I hope this finds you well and enjoying some more spring-like weather. It was warm here for a while and all the leaves started appearing on the trees, at last. That lovely fresh, light green that only lasts a short while. It has turned chilly again, so work in the garden is on hold. PoetryI signed up to NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month) this year – actually to something called Escapril, organised by a lovely poet in Aberdeen. The aim was to write a poem, based on a provided prompt, every day all through April. Only two days to go and I’m happy to say I’ve produced something every day so far! I’m one of those people who works better when given ‘homework’, so I’ve enjoyed the challenge. It also reminds me just how much I Iove playing with words. Here’s my effort from Day 4. The prompt was ‘attention’. PAYING ATTENTION there are days when every blade of grass every stalk and stem every lichen smothered rock demands, commands your attention when every raindrop that hasn’t reached the ground is found in the leafy crevice of a lupin there are days when from nowhere sudden primroses appear daffodils dance in drifts of yellowness when buds burst into leaf a sheaf of green where all was grey when you step aside, avoid the furry caterpillar on the path Local marketsThe local markets are now in full swing and I’m enjoying being back at them. It’s good to see familiar faces and to catch up. And having conversations about creativity is always a joy! I’m now stocking some larger sizes of sketchbooks (I’ve got my eye on them for my upcoming holiday on Lewis and Harris) and I enjoy hearing what people plan to do with them. A couple of new linoprint designs have appeared recently – a small puffin and a larger heron. ExhibitionsI’m happy to have a couple of small pieces of work in the newly opened spring exhibition at Loch Torridon Community Centre gallery. ‘Seaweed 1’ and ‘Seaweed 2’ are gelli prints. It’s a medium I’ve not used very much, but which is great fun! A recent conversation with someone at Poolewe market reminded me of it. That’s how it goes. The Carron Pottery gallery now has a few of my artworks on display. They’re also now fully restocked with my linoprinted sketchbooks and a selection of my small originals. Later in the year, on Saturday 1st July, I’ll be at the Gairloch Gathering, in the field beside Sands campsite. Fingers crossed for a fine day! It was a grand day out last year. New stockistThanks to a chance conversation at Gairloch Thursday market, a selection of my products is now available to purchase from a new stockist. Gairloch Marine Wildlife Centre and Cruises, based on Pier Road at the harbour in Gairloch has my marine themed mugs, coasters, keyrings and cards. As always, many thanks for your continued interest in my work - it is greatly appreciated.
all the best Jennifer
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With apologies to all my lovely English friends!
The Football (World Cup 2022 in Qatar) Oh the football’s on the telly it’s on there every night I really can’t be bothered to watch the very sight… …of brightly coloured little men on patchwork lawn of green chase a leather ball around and call themselves a team It’s better with the sound off without the pundits’ patter they really talk a load of balls I just can’t stand their chatter The passion in the stands, though is very plain to see with every style of fancy dress supporting their country There’s something quite compelling about each country’s pride I find myself drawn in and cheering on a side It’s better that men fight their wars on pitches flat and green than in the trenches or the fields in ways that we have seen Attack, defence and shooting they’re all the words of battle but only arms and legs and pride are injured with a tackle I think I see the point now of what it’s all about the only thing that bothers me - can France boot England out? Jennifer Henderson December 2022 There are days
when your footsteps in the sand barely break the surface when the grains are hard packed - stacked by the receding tide the sea seeped away drained into the bay those are the days when you make no impression barely a dent is rent in the perfect surface only the occasional crack of a shell as your track shifts to the high tide line there are days when the sand shifts - drifts beneath your feet each step an effort in the soft brown sugar of the shore and others have been here before, churning, turning stirring its softness, leaving it spoiled soiled until the tide turns there are days when the top layer of sand looks firm but your boots sink several inches into its depths you plod on, across the bank leave holes where you sank but rose again there are days when the sea weeps - seeps its way back up the shore more and more till what seems firm is liquid and when stepping forward you realise a little late the fate awaiting - the fluid form lying low ready to pull you beneath its innocent surface with an insistent grasping there are days when the wind howls across the bay your boots sandblasted by the loose top layer - the poor dog’s eyes filled with grit - those are no days to sit and stare out to sea 2021The day before yesterday I met an old friend on the street we embraced, kissed on both cheeks, held each other longer than was strictly necessary Yesterday, I went to the supermarket stocked up on what was required respired, relieved, thankful to behold full shelves and smiling people standing close and chatting not steering clear two trolley lengths away at all times Yesterday, I took the dog to the park threw his ball, watched the children on the swings and roundabout playing tig and tag, holding hands watched a mother wipe a snotty toddler nose - I didn’t flinch or move away Today I drove out, out into the countryside as far as I felt like going and took the dog for a second walk in the woods, because I could Tomorrow, I shall book a two night stay, for three months’ hence in a favourite place a treat, a retreat, a getaway a stay away - a place where I may well encounter strangers in the bar - make new friends, perhaps, sit close together, conversing The day after tomorrow, I’m going to the cinema with a friend. We’ll eat out beforehand, nowhere fancy, just out – we’ll raise a glass to friendship Tomorrow, I’ll make up the beds in the spare room, for my friends coming to visit The day after that, I won’t feel annoyed when the football comes on the telly instead, I’ll be glad for all the fans out there, enjoying their Saturday Next week, I’ll play music with my friends at one of their houses enjoy a glass of wine, company, convivial conversation and tunes The week after that, I’ll join the writers’ monthly gathering enjoy a glass of wine, company, convivial conversation and stories Today, I shook hands with someone new I met on the beach. Today, I did not feel afraid. This is a poem I wrote for last month's writers' group meeting; the theme was 2021. Photo credit : Ailsa Watson For National Poetry DayI wrote this free-form poem (with minor alterations) at the start of this year. It was a contribution to the Sustaining Life as a Creative Programme, run by the wonderful Creative Learning team in Aberdeen, which I was very fortunate to take part in. The brief was to describe our creative journey. I am
I am the small pigtailed girl Perched on the window seat, with sugar paper and poster paints, brush and water pot, newspaper protecting the wooden trolley I am that girl in shorts and tee-shirt on the west coast shore searching for crabs every summer under stones, exploring rockpools before rockpooling was a thing collecting shells and pebbles, sticks and stones I am the girl playing in the corrugated iron shed behind my granny’s house wildflowers in a jam jar on the rickety table - the hedgehog visiting - imagination my best friend I’m the schoolgirl sailing on the loch with my first love I'm the teenager climbing hills with friends gazing over Scotland - hills and heather burns and boulders, big skies I am the student, drawing in my lab book, Learning the nature of science I am the scientist, fishing for facts about Trout and mackerel and herring, I am the translator, editor, creator, putter-together of research volumes, organiser of conferences and treasurer of troves I am the mum with no clue - doing, not making, (except soup and cakes and occasionally marmalade) Making do, with a head crammed full, jammed full of domesticity, a scarcity of time to call mine I am the thirty-something friend, persuaded to trade My violin for a fiddle, To play tunes with people Who would become pals To add another dimension to being I am the mandolin-playing ceilidh band member, calling out dance steps - Oh, the feeling of power! I am the teacher of students, The organiser of labs and lectures, Marker of essays, And later, Developer of screen-based things With no song to sing Or dance to bring I am the escapee, Fleeing to evening classes - Some shaky pots, a few pale paintings, Tiny steps My sketchbook brought along On family holidays For rare moments of aloneness I am the e-learning adviser, Brain addled by screens, Quitting the squeaky lino floors Before it was too late I am the pupil once more, online And for real, (because I respond well to being given homework) I am the walker, Walking with purpose - Two Moonwalks In three years. And Ben Nevis No hesitation – meditation. I am the delivery driver, Dropping off veg Noticing things. Gathering ideas I am the spinner of stories Weaver of yarns I am the open studios partaker Opening the door to my shed, Pretending it is a studio, letting people in to my life To ask me questions Which I find hard to answer – When, What, Why, How? It seems that some Wish they had my life, whatever they May think that is – living the dream – An endless stream of ideas, most of which Get washed away in the shower - Down the drain, never to be Seen again. I am the artist, maker, Creator of things Which bring joy I am the West coast Inhabitant - Still walking the tideline In search of shells and pebbles, Bleached bones of wood Filling my pockets Again and again Still looking out to sea And finding Something there I started writing this poem seven years ago. Today I finished it. This was prompted by a conversation last night about "mental load" and being directed to a cartoon illustrating this concept. It is an interesting concept and I realised its close connection with my thoughts while writing this poem. The pie chart above was constructed in 1999; that was not just about "mental load", but "physical load" as well. I am half-hoping that the legend is illegible!
NB: The poem was written at a time when we had a dog, a guinea pig and probably a budgie as well. Obstacles This is the path That leads to the shed That Jennifer wants to write in. This is the poo That lies on the lawn That blocks the path That leads to the shed That Jennifer wants to write in This is the guinea pig Nice and warm Out in his hutch, ignoring the storm that needed fed and straw for his bed on the path to the shed that Jennifer wants to write in these are the garments washed and wet that need some drying and ironing yet here is the post on the mat needing opened fancy that! There is the telephone Waiting to ring Daring to call To see if she’s in Here are the dishes In the sink Here is the dog Who needs a drink Here is the clock Ticking away Measuring time As it slips away There is the rain Falling out of the sky Rescue the washing -It’s nearly dry! These were the obstacles All in her head Things to be done And some to be said Now she sees clearly What she must do -leave all the small stuff And find a way through To go on the path That leads to the shed That Jennifer's going to write in. Last week I enjoyed an evening out for a festive meal with the lovely folk who make up Deeside Writers Group. Of course we set ourselves a little writing task for the evening and that was to write a short piece (no more than 50 words) using the prompt "restaurant" (kindly provided by Val of Buchanan's Bistro, where we were dining). I didn't think too hard about the task, and found that a piece came to me in the form of a song. Written to fit the tune of "Oh my darling Clementine", these are the words that appeared. It seemed apt for this time of year, with the lovely orange fruits in abundance, that this tune came into my head. It was a song that my dad used to sing, mainly if not only, on long car journeys. I meandered off for a reminder of the words - "In a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for a mine, lived a miner, forty-niner, and his daughter, Clementine". It is of course a tragic story, which I had forgotten in the intervening years. So, I enjoyed my wander down memory lane; funny the paths some things lead us down. Here is my offering - I had the foresight to print out several copies, and the group was generous in their joining in. Happily the tune was familiar to everyone. Oh I do like a good singalong!
Restaurant ditty (to be sung to the tune of “Clementine”) In a bistro In the country Near the Deeside Railway Line was a pair of very fine chefs and their cooking most divine Served they dishes Of local produce and some platters mighty fine And the diners were not whiners in that bistro so divine This month's task for writers' group was to write something from a child's perspective. This is what came out.
If I were a grownup I’d stay up all night drinking whisky and watching naughty films on the blue channel on the television that needs a PIN code to get into it (I know, I’ve tried) and I’d travel round the world in a yacht, single-handed and only have a job for a while until I had enough money to be on holiday all the time and I’d live in a big house on the top of a hill with three televisions and a big bathroom and lots of pets - a dog, no two dogs and a cat and a hamster and a goldfish and a guinea pig and a rabbit. And maybe a horse. Or a donkey. And I’d drive a big black car and go wherever I wanted – to the beach mostly, not to boring castles or gardens or garden centres or the supermarket. And I’d have ice cream every day and never have soup and have spaghetti bolognese for tea every night, well maybe pizza sometimes and only eat mangoes and grapes and never boring bananas or apples and I’d have a cupboard full of sweets and nothing else. Just for me and my friends. And now for something slightly different. I don't always manage to find instant inspiration for my blog, so sometimes I go for a trawl through things I have written earlier. There is plenty of it around, I can assure you. This is not strictly-speaking a poem, it's more a "real-time" stream of observations from a train. That's how it was written. It's almost a series or collection of haiku, which could stand on their own. As you can see from the date, it was written seven years ago.
(Aberdeen to Inverness, by train, 14/3/08) three sheep, side by side bask in spring sunshine on a sloping field tops of trees cluttered with crows and their half-made nests tiny calves already wearing ear-tags lie beside their mothers bare trees poised to burst into life train track runs beside the burn we go up as it goes down river bluer than the sky smoothness hides its urgent flow ramshackle byre with a bucket by the open door ancient crumbled walls of ruined house two old trees – who lived there once? boggy ponds alongside the track frog spawn possibilities old bracken last year’s heather the colours of tweed horses with their coats on heads down grazing sheep tracks etched on the hillside centuries old narrow field ridged with sheep tracks along its length mole hills in the perfect lawn around the whisky store fluffy white sheep black faces curly horns the larches still wearing their brown winter coats birches covered in lichen beards no pollution here seven pigeons take off in unison startled by the train the gorse blooming by the track – does it ever not? piglets scamper in the mud round their little nissen huts wind farm scars the landscape - distracts me from the kestrel we can see where the mole has been - does he have any idea? the edges of the town spreading into a building site new houses with smart fences - sore thumbs |
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