Poetry: sand verse

Composed in the sand at Yarmouth, Isle of White.

Crushing sand and chime of bells.
Whispering wind to shh the sea-salt sails.
Lapping waves and seaweed hairs
washes away the footsteps of the day.

Poetry: chalk works

I have been wanting to try out some outdoor poetry ideas that have been percolating of late. So with a few pieces of chalk in my pocket and camera on my back I found some places in Beeston to sketch my ideas.

In between
the two of us
you may find
the secret of
the universe.

I watch you and
try to reason.

Often

By the fast flowing river Trent I discovered some tree scarring that has taken place...

I saw this little fella and couldn't resist...

Plump stump


Along the trail by the river, a pathway has been made edged with small wooden fencing, I thought it would be ideal for a short piece...

Rivers wide, carries breath to the tide.


I made these pieces influenced by the surroundings and thoughts which bubbled up at the time. Using chalk was a quick solution, it won't be permanent and would probably wash away in all the rain today. I wonder if anyone might have discovered the pieces, especially those first poems in the hedge.

Without the elements

by Amanda Young


Without the elements
We yearn for combusting passion.

Without the elements
We starve of oxygen in air.

Without the elements
There is no reservoir to wash in.

Without the elements
We have no soil to prepare.

Without the elements
There's no cosmos to deify.

Within the elements
Our nerve endings electrify.

Seed bombs

By Amanda Young


A flower array in Fibonacci's sequence
like the coiled serpent whose mouth is wide open - listen
with your curly ear, searching
as the wind catches mycelium spores.

New York's 70's community garden, inspires the introduction.
A Guerilla Gardener's page-turner of green-fingered individuals and groups.
Forking over the city scape to recreate a vibrant vegetative life-force,
where seed bombs explode under flickering street lights.

Teased, tempted, hungry for community growing -
gypsophilia, gladioli, garlic and green beans.
Disused spaces, reclaimed for usage - we tend,
and engage again with the fruits of all shared gardens.

Wild Woman Sleep

By Amanda Young


She softly lifts the green grazing-grass
and lowers herself delicately into bed.

Covering over with the duvet-turf,
she closes her eyes to the ivory moon.

Wild horses come close
and rest their heads next to hers.

The paunches of belly-mounds form new hills
like babes asleep in the wood.

Children sing a fading tune to the rhythm of a rocking-horse.
She hums along in her sleep, wild woman sleep.

Silently she pushed

by Amanda Young


Silently she pushed
the wet, wooden wheelbarrow up the narrow path
in her long brown coat − elbows poking out.

It swooped and flapped, striking hard against her legs.
A gust of wind tore her grey and raffia hair across her narrow mouth.
She spat. Curled in her stinging lips. At the bend

she stopped. A tree-tumbling thud, dropped
the cart of crops. And reached down
with a snap of her aching back − a crumpled sheet of sunburnt paper.

A photo of a wigwam?
She drew her focus in.

Three young boys − 7 or 8 in smocks
standing conker-kneed, between the doorway of their tent.
She folded the paper to a triangle and in half again −

And put it deep into her pocket
amongst a dry stick of lavender and three copper coins.
She took in an ancient breath of smoked-oak,

lifted again the tired barrow. As she walked,
the cabbages smeared with slug-brown mud
bobbed between crackling onions.

The sounds of Wind Speed

I woke up today to an orchestra. It began with a drum roll of rain on the steel roof and shakers of droplets against the windows. There was a gentle hum from the mushroom vents and crackle of wind through the willow trees at the bank. Delia's morning cries for food were drowned out by the sloshing of canal water against the hull as the boat swayed to the rhythm of the wind.

Today it feels like things are on the move. I cast open the curtains to let the indoor plants breathe and the tiny knot of anxiety was dispelled. I saw that we are still moored where we should be, with both ends of the boat secured against the bank as it had been yesterday, the water level was a reasonable depth, however choppy, and we were not at an unusual angle. Phew.

I made the burner glow and got some porridge cooking.

It feels right today to publish my poem about Wind Speed in full. In accordance with the scale, today I would say is 28 knots...

And without further ado...

Wind Speed from a Narrowboat
after The Beaufort Scale of Wind Speed
by Amanda Young


≼1 knots. Calm - Like dry ground. Very little draw up chimney.
Canal still.

1-3 knots. Light air - Quiver of canal water. A whisper of wind.

4-6 knots. Light breeze - Towpath hedgerow rustles. Breeze
brushes face.

7-10 knots. Gentle breeze - Small leaves blown off roof.
Chimney smoke drifts.

11-16 knots. Moderate breeze - Faint whistling wind. Slight
groan of taught ropes. Tiny wavelets on canal.

17-21 knots. Fresh breeze - Tall grasses sway. Water sloshes
against hull. Cat scampers along towpath.

22-27 knots. Strong breeze - Rolling water at bank. More
throttle needed when moving. A librarians Shushsh!

28-33 knots. Near gale - Firewood burns rapidly. Mushroom
vents sigh. Ducks blown along canal. Avoid moving.

34-40 knots. Gale - Hanging lanterns violently sway. Rubber
fenders moan enduringly. Outside bungies metronomically
bounce. Bad day to move.

41-47 knots. Strong gale - Figure-of-eight movements felt
onboard. Screeching wind. Back-breaking work carting goods
along towpath.

48-55 knots. Storm - Difficult to walk length of boat. Ears
popping. Great waves towards gunwhale. Chimney rain-hat
will blow away.

56-63 knots. Violent storm - Do not pour boiling water.
Remove delicate items to safety. Severe spray and waves.
Keep a strong stomach.

≽64 knots. Hurricane - Never moor underneath trees. Drop
anchor. Seek alternative shelter.

Into February

With the limitations of the internet stick, I have only just been able to get back online with many thanks to lovely Leigh.

It has been three weeks since I last graced The Kite Experiment with my presence and so here is a little update.

I had some friends round for tea and biscuits...


I have (finally) found local employment and am saving up for the big paint job this year. Leigh has been working on his tape release due sometime this year and is finding his way through making music without speakers, he is amazingly doing a fine job with his headphones.

We have been trying to conserve our reserves of wood and coal as the prices just keep going up. Leigh enquired about a 20kg bag of coal at a petrol station and it was nearly £15 for one bag! Our local supplier has put his prices up from £6 in September to £9 a bag now in January.


So today I have been chopping up a pallet I sourced for free and we have spent the evening by it's burning glow, Leigh even made a stew on the burner with the heat. Marvelous.

An old dog walker passed me by outside as I was taking the pallet to pieces, he told me a tale of how wood keeps you warm three ways; 1) in carrying the wood home, 2) in chopping it up and 3) in burning it up. He sure is right.

We have had another couple of days of fierce winds blowing us around and about, here, there, everywhere and we have all felt the dizzy angst of the wind. Delia has been running up and down the towpath with the wind up her tail. I have been loosing my womanly marbles to a period of character-shifting and Leigh, bless him, has been putting up with us both and hurting the whole time.

Come on fine weather, cheery disposition, namely Spring!!!


We have also been working out transporting goods along the towpath. The wheelbarrow has a puncture which I thought I had well repaired today but Leigh just pointed out that it is flat, again. Our fold-up trolley which is supposed to have a life-time guarantee has broken on the base (I suspect from carting the gas canister from the local marina to the boat when we were iced in). And Leigh purchased a new fold up trolley from Homebase, we used it once to wheel a bag of logs, tried to fold it down and it snapped. To top that, the fold-up box on wheels appears to be broken along the side from carrying or should I say dragging the water bottles along the towpath.

Will someone please invent a fold up trolley that is canal-boater proof?!

I am working on a poem at the moment, inspired by the wind and living afloat. It comes after discovering and reading Beaufort Wind Speed in the back of my rather large dictionary. Here is a sample of the Beaufort Wind Speed...

<1 knots. Calm - smoke rises vertically; sea like a mirror.
1-3 knots. Light air - smoke drifts; ripples on sea.
22-27 knots. Strong breeze - large branches move; telegraph wires whistle; foaming crests and some spray at sea.

and then an extract of my piece (work in progress)...

<1 knots. Calm - Like dry ground. Very little draw up chimney. Canal still.
11-16 knots. Moderate breeze - Faint whistling wind. Slight groan of taught ropes. Tiny wavelets on canal.
22-27 knots. Strong breeze - Rolling water at the bank. A lot of throttle needed when moving. A librarians Shushsh! Unbalancing sway of boat.
34-40 knots. Gale - Hanging lanterns violently sway. Outside bungies metronomically bounce. Ducks blown along canal. Bad day to move.

Arvon writing course

It has been over a week since I have returned from the Shropshire hills which was the base for the 'starting to write' Arvon course I attended. Staying at The Hurst, the late John Osborne's (playwright) abode, a group of us 16 budding writers met for the first time. Myself and several others slept in the clockhouse (pictured above) which was also the building for the kitchen, reading room and dining area. It was quite an adventure full of workshops, writing and walking the woodlands, gardens and country lanes!

The rest of the group had rooms in the house, which was John Osborne's home...


Tutored by poet Moniza Alvi and novelist Niall Griffiths we had morning workshops followed by tutorials. I spent all my time writing and rewriting poetry and working on shot pieces of prose. I explored the countryside which was delightful and particularly enjoyed the surrounding woodlands, where it is known John Osborne passed out rotten drunk during a mid-night rain storm.

I have learnt so much from this course that I can put into practice and I am working on my collection of poetry as I write this. Here is a short extract from the last piece I composed whilst away...



Silently she pushed (extract)


Silently she pushed
the wet, wooden wheelbarrow up the narrow path,

in her long brown coat - elbows poking out.
It swooped and flapped, striking hard against her legs.
A gust of wind tore her grey and raffia hair across her narrow mouth.
She spat. Curled in her stinging lips. At the bend

she stopped. A tree-tumbling thud, dropped
the cart of crops. And reached down
with a snap of her aching back - a crumpled sheet of sunburnt paper...

The disappearing blogger

Since my last entry on The Kite Experiment, the internet stick has taken to the water, disappeared into the depths of the River Soar, lost, not to be found until Time Team excavate the area in 300years time. We tried with all our might to fish it out the water using magnets and string but alas the little bit of metal did ne'er connect.

This explains the disappearing blogger episode.

As of late, The Dove of Belgrade and those who sail her can be found along Beeston way. We had all the work completed, the engine serviced, the battries fully charged, the pump out completed and water tank full and set off down towards Trent Lock. (I have some lovely photographs due to be placed online in the near future so do come and look again!)

Heading through the lock at Cramfleet we were on our way along the River Trent. At Beeston marina, we admired the riverside properties all very distinct,in amongst trees and ivy, like real secret hidey-holes. We passed through Beeston Lock onto the Nottingham Canal and found an idillic setting opposite some willow trees. We have been moored here for just over a week now and are relishing the area.

I frequently see Heron's flying past the boat, beautiful small Gul's hovering in the air before they swoop into the water. Fish, jumping in the canal water, Coots, Moorhens and their young churping away. To be surrounded by all this activity and with the recent spell of fine weather day to day living has been a joy!

I am in the process of working on a collection of poems at the moment. The fire for writing is within me so I am reworking a selection which will hopefully see light of day some time soon.

Leigh is in the process of making a new track for a Japanese compilation and the initial ideas sound great.

And Delia, what can I say, she eats, sleeps, suns, chases, plays all the days through.

Poem

Click the pages to read

Mono no aware

Lovers connection

Then now

click on image to read