Anthology Welcome to Britain.

BRITAIN  
 
Britain is a fedora hat, opera- 
And theatre-tried. In this modern era 
Dramas turn into comedies. 
 
This country is a glass of ginger wine: 
Tangy wetness without a spine. 
Alas, the love for self-harm is mega-big. 
 
Britain is a decaying cherry tree 
Turning its back on the sea. 
The City, such a cold-hearted cherry pit. 

http://aroundthewritingworld.weebly.com/about-me.htm

https://visualverse.org/writers/nuri-rosegg/


 

Before 11am I am not human

Credit: Son Ngyen Dinh via Pixabay

Not only that, it’s Sunday: my least favourite day of the week. I’ve been rescued by being on an online writing weekend with fellow poets most of whom I know. So here is a short warm-up for you. You can use it as a prompt. What mode of transport were you afraid of? What presents have you given that were returned in some way?

My father died in 1990, my mother in 2008. That penny farthing now stands on top of a bookcase here in my flat.

Before 11am I am not human

I’m blue like old potato sky. I was afraid of penny-farthings and of men with tall cylinder hats. My own hands are on a photo, making a gift of a miniature penny-farthing to my parents, an anniversary party.